Misadventures of a Curvy Girl (Misadventures #18)(4)

I expect fear or disgust or at least uncertainty, but Ireland bends down and scratches Greta’s ears. “It’s okay, puppy,” she croons. “We’re best friends. You just don’t know it yet.”

Greta licks her face in agreement, and I’m going to marry this woman.

“No tow truck,” I say firmly. “I’ll take care of you from here on out.”





Chapter Three





Ireland





Caleb comes forward, takes my bag, and tosses it easily into the cab of the truck, and then he walks back to me. I have to tilt my head to look into his face, and his eyes burn down at me with something that makes my nipples firm up into little pebbles.

“We may just beat the storm if we get a move on,” he says in a voice that is all gritty, practical male. I want to wrap myself up in it and live inside it forever. “But I hope you don’t mind if we make a quick pit stop first?”

“I—” I’m still trying to absorb the fact that Caleb has eyes like summer itself and they’re currently looking at me like I’m the most interesting thing in the world.

He’s probably just being polite and attentive, good manners and all that, I tell myself and my fast-beating heart.

I force myself to run through a flowchart of my options, and by far, going with this man I was supposed to meet with anyway is the best choice. If my phone doesn’t work at his house, he’ll definitely have a landline. And worst-case scenario, I could ask him to ferry me to the interstate motel thirty miles back. I brought a few days’ worth of clothes in the event I didn’t get all the pictures I’d need for the campaign in one go—and honestly, it might be nice to take a break from the hustle of Typeset and the endless judgmental nagging of my sister back home.

And who am I kidding? I want to be in a truck with the most ruggedly handsome man I’ve ever seen. I want to go to his house.

“Pit stop’s fine,” I say, flashing him a smile he doesn’t return. If anything, his lingering smile from earlier slowly fades. His hands do the flexing thing by his sides again, and he stares like he’s never seen anything like me before. Or, more specifically, he stares at my mouth like he’s never seen anything like it before.

With a burst of self-consciousness, I wonder if he hasn’t. Chubby girls in lavender lipstick probably don’t pop into his life very often, and maybe he thinks I’m ridiculous or trying too hard or something like that, with the big smile and the crazy lipstick and the clothes that suddenly feel a million times tighter than they did a few minutes ago.

Oh God. Of course, it’s so like me to meet the best-looking man I’ve ever seen and then he sees me as some kind of awkward sausage. I know I’m not an awkward sausage, but does he know that?

You don’t care, remember? It’s better to be alone than with someone who doesn’t like you with the body you have.

Firmed with resolve, I renew my smile at Caleb. “Should I?” I gesture toward the truck. He starts, as if I’ve yanked him out of some deep and important reverie.

“Yes, of course.” He walks over to the passenger side with me—Greta following us with her hopping three-legged gait—and opens the door. “Careful of the step. It’s a big one.”

Wanting to seem capable and strong, I ignore his offered hand and make to climb into the truck. Except he was right—the step is big—and I forget how tight the pencil skirt is. When I lift my foot to pull myself up into the cab, the skirt manages to hike itself up to my thighs and hamper my balance, and I’m falling backward. For a horrible, humiliating half second, I’m falling with my skirt up to my ass, I’m going to land in the mud, and it’s going to be so fucking embarrassing, especially after I made such a show of not needing his help. And then he’ll think I’m a clumsy awkward sausage on top of it all…

I brace myself for the fall and the ensuing humiliation, but neither comes. The moment I actually totter backward, Caleb catches me with a quick arm around my waist and a big hand on my—oh holy fuck.

His hand is on my ass. My almost bare ass, and because the skirt has worked its way up so high, the ends of his fingers are touching the exposed lower curve of my bottom. The arm banded around my waist is pure strength, and behind me he feels as solid and unmoving as a wall. A firm, warm wall made of swells and grooves of muscle and man.

I can feel every callus on his hand as he lets me find my balance, and then I feel the infinitely long second where it seems deliberately still, as if he’s forcing himself not to squeeze my flesh, and that just makes my nipples hard all over again.

“Oh,” I breathe out. “Oh—”

I can’t remember being this turned on ever, and my body arches against his in unconscious feminine instinct. I want him to grind into me. I want him to bend me over the seat and fuck me until I see stars.

“Easy there,” he finally rumbles, and with my back to his chest, I can feel the words moving through him and into me. And then like it’s nothing, he lifts me up into the truck, handing me up into the seat, making sure I’m settled before his hands leave my body.

My heart is beating so hard I think it might leave my chest.

I have a brief flash of the time Brian and I went horseback riding on a date. I held out a hand to him, hoping he’d help me dismount, and he laughed at me. Laughed.