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“That sounds like a cheesy post-coital line.”
“That hurts.” He rubs his chest, faking offense. “I meant that.”
“I imagine you’ve had a lot of sweet peas in your life.”
“Nope.” He rubs his nose against mine. “Only you.”
I can’t tell if that’s true or not, but I melt into him, preferring to think that it is.
“Before I haul you back to bed, tell me what you want to eat.”
After sex, I tend to crave salty carbs. “Do you have chips?”
“No, I don’t have any processed food, but I can cut up some kale and crisp the leaves in the air fryer.”
“You’re actually serious.”
“Yeah. They taste great with a little Himalayan salt.” He turns on the air fryer and takes a bushel of kale out of the fridge, diligently cleaning the leaves before cutting them into bite-sized pieces and drizzling them with avocado oil.
“Am I the first fat woman you’ve slept with?” I ask curiously.
“Why do you call yourself that?” He frowns.
“Fat?”
“Yeah. You’re beautiful and sexy.”
“Why can’t I be beautiful, sexy, and fat?”
He seems at a loss for what to say.
“Fat’s not a bad word to me, Leo. I know it offends some people. But it’s just a word, a description. It only has a negative connotation if it’s given one.”
“I never thought of it that way.”
“You’ve never had to.”
“Is that another reference to my thin privilege?” he grouches and puts the leaves in the fryer on parchment paper.
“Don’t get mad,” I say, noting the vein in his forehead. “I wasn’t insulting you.”
He turns and slips his hands beneath the borrowed jersey to cup my ass. “I love your body. It’s not fat or any size to me; it’s just wet-dream perfect.”
“Nice deflection.”
“Are you always this skeptical or is it just me?”
“I’m not skeptical, and you still haven’t answered my question.”
“And I’m not going to.” He plants a quick kiss on my mouth and checks on the kale. “I have a question for you though. Why aren’t you dancing professionally?”
Because it sounds like sincere interest, I don’t bristle in response. “I wanted to be a professional dancer. There was a time when I couldn’t imagine being anything else. I worked hard at it, practiced through blisters and bloody feet, sprained ankles, torn muscles…you know how it is as an athlete? You just push through the pain because you love it.”
He nods in understanding. “I do.”
“So why didn’t you go pro?”
“I was good, just not pro good,” he admits matter-of-factly as he pulls the sheet of kale chips out of the air fryer and sprinkles Himalayan salt over the batch. “I never had my sights on that. My parents were heavily into sports training. My mother competed in the Olympics; Javelin. My father was her coach. He split when I was thirteen.”
