Free Size Matters (Handcuffs and Happily Ever Afters) by Robyn Peterman

almost forgot how much I didn’t like him. Those damn blue eyes. “No, I have no idea what you’re talking about. If I did, I wouldn’t ask.”
    “Right,” I snapped. “I really have to go, Mitch. Good luck with the new apartment. I’ll be moving out next week.” I turned and ran as quickly as my stupid pasta legs would carry me . . . which was not very fast.
    “Kristy. Stop.” The sexy command in his voice made my throat go tight and everything inside my body tingle in anticipation. God, this jack-off knew how to push every one of my hoochie mama buttons. “Look at me,” he instructed.
    I turned and waited.
    “Your reasons aren’t good enough. I’m not quite understanding the Brett Favre and hostile lesbian thing, but it’s very clear you have dated some asshole cops. I’m not one of them. I’m the guy who can’t get you out of my head ever since I saw you the other day. That kiss in the library is burned into my brain and I keep replaying it.”
    “Me too,” I whispered, then purposely banged my head against the wall. Admitting I wanted to trade spit with him was not going to help my case. His sexy answering smirk lit my panties on fire.
    “Give me a chance,” he said, sending some kind of magic hoodoo straight to my brain and other unmentionable parts of me. “Get to know me . . . Let me take you out.”
    I was pretty sure I wouldn’t have been able to say no even if the fate of mankind was resting on my answer.
    “Okay,” I said in a voice that belonged in a porno. I quickly cleared my throat and tried again. “Okay, but here’s the deal . . . You can’t tell anybody. Not Jack, not Rena . . . no one.”
    He put his hands on his hips, stretching his T-shirt across his insanely hot chest, and tilted his head to the side. My mouth went dry . . . “Are you ashamed of me?” he asked with mock severity.
    “No,” I gasped. “It has something to do with the, um . . . lesbian–Brett Favre thing.”
    “I’m going to take your word on that,” he chuckled. “Hell, short of doing something illegal, I’d do anything to go out with you. So if you want to keep it a secret . . . it’s a secret.”
    “Thank you,” I blurted, grinning like an idiot.
    “Tomorrow night?”
    I thought for a moment. Rena and Jack were going to a concert . . . perfect. “Yes, tomorrow night.”
    “Seven o’clock,” he said. “Do you want to meet me somewhere?”
    “Um, no. Rena and Jack won’t be here; you can pick me up at my apartment . . . if you want to.” Crap, did that sound like an invitation for nookie?
    “I’ll be there.” His voice was so damn hot I found myself leaning toward him. Thankfully I caught myself before I tumbled down the stairs and landed in a broken mess at his feet.
    I righted myself, turned, and walked up the stairs with a little extra swing . . . I knew full well he was watching my butt. I might have to break bread with the hostile lesbos, but I had a weird feeling it would be worth it.
     
    “Aunt Moon-Unit has called six times for you,” Rena informed me as I scrounged through the fridge looking for something that didn’t have a past-due date or wasn’t growing fur. Damn, nothing but salad dressing and hot dog buns.
    “What did she want?” I pulled out a hot dog bun, checked it for mold, and ate it.
    “No clue, I didn’t answer,” Rena said, grabbing another bun and joining me. “Holy fucking hell, we need to go grocery shopping.”
    “Agreed,” I replied with a mouth full of dough. “Did she leave a message?”
    “Not really. She just kept yelling your name louder and louder—like you would answer if she broke your eardrums.”
    “Why didn’t you pick up?” I asked, searching for something that might taste a little better than an old stale hot dog bun.
    “Because I spent an hour on the phone with her this morning discussing ways to murder bad chi with spatulas and fly swatters when I should have been crunching numbers for my clients.”
    “’Nuff said.