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Riggs cupped my cheeks. My body temperature shot to a dangerous degree, and an invisible string under my belly button clenched and tightened. I had to remind myself he was just Riggs, the friendly roommate who joked about having sex with me, without ever actually initiating anything. The same Riggs who didn’t have a penny, didn’t want children, and didn’t even own a bicycle.
“You had a crappy day, Poppins. It happens. Bad days will keep happening. You’ll just have to brush them off.” He was staring into my face, and I felt more naked than I had a few moments earlier, when I wasactuallynaked. “I’m sorry I was snappy. My headache was no excuse. Now, go get dressed, and I’ll get us tacos in the meantime. My treat.”
My mouth fell open.
“Yourtreat?” He’d never offered to pay for anything before. I’d never evenseenhis wallet.
“Yup.”
“But you don’t pay for anything. Ever.”
“I’m a fan of trying everything at least once.”
“Can you afford it?” I demanded. “I don’t want you to go hungry tomorrow or something.”
Now that I was a little less angry about the window, I begrudgingly admitted to myself I didn’t want to put him in an awkward position. What if he was skint because he was paying for huge medical bills or something?
He gave me an exasperated look. “I can pay for a few tacos.”
“You sure?”
“Eighty-three percent positive.”
“Where are the remaining seventeen percent?”
“On the floor. You shaved them with the razor you intended to use as a vicious weapon.”
“All right.” I reddened with mortification. “Cheers, I suppose.”
He grabbed the key and pocketed it. “This is to ensure you don’t lock yourself inside for eternity, just in case.” He stepped around me as he strolled to the door. “Oh, and don’t expect any guacamole. That stuff costs extra.”
Half an hour later, after I’d collected the broken glass and the remainder of my self-esteem from the floor, I was completely and blissfully dressed, eating tacos (withguacamole and queso; Riggs was apparently feeling extra generous), and sipping one of his beers. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d consumed so many calories, but everything tasted so good that I couldn’t even feel properly guilty about it.
“I can’t believe you’re eating carbs, Poppins.” Riggs wolfed down a shrimp taco. Salsa ran down his chiseled chin. If he ate his women out like he ate his tacos, he’d most definitely be the eighth wonder of the world. Although, to be fair, I didn’t need to see the way he ate to know he was a good shag. There was something wanton and blithe about Riggs that oozed mind-blowing sex and guaranteed heartbreak.
“I can’t believe that either,” I murmured around a small piece of fish. I still hadn’t looked him in the eye.
“Why’s that?” He threw a tortilla chip between his lips, chewing loudly. “Were you attacked by a carb when you were young? Stabbed with a baguette? Roped to a tree with spaghetti?”
I giggled, surprising myself by opening up to him. I suppose it was fair that he knew why I was so horrified by the scene earlier.
“Growing up, I was a bit of a plump kid. I’d struggled with my weight my entire life, trying every diet under the sun—Weight Watchers, Atkins, Jenny Craig, South Beach ...,” I admitted quietly, swirling guac from a plastic container and sucking on the pad of my thumb. “I never quite managed to drop the weight, which was dreadful news for my social life, since I was already the poor kid in the posh, rich school. But it was hard, with my family only able to afford frozen food from Aldi. I lived off fish-and-chips the first decade and a half of my life.” I let loose a tense breath. “The summer before I started uni, something just clicked. I managed to stay on the wagon and lose about a stone, which was enough to push me into the Fit Girl category.”
Riggs stared at me intently, waiting for me to continue.
“That summer was a great time to reinvent myself. Different accent. Different wardrobe. Different manners. That first year at uni changed me. I’d become popular for the first time in my life—or at least, notunpopular. No more sticking gum in my hair, laughing at my torn shoes, pouring piss into the cracks of my locker.” I licked my lips, frowning at the coffee table, laden with our leftovers. “I met BJ. After years of swimming against the stream, struggling to get somewhere, I felt like a wave had been carrying me to my destination. I guess I linked my trim waistline and fancy accent to my new fortune. Thus my weight became an obsession.”Right along with having money.I was beginning to realize I was obsessed with shallow things, because I thought they’d guarantee I could keep the important ones.
“Do you think BJ wouldn’t have dated you if you were a few pounds heavier?” Riggs asked seriously.
“No,” I snorted out. “Nor would I have expected him to. He has a certain type.”
“Malnourished and a doormat?” he asked wryly. “Weird taste, but to each their own, I guess.” He was quiet for a moment before adding, “You’d look beautiful no matter your weight. Just so you know.”
“Thank you.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.” I felt his eyes, ablaze with scorn, heating the side of my face. “It’s a stated fact. And if he was too dumb not to notice—”
“We have no way of knowing he wouldn’t have dated me.” I lifted a hand up, stopping him. “Remember you took the piss out of me for being a bad feminist when I said I wanted to marry BJ? Here’s another something you can toss into my Bad Feminist pile. I’m obsessed with my weight and allow the scale to alter my mood.”
