Page 56 of My Real Love Affair

“I’m not your girl.”

“You are in public.” I steered her toward where my car was pulling up. “Just get in the car before you change your mind.”

The restaurant I chose was one of those places that had a chill vibe but catered to the wealthy lawyers and corporate people that worked in the area. The dining area had windows that faced a busy intersection. We’d be visible from the street. Likely to be photographed. Exactly what we needed.

We were given a corner window seat, perfect lighting, impossible to miss.

“Subtle,” Melody muttered as we sat down.

“Bancrofts don’t do subtle.” I ordered us a bottle of champagne before she could object. “We’re celebrating. Champagne is mandatory.”

“I don’t even like champagne.”

“You’ll like this champagne. And you drank champagne at the wedding.”

“I dranksomechampagne.”

“It’s expensive champagne.

“That’s not the selling point you think it is.”

“Sure it is. Expensive champagne tastes better. It’s science.”

“That’s not how science works.”

“How would you know? Are you a scientist?”

“Are you?”

“I have a business degree I never use and access to Google,” I said. “That’s basically the same thing.”

She laughed and shook her head. I liked making her laugh, liked the way her whole face transformed when she was genuinely amused.

The champagne arrived, and I poured for both of us despite her protests.

“To victory,” I said, raising my glass.

“To not getting sued into oblivion,” she countered.

“To you getting exactly what you deserved.”

Her expression softened. “Thank you. Really. I don’t know how I’m ever going to repay you for this.”

“You already are. By being here. By making my family think I’ve finally gotten my act together.” I took a sip. “Besides, I wanted to help. What they did to you was wrong.”

“It was.” She stared into her glass, her fingers tracing the rim. “It was so wrong, Austin. And it hurt worse than I thought it would.”

“Why do you think that is?”

She looked up, surprised. “You actually want to know?”

“Yeah. I do.”

She took a breath, and I watched her gather her thoughts. She was still trying to decide how much she wanted to trust me.Should she keep me at arm’s length or let me in? I didn’t see why we couldn’t be friends, though.

“I’ve spent my entire adult life fighting against beauty standards that make women like me feel like we’re not enough,” she said. “Like we need to be smaller, take up less space, apologize for our bodies just by existing. The runway models are gorgeous and yet when they are on a magazine cover, they get airbrushed. Like how much more perfect can they be?” Her voice grew more passionate as she continued. “Do you know what it’s like to walk into a store and know that nothing will fit you? To see ads everywhere telling you that your body type is wrong? That if you just tried harder, ate less, exercised more, you could finally be acceptable?”

“I don’t,” I admitted.