one
Cara
Late March
“Are you going to tell me what you’re working on, sweet lady?” the cute barista teased. He placed my hot chocolate down on the counter. It was topped with a healthy serve of whipped cream and two marshmallows—exactly how I liked it. I hummed and reached for it as soon as he’d popped on the lid.
“Well?” he prompted, resting both hands on the counter. He wiggled his eyebrows expectantly.
I blushed and bit down on my lip, my smile turning shy. My cheeks heated. I shook my head. I couldn’t tell him. But he already knew that. It had become a running joke between us—he asked what I was writing, but I never answered.
I picked up the takeaway cup and wiggled my fingers, a wave goodbye the only thing I was brave enough to do around him.
I shuffled across the lobby as quickly as I could, racing back to my office. I had a meeting with my dad to get to. My phone rang as I pressed the button on the lift, my best friend’s name lighting up the screen.
“Hey, Zali,” I greeted her, a smile splitting my lips.
“Oh, thank God,” she answered as the doors opened and people poured out. I followed a man in and stood on the opposite side to him. Zali continued, saying, “You have no idea how much I need a girls’ night. Men.” She huffed.
I giggled, then snorted and slapped my forearm over my mouth, trying not to spill my drink. The man next to me turned away but not before I saw his lips twitch. My cheeks heated, and another snort-laugh escaped me when Zali put on a dramatic sigh.
“I’d love to,” I squeaked, trying to stop my giggles. “Is it a cupcakes-and-ice-cream emergency?” I asked.
“I think so,” she said seriously. “At least we could say that and try out that new dessert bar we saw.”
“It’s a dire state of affairs,” I responded, biting back my smile. “You’d better text me the details.”
“I will. See you tonight.”
***
Juggling a stack of printouts as I walked to Dad’s office, I sorted the payroll records, fishing out the ones I needed. My shoes were hurting my feet—but Chucks weren’t exactly office wear—the underwire from my bra was stabbing me, and I’d been completely overwhelmed since starting my job. I hated it, but atleast I was working again and could pay my rent and go out with friends when I got the odd invite.
I’d been coming to my parents’ business for as long as I could remember. I’d worked a few shifts on the retail floor at Delaware’s Warehouse—their sporting goods store—when they were short staffed but never in the office. Dad always said that I needed to make my own way in life. He wasn’t going to let me turn into one of those nepo babies. That was fine by me. Working for Professor Reid in the research role for his podcast,Tarnished Crownwas an experience. But graduation had come and gone, and my role with Tristan was winding down. The first episodes of the podcast had gone to air, and I was only intermittently needed for the movie screenplay. I needed a regular job. There was an opening at Delaware’s Warehouse. It was a natural fit.
Dad hadn’t made it easy—I still had to apply like everyone else—but with a business degree under my belt, I was at least qualified to fill the role. I’d fumbled my way through the interview and walked out thinking I had no chance, but it mustn’t have been so bad. I was now the new junior admin team member.
Mum was right, though—she’d told me I’d be miserable, and I was. It wasn’t the people—everyone was lovely. But, oh my goodness gracious, the work was so terribly dry and boring. I wasn’t cut out for this kind of job. It had very quickly become apparent to me that I needed creativity and flexibility. Every time I walked into the office, my fingers itched. I had a computer right in front of me and my manuscript was right there, begging me to open it up.
But I couldn’t.
I had to wait until my lunch break and my boss didn’t like us sitting at our desks to eat—something about the great ant invasion of 2020—and writing a steamy sex scene in thelunchroom with people looking over my shoulder wasn’t exactly a good idea.
At least my story was going well. I loved researching every minute detail of a topic, even if it only ended up as one sentence in my manuscript. I loved getting lost in a story, watching as the words flowed onto paper. I bled my emotions onto the page, and I was in love with my characters.
Working for Professor Reid had given me a taste of writing professionally, and I wanted more. But true crime wasn’t my passion. Writing about people falling in love was. Watching Zali fall in love with her guys was inspiring. I wanted happily ever afters, swoony dates, and damaged heroes so totally gone for their curvy women. I wanted girls like me to read them and think, “Relationship goals.” I wanted big, beautiful women to be inspired to find their guys.
Yes, guys as in plural.
I wanted my own happily ever after too. I wanted my men to stumble across me and eat me up with their gaze. I wanted their pulses to skyrocket and their self-control to be pushed to the limit just by having to resist me.
Then I wanted them to fall hopelessly in love with me and each other too.
I wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea, I knew that—a nerdy bookworm who actually didn’t mind her rounded belly, thick thighs, and big butt—but I had hope. Surely there was a guy or two who loved curves.
I wanted the kind of relationship my parents had. They loved each other as much now as they did when Dad had fallen for Mum. She was seventeen when they’d met. They’d had me almost straight away—Mum had barely turned eighteen—but they waited to get married. I didn’t care either way about having kids. But I did want the love story. And a cat or ten.
For the moment, I was juggling my manuscript and being able to eat. Even though it was dry as dust, my job had its advantages. We were the key sponsor of the first NHL visit to Australia. Two Californian teams—the LA Kings and San Diego Seals were playing games in Brisbane, Sydney, and Melbourne, then visiting Adelaide for a fan day.
