Page 62 of Hungry As Her Python

I cracked one eye open, peeking at the situation.

Not my pink Egyptian cotton sheets with the ludicrously high thread count.

Nope. It was him.

Ermagerd.

Conrad Boman.

Bagged.

Tagged.

And sleeping in my bed like he owned the place.

Oh my Goddess. Did that really happen?

Judging from my slightly sore and profoundly happy girly bits, the answer was a resounding hell yes.

Yes, it did.

Usually, this was the part where I freaked out. Where I did the emotional equivalent of rolling myself into a cinnamon bun and hiding in the corner until the problem went away.

Happy afterglow or not, my track record with relationships was about as successful as a Gremlin running a water park.

Sure, I blamed society for giving curvy women a bad rap and making us feel like love came with a size restriction. But that wasn’t the whole truth.

I’d been burned before.

Case in point: the last time I’d felt even a spark with a guy—that turd Jameson.

The man had a knack for making compliments feel like paper cuts.

"Go on a diet, Bella. Twenty pounds and you’d be so pretty."

"I’d love to take you to the carnival, but can you fit on that ride?"

"Instead of starting work at 4:30, can you make it 5:30? I hate it when you wake me up."

Yeah. Prince Charming material, right?

And because I was a younger, dumber version of myself back then, I’d let him chip away at me like I was a block of cheap marble, and he thought he was Michelangelo.

So I built walls.

Big ones.

With barbed wire.

And a moat.

And possibly a fire-breathing guard dragon.

But Conrad?

Conrad was different.

Even sleeping, the man was a walking advertisement for bad decisions wrapped in a good idea.