Muffin Top

Now, this could get interesting.

Frankie got up off the barstool and strolled on over to provide the zaftig firecracker best friend of Ford’s girlfriend some help should she need it.

…

If one more person told Lucy that she’d be so pretty if she just lost some weight, she was going to set them on fire.

All she wanted to do was sit in Marino’s in peace and enjoy her jalapeño cheeseburger with a side of spicy fries and a Mountain Dew—yeah, that’s right, full-calorie Mountain Dew, suck it, Judgey McJudgeyPants—as her own special treat after the week from hell. She’d planned to tell her bestie Gina about it. Her bestie’s fiancé was a cop, hence why they were meeting for dinner in a cop bar, but Gina had to cancel at the last minute because of a bride gone bridezilla.

As Harbor City’s premiere crisis communications specialists, all of her clients were of the troublesome variety, but damn, getting Ice Knights player Zach Blackburn, the Most Hated Man In Harbor City, out of another bad press article was going to make her gray by thirty. All she wanted tonight was to enjoy a good meal and not worry about anything.

Instead, the concern troll in the shitty suit had invited himself over to let her know that if she’d only ordered a salad, she might actually walk out of the bar with someone instead of a few additional pounds.

“And what business is it of yours what I eat?” She punctuated the question by slathering a fry in Sriracha and popping it in her mouth.

“No need to get defensive there, I’m just trying to help,” said the guy—who hadn’t even bothered to introduce himself or—wait for it—say hi before launching into his unasked-for monologue about her eating habits. “I mean, come on, no woman comes into a bar alone unless she’s desperate for some male company. It’s all about showing up and looking decorative.”

Now that was just some sexist bullshit right there. Who in the hell ever said that to a guy? Answer: no one.

“Really?” She pushed her steak knife farther away from her plate so she wouldn’t be tempted to stab him with it. “You don’t think I might just want a Mountain Dew and a burger?”

The guy went on as if she hadn’t said a thing. “I’m serious. You have a great face. If you just upped the veggies and eliminated the carbs, high-fat protein, and sugar, you’d be a solid eight instead of a five.”

She eyeballed the guy who wouldn’t stop flapping his gums about things that had nothing to do with him. He was balding and wore a bad suit that only emphasized his beer belly—and he wanted to give her tips about how to look good? Of course he did.

Her chin started to quiver, and she ground her jaw tightly closed. This asshole would not make her cry. It didn’t hurt, what people thought of her, if she didn’t show it.

Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Muffin.

Lucy was a healthy weight. She had an abundance of curves, sure, but she was healthy. And more importantly, finally happy with her plus-sized body. But times like this, assholes like this, really had a way of stripping her hard-fought confidence. Why was it socially unacceptable to shame anyone for anything except their weight? Sadly, it was still open season on those who didn’t look like what everyone else considered skinny.

She was used to being ignored when she walked into a department store. Or skipped in a line when someone thinner weaved around her. Or had her opinions in meetings dismissed simply because they came from a person of her size. But having someone publicly rate her attractiveness? That was a new low.

She briefly wondered what her “score” would be in an orange jumpsuit.

“And,” he continued, totally clueless about how close to death he was, “I’m only rating you as a five because your face is nice and your tits are fucking fantastic.”

That was it. She was going to have to kill a man in the middle of a cop bar on a Friday night. They better have chocolate cake in prison, but even if they didn’t, it would probably be worth it.

“There you are, honey,” said a deep voice she recognized just as a very large shadow fell across her table.

She looked up—way up—into the beyond-handsome face of Frankie Hartigan, who was built like a redwood tree and, rumor had it, had one between his legs.

“I’m sorry I was late for our date.” He glanced over at the dipshit veggie-pusher. “Is this guy giving you a hard time, honey?”

Chapter Two

The temptation to say “Yes, Frankie, please squash him like a bug while I clap and watch” was so, so strong—like, the guys who pull semi trucks with their teeth strong. Instead, she played along with her best friend’s fiancé’s brother—OMG, that was now the name of her imaginary all-girl ska band—and smiled sweetly up at him.