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A deep chuckle escaped the smile cracking his lips. “Is the letter still posted?”
“I deleted it.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She watched him for several mo [forments, then said, “You don’t seem all that upset that ‘everyone’ knows your ‘personal business’ with Lydia Ferrari.”
“First of all, I doubt that’s even her real name.” He sucked in a breath and let it out. “Second, women say stuff like that all the time. Even if I’ve never met them.”
Chelsea was just about to point out that he had met Lydia when he added, “I’m used to it.”
“And it doesn’t bother you?”
He shrugged. “People are going to say and write whatever they want and they don’t care if it’s the truth. Everyone has an agenda. When I said I didn’t want to talk about my personal business…I meant I don’t want to get into it while I’m naked and about to get busy. It can ruin the mood
.” He took a deep breath and blew it out. Chelsea thought the subject of Lydia Ferrari was over but then he added, “Considering what that woman was into, I just thank Jesus for what she didn’t write.”
She chewed her bottom lip, fighting the battle not to pry. She lost. “What?”
“None of your business, Ms. Nosy Toes.” He moved his hands closer in on the bar. “We’re talking about my business again and you still haven’t told me yours.”
“Why, when I ask questions, am I prying and a ‘Ms. Nosy Toes’?”
He sucked in a breath and let it out as he worked the weights. “The second thing women don’t generally want to talk about,” he said instead of answering her question, “is plastic surgery. A lot of women have it, but none of them admit it.” He looked at her over his shoulder. “Are you saving to get your nose done?”
“What?” Chelsea gasped. “There’s nothing wrong with my nose.” She raised a hand to her face. “What’s wrong with my nose?”
“Nothing. My ex got her nose done but she wanted to keep it a big secret.” He returned his gaze to the mirror. “Like everyone who knew her wouldn’t take one look at her face and figure out the obvious.”
She dropped her hand to her side. “No. Not my nose.”
“Your butt? Karlsson’s wife had fat sucked out of her thighs and shot into her butt.”
“It’s called a Brazilian butt lift. And no, I don’t want that.” She stood and moved to a rack of free weights. What the hell? What did she care if he knew? It wasn’t like she cared about his opinion or that he could take any sort of moral high road. Not after he’d admitted to having sex with a woman even after he feared she’d turn him into a human pin cushion. She ran her hand across the top weight. “I want to save enough to have breast surgery.”
The weights crashed down, and his gaze lowered to her chest. “Don’t you think you’re big enough?”
She frowned and shook her head. “I want breast reduction surgery.”
“Oh.” He looked back up into her face. “Why?”
Typical. She knew he wouldn’t understand. Heck, her own family didn’t understand. “I don’t like having large breasts. They’re heavy and get in the way. It’s hard to find clothes that fit me, and I get back and shoulder pain.”
He stood and reached for the towel still around his neck. “How small would you go?”
She folded her arms across her chest. “I’m thinking a full C.”
He nodded and wiped the side of his face. “C’s a good size.”
Geez. Was she really talking about her breast surgery with Mark Bressler? A man, and he wasn’t howling about the travesty of going smaller? “You don’t think it’s a bad idea?”
“What do you care what I think? If your back hurts, and you can do something about it, you should.”
He made it sound so reasonable.
“How big are you now?”
She stared at the floor between his shoes. “I’m a double D.”
