Free Big Girls Do It Better by Jasinda Wilder

Big Girls Do It Better
    Two things get me into trouble: food, and my mouth. That's how it all started with Chase: first food, then my mouth. I had just finished DJing at a bar appropriately called The Dive, and I needed a snack. I headed to the twenty-four hour Ram's Horn a few miles away from the bar.
    That night, I was way more sober than I usually was whenever I visited Ram's Horn. Let's just say the tips at The Dive were usually of the liquid variety, but that particular night, I hadn't been tipped as well as usual. Still, I'd had a couple, and I swayed as I made my way through the crowded parking lot. I stumbled through the door and bumped right into trouble of the tall, dark and handsome variety. He apologized as I looked away, flushing in embarrassment.
    I snuck a peek, and embarrassment turned to lust. This guy was HOT. I couldn't make myself meet his eyes. I mumbled an apology and scurried to my usual corner booth, where I hid behind the menu. 
    I pretended to peruse a menu I knew by heart. I've always had a passion for life and that translated into overindulgence. What can I say? I've never met a cupcake I didn't want to get to know better.
    I was still staring at the menu when he came over. He was so sexy, even his pants were sexy.
    "Can I sit with you?" His voice was like a mellow, throbbing bassline.
    Anything you want, Mr. Sexypants, I thought.  I blushed scarlet from my forehead all the way down to my ample cleavage. 
    "Sure," I mumbled, acting like I didn't care either way. 
    I looked up at him again, and he was twice as sexy as he'd been ten seconds before. I wanted to say something cool, but in my tipsy state, I could barely focus, and my menu kept shifting between single and double images.
    Mr Sexypants ordered water, because he was just that cool. I thought about ordering salad, so I could be cool too, but when the waitress came and I actually opened up my mouth, I said "Lemon pie."
    Pie? Really? Awesome job, Anna , I scolded myself.
    I played with my hair, twisting a lock of my bottle-blond hair between my fingers. It smelled like smoke. 
    "You seem like you know your way around this place," Mr. Sexypants said. 
    "No, not really," I lied. "I actually DJ down the street at The Dive." 
    Why did I just tell him where I work? 
    "You're a DJ?" 
    "Yeah. I also sing and play music at a few local bars." 
    "Oh, you sing," he said, flashing his absurdly straight and white teeth at me. "I'm a singer too." 
    Of course Mr Sexypants would be a singer.  
    "Really?" I said. "Like at church?" 
    "No, in a band. We're called 6 Feet Tall. We just got back from playing at CBGB's in New York." 
    The waitress brought our food, I think. She must have, since food had appeared and I was eating it.
    I smiled, ate my lemon pie, and twirled my hair again . Is this actually happening to me right now? I put my hand down onto my leg and pinched myself. Yep, really happening.   
    I glanced down, more to get away from Mr Sexypants and his fiery brown eyes than anything else, and that was when I remembered what I was wearing: knee-high black hooker boots, fishnet stockings, and a size-eighteen sequined leopard-print dress. I went ten shades of scorching red all over again. 
    "How's the pie?" He asked, still with that too-damn-cute smirk. He knew exactly what he was doing to me, and he was enjoying watching me squirm.
    "Uh...great, thanks." I scarfed down the last couple bites. "I really need to get going." 
    "The pie is on me," he said. "I was lonely, sitting all by myself. My name is Chase, by the way." 
    "Nice to meet you Chase. I'm Anna." I shook his hand, trying desperately to ignore the sparks of heat that ran up my arm at the touch of his strong, calloused fingers. "Good luck with your band." 
    With that, I scooted my butt out of the booth and into my car as quick as I could. I turned the key in my car and looked at the clock: three-thirty eight am. I needed to get home before my roommate Jamie started calling