Beneath This Ink (Beneath #2)(22)

Once again his big hand lifted my chin. “I have issues with eating in front of people.”

Confusion washed over his features, and his eyes turned hard. “That’s a damn lie. And a stupid one.”

My mouth would have dropped open if Con’s hand wasn’t holding it up. Seriously? I finally share something incredibly personal and embarrassing with him, and I get…that?

I shook my head and spun, stalking back toward the bike. I’d grab my purse out of the saddlebags and call a damn cab.

I didn’t make it more than two steps before Con grabbed me by the arm and backed me up against the house.

“Now wait just a minute.”

I struggled against his hold. “Let me go.”

Con didn’t loosen his grip. “I watched you eat while sitting next to that slick f*cker, Titan. So don’t lie to me.”

“But that was a salad!”

The angry edge faded, and once again confusion reigned over his features. “What the f*ck does salad have to do with anything?”

“Fat girls can eat salad in public without being judged. It’s like a rule!”

“What?” Con reared his head back before staring down at me. “Princess, I don’t know if you’ve looked in the mirror, but you ain’t fat. You’ve got the kind of body a man wants to grab hold of and never let go.”

I exhaled and dropped my head back. Before it could connect with the brick wall, Con’s hand was there, protectively cupping it, bringing our bodies flush.

“Careful.”

Our proximity made it nearly impossible to explain what I needed to, but I did it anyway. “Look, I was big as a kid, and my mother never let me forget it. She was a Nazi about everything I was allowed to eat. Other kids had moms who baked cookies; mine made sure I had seaweed crisps. Sure, it was all under the guise of being ‘healthy,’ but she was as much of a perfectionist as anyone you’ve ever met ... and I wasn’t perfect. It didn’t matter how many laps I ran, or how many ‘healthy’ diets she put me on, I was the chubby kid. Food became the enemy.” I shuddered. “You don’t understand what it’s like to have someone judge you for what you put on your plate. Knowing that they’re thinking should she really be eating that at her size? Hell, you know they’re thinking it because you’ve heard them say it behind your back.” I thought about the pizza incident at Madeline’s birthday party, and…I took a deep breath and shared it with Con.

By the time I was finished, my heart slammed against my chest so hard, I was sure Con could feel it too. His brow was scrunched in confusion. “I’ve known you since you were, what? Sixteen? I don’t remember any of this.”

“Because I’d already hit my growth spurt by the time you came. By then, I’d become one of the ‘popular’ girls because my size was finally ‘acceptable.’ And if you think those girls didn’t watch everything I put in my mouth, wondering if I’d get big again, you’d be dead wrong. Teenage girls are mean. I lived on Diet Coke and salad for all four years of high school.”

Con tilted his head to the side, considering everything I’d just admitted. “It’s been like fifteen years since then, and this stuff really still bothers you.” It wasn’t a question.

I dropped my eyes, staring at his chest as I tried to explain. “Those kinds of feelings don’t just go away overnight because you grew five inches and magically all of the weight you were carrying was right for your frame. Hell, if they were burned into you the way they were burned into me, they might never go away.” I looked up and met his eyes again. “Trust me, even after years of therapy, I’m still just coping. I’ll never have an easy relationship with food, and when I’m around people I don’t know or trust, it’s pretty hard not to wonder if they’re watching me—judging me—when I eat.”

He lowered his head toward mine, and I could feel his breath on my skin. “Woman, the only things they’re watching when they see you are those delicious tits and that luscious ass. If you think anyone’s judging you, you’re crazy.”

“I’m not crazy,” I whispered. “And don’t call me woman.”

His full lips stretched into a lazy smile. The awkwardness I expected to linger after my confession faded when Con said, “You’re bossy. You know that?”

I was staring at the dimple in his cheek when I replied, “I’m not bossy; I’m just not a doormat.”

His dimple deepened, “I didn’t say bossy was a bad thing.” He lowered his lips another fraction toward mine. “It’s pretty f*cking hot.”

Holy shit. Con’s going to kiss me. Sober. My eyes drifted closed.

A jingle of metal and the sound of wood slapping against wood caused us both to jerk backward, and I smacked my head against the wall.

I cringed, and Con swore. “Shit! Are you okay?”

Eyes firmly shut this time, I nodded. “I’m fine. Hard head.”

A quiet chuckle washed over me, and Con’s hand cradled the back of my head once more, massaging the bump. “Not surprising that you’ve got a hard head.”

“You gonna kiss that girl, Constantine? ‘Cuz if you ain’t, you better get yourself to the table. My barbeque don’t wait for no man. No woman, neither.” My eyes darted toward the voice. A stout woman in a red ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron stood with her arms crossed. Her dark gaze didn’t miss a thing.