Page 21

“He went back to Blacksburg already,” he mumbled, peeking his head over the newspaper. “He said he already told you goodbye?”

I bristled. Ethan had snuck away during the night. Well, all right, at the early hours of the morning, but why would he do that? I thought we’d decided to turn the page and start over last night.

“Maybe he did but I just don’t remember,” I hedged. “It’s been a long time since I slept in, so…”

“Hmm,” he hummed and then disappeared again, ruffling the paper.

Wise Gramps.

“He made crepes before he left, though. There’s probably enough to feed an army.”

I looked at the covered plate next to the stove and then down at the empty plate before me. My stomach growled like mad, and I knew I couldn’t resist the sweet temptation for long.

“That was nice of him.”

“Hmm,” Gramps hummed again. “They’re your favorite, too.”

Frowning, I stepped down from my seat and went to examine them. Warmth settled in my bones when I opened the lid to take in the fluffy crepes. A mountain of strawberries sprinkled with powdered sugar met my gaze, but as soon as my eyes fell on the note next to them, a disbelieving huff fell from my lips.

You need more meat on your bones, Pippa. Can’t have you looking like sticks and bones anymore.

/Ethan.

“What the hell?” I gasped. I snatched the note, ready to tear it to pieces, but I hesitated when I saw the cell number scribbled at the bottom.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.” I looked back at Gramps. “Just a bad joke,” I offered lamely and waved the note in my hand.

Resolutely, I pulled out my iPhone from the back pocket of my jeans and fired off a quick text.

Me: I am not stick and bones, thank you very much. I’m petite. There’s a difference. If you knew anything about women, you’d know that, too.

Satisfied, I fetched my plate and got down to business, checking for new ideas for my Pinterest boards while I ate. My blog was all over the place, covering everything between DIY beauty products to fashion and handmade jewelry; the blog reflected me – a woman who had trouble deciding on a career – but despite the haphazard things I posted, I had a large following, which made me believe that a lot of women appreciated, even understood, why I hadn’t settled on a niche just yet. Secretly, I hoped it was because they could relate to me, and it soothed me when I had my moments of doubt and insecurity.

A text message ten minutes later interrupted me, and I picked up my phone.

Ethan: Look up petite in Webster’s, Penelope. Then you’ll know I’m right.

Frowning, I shook my head and then looked down at my waist. I had to admit my jeans were a bit baggier around me than usual, but I liked it. Sort of.

My phone vibrated in my hand and I looked back at the screen.

Ethan: I’m waiting.

Huffing, I pulled up Google, found the website to Webster’s Online Dictionary and typed in petite in the search bar. I swallowed the strawberries when I read the answer:

Definition of petite: having a small figure – usually used of a woman.

“What is he on about?” I mumbled, confused and quickly sent him a reply.

Me: I did.

I stared intently at the screen as I saw the bubbles pop up, indicating he was typing a response.

Ethan: Then you’ll know that while you used to be petite, you’re now too skinny.

I felt a flush creep up my neck and I’m sure there was steam coming out of my ears. Or, that’s what it felt like – that’s how angry I was.