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“You’re not pudgy,” he proclaimed.
“Okay,” I mumbled disbelievingly.
“It’s entirely whacked, the idea a woman shouldn’t have curves,” he said.
“Well—” I started.
“Basic biology,” he grunted.
Oh dear.
Things seemed to be straightening out between us, so I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear Javi’s take on “basic biology.”
I didn’t get a chance to share my hesitancy.
“A woman’s part in procreation is to nurture a child in her womb and when it comes out,” he carried on. “How you gonna do that if you’re skin and bones?”
“Not every woman wants a child, Javi,” I explained.
“Nothing negates basic biology,” he returned. “You wanna be trim, go for it. You don’t want a kid, your choice. But the bottom line is, women are built to carry weight so they can nourish offspring. Whether you want that offspring or not doesn’t factor, that’s the basic part of biology. So you having the body you’re biologically meant to have is completely natural. What’s not natural is this fucked-up idea that you gotta…”—he flipped out a hand—“I don’t even know what the goal is with that skinny shit.”
It was then it hit me, he was really angry that I thought I was pudgy.
It also hit me how incredibly sweet it was he told me he thought I had a beautiful body.
Which reminded me I thought he had the same, and unexpectedly—and in that moment, inopportunely—about one hundred of the thousands of fantasies I’d had about him crashed into my brain and something else hit me right between the legs.
“You over that shit?” he clipped.
I pulled myself back from my mental trajectory of deciding whether or not (and I was leaning toward whether) to jump his bones and asked, “What?”
“You over that shit about your weight?”
“I’m not sure a lifelong issue with my body can be cured in one short conversation, no matter how hot the hot guy is who tells me I need to get over it. And you’re the upper echelon of hot.”
Oh no.
Did I just speak those words out loud?
His eyes lit and lips curled up.
I did speak them out loud, and the humor and…
Lord help me…
Tenderness in his gaze made me not regret it, which was crazy.
But it was true.
“Nuke our food, babe,” he ordered, turning to his phone and murmuring, “We’ll get you over that body image bullshit later.”
He made this sound like he’d just jotted that as priority one on his to-do list.
Right, it was official. Enough was enough, I could endure no more.
For the rest of the night, I was taking it one step at a time.
Dinner. Treats. Then…whatever came next.