Misadventures of a Curvy Girl (Misadventures #18)(47)

“I’m real proud for the world to know I’m your boyfriend,” Caleb adds quietly.

Ireland flushes a happy flush, and her smile for the camera goes brighter.

“Okay, I think we’ve got it,” the reporter says cheerfully after the photographer gives her a nod. “I’m going to work fast—we’re hoping to get this up by late evening!”

It’s enough to send another nervous look flitting across Ireland’s face, but the reporter and photographer are quick with their goodbyes, and there’s no chance for Ireland to change her mind about anything. When they leave, she turns back to us, chewing on her blue lower lip. “Do you think I did okay? Did I talk enough about the rebuilding and the storm? And the picture—”

“You did great, peach,” Caleb says, wrapping his big hands around her shoulders and dropping a kiss onto her hair. “You did perfect.”

She sighs like she doesn’t believe him but isn’t willing to argue and turns back to the tavern. We follow, stepping onto the sidewalk right as Mrs. Parry’s nephew walks past with a bucket of paint in each hand, headed for the little volunteer library next to the tavern. I give him a nod, although something about the way the older man eyes Ireland has me pressing my hand more firmly against her back, those protective instincts still rearing strong.

Ireland, probably still chewing over the interview in her mind, doesn’t notice Lyle Parry or my reaction to him. I shoot a glance at Caleb, who also takes note of the smirking way Lyle is staring at Ireland, and Caleb understands immediately. He hangs back, ostensibly to talk to Lyle, but really to step between Lyle and Ireland while I shepherd her back inside the tavern.

Caleb and Lyle greet each other and make some small talk as we all move down the sidewalk, and it’s with some relief when I get to the door of the tavern and push it open. Ireland is walking inside as Lyle lowers his voice and mutters to Caleb, “She must be something else in bed, huh?”

“Excuse me?” Caleb asks coldly.

“You know what I’m talking about,” Lyle says in a winky-nudgy kind of tone, which is still loud enough to carry easily through the threshold of the open tavern door. I try to shut it, but I’m not quick enough. Lyle’s stupid voice still reaches us. “The chunky ones are always better in the sack. More grateful, you see? Makes them try harder.”

Next to me, Ireland goes completely still, and I’m torn between the need to comfort her and shield her from every shitty thing in this world and my rage. I want to go out there and beat the teeth out of Lyle Parry’s head. I want to wring him like a towel and hang him up to dry.

But one look at Ireland’s face reminds me what my priorities are.

I gather her into my arms and hold her to my chest. “Fuck him,” I murmur.

Caleb outside growls, “You’ll talk about Ireland with some fucking respect, Lyle, or face the consequences.” And then Caleb storms inside amid Lyle’s shocked sputters, slamming the tavern door shut behind him.

“God, Ireland, I’m so fucking sorry he said that,” Caleb says with misery painted all over his expression. He comes to stand next to us, putting his hand on Ireland’s shoulder, but she shakes her head and takes a step away from us.

“It’s fine,” she says in a falsely bright voice. “I’ve been one of the ‘chunky ones’ for a long time. I’m used to it.”

Everything about her is armored right now—her forced smile and her tense stance—and when I reach for her again, she moves out of range.

“Ireland,” I say, and my voice is lower and sharper than I want it to be, but seeing her upset like this has me on edge. “He’s a fucking idiot. You’re beautiful and perfect.”

If my words were arrows, they’d be bouncing hopelessly off her armor now and dropping uselessly to the floor.

“Of course I am,” she says with more of that false, hard brightness. “I know that. Well, I think I’m going to head back to the farmhouse now—I should probably get some work done before dinner, and I thought I could make dinner tonight since you guys usually make it, so I should also head out to the store…”

She’s babbling, talking fast and lively, as if worried that if she doesn’t, we’ll try to comfort her again. She gets her things, and I grab my things too, deciding to call it a day at the tavern. I don’t want to be apart from her even in the best of situations, but especially not when some shitbag has said something awful about her.

We all head outside together, Ireland still chattering until the moment we get into separate cars and drive home. And once we’re in the kitchen—Caleb and I taking over dinner preparation by unspoken agreement—with her working at the table, Caleb tries to bring it up once again.

“I don’t like that he said those things,” he says while stabbing his fingers through his hair. “I hate even more that they’ve upset you. Tell me how to fix it, peach. Tell me how to make you feel better.”

She looks up from her laptop, and when she does, her eyes are hard and her mouth is set in a mulish line. “You can make me feel better by not talking about it.”

Caleb opens his mouth, and she holds up a hand. “I mean it, Carpenter.” Her voice is truly serious, absent any fake cheeriness or falsely casual confidence now. “I don’t want to talk about this.”