Page 39 of Curvy Love

I blow out a breath. She’s right, I know she’s right. “I’m being shallow. That’s the problem. I want my mystery man. I know him. But what if he looks like he lives under a bridge?”

Willow laughs and snorts. “That’s doubtful. More than likely if he’s not conventionally handsome, he’ll still have the Jeff Goldblum factor because you’re in love with his mind. So he’ll become attractive to you.”

I lean into her, knocking our shoulders together. “When did my baby sister become so wise?”

“Watching my two older sisters make all the mistakes has been a great teaching manual for me.”

I stand. “Okay, are you sure I look good?”

“Yes. That dress is perfect for your curves and your make-up is spot on. The red lips are gonna kill him.”

I give her a brief hug, then turn to go. But then I pause and look at Will. “What are you doing home?”

“Sabrina took some sleeping pills so I had some time to come home and shower and change and eat something not made of celery.” She rolls her eyes. “Can we all just agree that jicama and carrot tacos are not a thing? That’s not a taco!”

I nod. “It’s a taco-shaped crudité.”

“Exactly! Super models are the worst.”

I laugh and leave. I’m nervous still, but I know my sister is right. It doesn’t matter what ZMan looks like.

Honestly, it will probably be better if he’s not super-hot. It’s not like I’m trophy girlfriend material. I’m pretty enough, but I appreciate mashed potatoes and cake way too much to be thin enough to match society’s standards of beauty. I made peace with that long ago. So instead I’m bumpy and lumpy and soft. He’ll either like me or not. At least my boobs look great in this dress.

Twenty minutes later, I’m instructed to go to the top floor of the Zee Suite Software offices. It’s weird to be here again today, but there are no signs anywhere of the party from the night before. Top floor has to be the executive level which means that my ZMan is successful. Unless he’s an assistant. But that seems doubtful, since he has knowledge of coding.

When the elevator doors open, there’s a woman there with a clipboard to meet me.

“Right this way, Ms. McLeod.”

She leads me into a conference room. The long wood table is laden with food trays and my stomach growls because I’m like Pavlov’s dog that way.

“He’ll be right in.” Then she steps out and closes the door.

Through the cloudy glass next to the door I see a suit walk up and hear their low voices. My heart starts to pound, because this guy in the suit, must be ZMan.

“If that’s all,” the woman says, “I’m going to leave for lunch.”

The deep voice responds, and I shiver at the timbre even though I can’t hear his actual words.

My nerves are making me crazy and I truly hope I don’t get a case of the rumbly intestines while I’m waiting. The doorknob turns and the door opens.

A tall, broad shouldered body in a bespoke grey suit steps in and closes the door. He still isn’t facing me, but what I can see of him is nothing short of delicious. He’s got dark blonde hair, cropped short and big hands. I notice those as he shuts the door.

Then he spins to face me and I see who it is.

It’s not ZMan—it can’t be. Instead, it’s Ezra Carlisle.

I suck in a breath of surprise … and then choke on my own saliva.

You should be jealous. I’m very cool.

He wordlessly walks to the table, grabs a water bottle, uncaps the lid and sets it in front of me. One of those big hands pats my back.

I take a few swallows of the water and try to calm my breathing so I’m not gasping for air like a landed carp.

He sits in the chair next to me, his impossibly long legs bumping into mine.

I inch my chair away from his. “I’m sorry, Mr. Carlisle. I was expecting someone else.”

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