“You should. Fuck what anyone else thinks.”
The barista arrives with our muffins, breaking the moment, and Marley immediately reaches for hers with a look of anticipation. But then she stops, her hand hovering over the plate, and I see it, that flicker of shame. Of self-consciousness.
“Actually,” she says, pulling her hand back. “I shouldn’t. I’m trying to… you know.”
And just like that, I’m furious all over again.
Not at her.
Never at her.
At every person who’s ever made her feel as though she needs to be something else.
At that asshole ex who told her she wasn’t the right size.
At every shitty voice in her head that’s convinced her she doesn’t deserve a fucking muffin.
“Trying to what?” I ask, and my voice comes out harder than I intended.
She won’t meet my eyes, but she says, “Watch what I eat. Derek said—”
“I don’t give one single flying fuck what Derek said.”
Her head snaps up.
I lean forward, holding her gaze. “Marley. You’re beautiful exactly as you are. Those curves?” I gesture vaguely at her, trying to be respectful but also desperately needing her to understand. “They’re perfect. Andanyman who made you feel otherwise is a fucking idiot who doesn’t deserve a second of your time.”
Her cheeks flush pink, and she looks down at the muffin like it holds the secrets of the universe.
“Eat the muffin,” I say, softer now. “Please. For me. Because watching you deny yourself something that makes you happy pisses me off more than you can imagine.”
For a long moment, she doesn’t move. Then, slowly, she reaches out and breaks off a piece. She puts it in her mouth, and the small smile that curves her lips is worth every bit of awkwardness.
“Good?” I ask.
“So good,” she admits, and there’s something in her eyes that looks like relief. Like maybe permission. Like maybe she’s starting to believe that she’s allowed to exist in her own body without apology.
We eat in comfortable silence for a minute, and I let myself just watch her.
The way she savors each bite.
The way tension in her shoulders gradually eases.
The way the morning light catches in her hair and makes me want to reach across the table and touch it, run my fingers through it, grab a handful to see if it’s as soft as it looks.
“So,” she says finally, licking a crumb from her thumb in a way that’s absolutely sexy as hell and completely fucking destroys me. “How old are you? I realized the other night I never asked.”
Something cold slides through my stomach. “Why?”
She shrugs, casual. “Just curious. When we met, I assumed you were mid-thirties? You’ve got this young energy about you. But in the daylight, I can clearly see a little silver fox going on in your hair, which isreallyattractive, by the way.”
I take a breath. This is it. The moment where reality crashes into fantasy, and Marley realizes I’m too old, too damaged, too complicated.
“Forty-three,” I say.
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
