Page 3 of Curvy Love

She gets tacos, eats them on a bench outside the library, then disappears inside for hours. She’s always alone which for whatever reason feels wrong to me. A woman that pretty, with that much intelligence and sparkle in her eyes should have lots of friends. But if she’s single, I’m not going to complain. In fact, my fingers are crossed that she is.

I want to know her name. I want to get close enough to know how she smells. God, that sounds creepy, but I’m not creepy. I’ve got three sisters. They would gang up on me and kick my ass if I creeped on a woman. And even though I served two tours in Afghanistan, I know enough to be terrified of my sisters.

Two said sisters—my oldest, Connie and my youngest, Isabel—are with me today, helping out at the festival, and they’re currently bickering, going back and forth between Spanish and English. I don’t pay attention to what they’re discussing because it’s always the same. Disagreeing about some reality TV show, a book they’re reading or who is our mom’s favorite. That would be me, because I’m the only boy.

I walk further away from my food truck, moving closer to the folding tables and chairs that have been set up for people to gather—family style. Since I’m representing my business, I probably should have dressed more professionally, but I’m always dressed for summer. At least when I’m working. It gets too hot in my taco truck to wear anything but t-shirts and cargo shorts. At least my shirt is emblazoned with my cartoon pepper logo.

I watch the people come and go from the truck, grabbing the pre-made paper bowls with their taco samplers. And then I see her. She’s waiting in line so I’ve only got a view of her from behind, but I know that hair. I know the curve of her waist and that plump, juicy ass because I stare at it as she walks into the library several days a week.

Okay, yep, I still sound like a creeper.

But she’s so damn pretty and I’m inexplicably drawn to her. I duck into the truck and grab a couple of beers from the fridge, then wait for her to grab her food, before moving to intercept her.

“Hey, I was hoping you’d come today,” I say. I make my smile as friendly as possible. I’m a big dude and I’m covered in tatts, mostly a product from my time as a Marine. I can be a badass when I need to be, but like that old saying goes, I’m a lover, not a fighter.

She pauses and looks at me, those mossy green eyes wide. “Me?”

Her gaze darts to either side, like she’s checking to see if there’s someone else behind her I might be talking to.

“Yeah, you. I’ve seen you at my truck.”

She bites down on her lip, glancing at the paper boat and then back me. “I might need an intervention.”

I laugh and step closer to her. “Will you sit with me for a bit? I have beer or I can grab you something else.”

“Beer would be great.”

We walk together to one of the tables put up around the festival.

“I’m Alex, by the way.”

“Laurel.” Her voice is soft and there’s a definite accent, a twangy accent we don’t get much up here in Massachusetts.

We sit and I push one of the beers in front of her and grab some napkins. She just stares at me.

“Go ahead and eat.” I nod to her plate.

A look of relief washes over her and she takes a bit of one of the tacos. Her eyes roll up and she moans.

And I am fucking glad I’m sitting down so no one can see that I’m now rock hard.

I love a woman who’s not afraid to eat. Food is a big deal in my culture, and I hate the salad police. Besides most salads have a ton of calories added once you get all the dressing poured on top.

I take a swallow of my beer and lean across the table. “Okay, I gotta ask. Crunchy or soft? Do you have a preference?”

After she swallows and takes a sip of beer, she wipes her mouth. “Ah. You’re doing market research,” she says. “That’s why you wanted to talk to me.”

She nods, like she’s proud of herself for solving some big mystery. It’s almost like she can’t imagine that I’d want to talk to her simply because she’s pretty.

I nearly correct her, but there’s shyness in her gaze … just a little bit of skittishness that tells me I’ll get farther letting her assume she’s right than I would telling her the truth.

“Sure,” I say with a nod, not setting her straight, but not lying outright either.

“Figuring out what drives repeat business is also a good idea.” She dabs at her lips with a napkin, suddenly very businesslike. “But I should warn you, I may not be the best person to survey.”

“Why is that?”

She leans towards me. “Can I tell you my dirty little secret?”

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