“And what about your mom?”
“Resting, and Forrest has agreed to be on-call if she needs anything at all. We have all night.”
“That’s sweet of Forrest,” I muse.
“He’s a good bloke. Great friend. I’m still kind of pissed he got to you first.”
I chuckle softly. “Don’t be jealous. He didn’t get to me. Not like you do.”
“Good,” he answers. “Keep it that way. I want to be the only man who gets to you. The only one whogets you.”
I reach up, his cheeks are in my hands, then my lips soft against his. “I’m going to go change into something worthy of this incredible first date, and when I get back, get ready…it’s time.”
“ForBring It On? Because I’ve been looking forward to this one. What are the chances you were a cheerleader in high school or college and maybe kept your uniform?”
“Zero. I would’ve been better suited for the band. But I’m not talking about the movie.”
He wets his lips. “Then what’s it time for?”
“For us to fall in love.” I pick up the wine cooler again and take another long swig, cringing at the sickly sweet syrup that now coats my tongue. I don’t actually think there’s alcohol in these.
“Go get dressed. Or undressed,” Saylor says. “I’ll be here.Ready.”
“Is it supposed to burn a little?” Saylor asks, buried underneath a face mask designed to make it look like he has panda markings around his eyes. We’re cuddled up on my oversized chaise lounge, lights dimmed, movie volume low, the faint hint of sweet snacks still lingering on our tongues.
I discarded my Koala mask about ten minutes ago when the smell of grape bubblegum got overwhelming. “How much is a little?”
“Kind of like when you pour alcohol into an open sore.”
I widen my eyes at him. “Definitely not. Take that off right now.”
I peel it off before he can, pressing against his slightly pink cheeks with two fingers. I put my face in his and pucker, begging for a sweet kiss. He obliges but almost distractedly. “We’re missing the movie.”
“I’ve seen it a thousand times.”
“I haven’t,” he insists.
Men and media. I swear. Any type of screen is hypnosis, regardless of the decade they were born in.
I pull off my pale pink sweatshirt that only looks casual. It’s part of a set and it matches my nice luggage, but it’s big and cozy. The kind of sweatshirt that doubles as a cocoon when I tuck my knees in. Once I toss it aside, I unhook my bra.
After sliding off the straps, shoulder by shoulder, I let the bra dangle from my finger before tossing it into the mound of blankets.
Saylor’s pupils blow wide, his attention locked in on me. “You’re so—” he starts but loses his sentence. The way his gaze istracing my body feels like an artist studying a canvas he’s about to paint.
I clamber out of our cuddle. The moment my feet hit the ground, I kneel by the loveseat, shins slotting into the plushest spot of the blanket nest. I pat the cushion, indicating where he should sit.
He rises, changes seats, settles into the cushion in front of me, and all the while his eyes never leave my breasts. The last time a man studied me this hard was Greg, shortly before suggesting I get a lift. Instead, Saylor’s paralyzed hands reach out, hovering over my chest like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch. I take his hands and put them on me, just under my ribcage where the skin is softest. I breathe in, and his fingers tighten, anchoring me to this moment.
“Do you like this?” I ask, with all sincerity. There’s a vulnerability in the question that I can’t mask. I’m sure he’s used to seeing different bodies. Firmer, fuller, more confident. There’s not just underweight and overweight anymore. Women are expected to have bodies that defy physics and gravity. Boobs that stay perched high on their shelves but feel natural. Asses that are bubbly and round, but only if it’s paired with thigh gaps and flat stomachs. A size-zero waist, and size-eight hips. We spend so much time thinking about what we should be, we never appreciate what we are.
Saylor seems to be appreciating me exactly as I am. Flat-chested, hip-less, and so desperate for him to still see beauty where I used to.
“Fuck, Celeste. Do I like this? Right now I feel bad for every woman in the world who doesn’t get to wake up and be you.”
I bask in the compliment, letting it shower over me, rinsing away all my insecurities. “You think I’m hot?”
“I think you’re spellbinding…and yeah, super hot.”
