Page 56 of Big Girl Panties

Heat bloomed in my chest as I leaned into his touch. "I would love to be your date and your girlfriend." The words came easily, naturally, like they'd been waiting to be said.

We both shifted on the lounger, settling side by side. Beyond the dock, moonlight painted a path across the water, stretching toward the horizon where the bay met the stars. The gentle lap of waves against the pilings said enough, a quiet rhythm that matched his chest's steady rise and fall against my back.

I finally felt like I was where I belonged.

Chapter 22

Holy Fuuuuuck (And Other Revelations)

I tugged at the hem of Matt's shirt as I pushed open his bedroom door. My jaw practically hit the floor. This wasn't just a bedroom; this was like stumbling into some five-star resort in Santorini or the Maldives. The white walls practically glowed, and my bare feet sank into carpet so plush I wanted to take a nap right there on the floor.

My eyes darted around the room, taking in the two massive ocean paintings that dominated opposite walls. They were the kind of art that made you feel like you could smell the salty air and hear the waves crashing.

I couldn't help but run my hand over his sheets, eight-hundred-thread-count, I'd bet my life on it. They were the kind of sheets that probably cost more than my rent, the kind that made you want to burrow in and never leave.

Matt, wearing nothing but his boxer briefs, opened the French doors, and I completely forgot how to breathe. The terrace stretched out in front of us, and beyond that? Nothing but endless, sparkling ocean as far as the eye could see. The breeze hit my face, and for a moment I wondered if I'd somehow been transported to my own personal paradise. If this were my house, I would never leave.

"So," I began, aiming for casual despite the circus act my heart was performing behind my ribs, "do you always live like you're on permanent vacation, or is this just for special occasions?"

Matt raised one eyebrow. Seriously, who gave this man permission to be that coordinated with his facial expressions? And said, "What kind of exotic locations are you comparing this to?"

I laughed, probably too loudly. "Oh, you know, all those glamorous places I've been. Like… my local Target. Very exotic. They have a Starbucks inside."

"Wait, seriously?" He looked genuinely shocked, like I'd just told him I'd never seen a movie before.

"Unless you count that time I accidentally drove into Canada, but I turned around at the border."

"You turned around at the border?" He repeated.

"Listen, they wanted to see my passport, and all I had was a grocery receipt and half a granola bar, so I made an executive decision."

Matt moved closer, and suddenly the massive terrace felt about as spacious as a phone booth. A very romantic, ocean-scented phone booth. "Why haven't you traveled?"

I took a deep breath, tasting the salty air and what I was fairly certain was expensive cologne, mixed with the faint scent of success. "Traveling comes with a lot of anxiety for me."

"Heights?" He glanced back at the terrace.

"Not exactly."

"Then what, exactly?" His voice went softer, like he was talking to a spooked cat.

I lowered my voice, looking out at the moonlit ocean instead of at him. "I'm scared of not fitting in the seat." Traveling as a plus-size woman comes with a whole handbook of anxieties. The fear of not fitting in the seat is only page one. There are also the stares and the whispers. Possibly encroaching on someone else's space. The fear of judgment from complete strangers.

Before I could spiral into a full-scale internal monologue about the logistics of plus-size travel anxiety, Matt stepped forward and pulled me into his arms with the kind of confidence that suggested he'd been practicing this move in front of a mirror.

"I understand that more than you think," he said, and his voice rumbled against my ear in a way that was not fair to my cardiovascular system.

"Really?" I squeaked, because apparently that's what my voice does now.

"I'm a 6'4", two-hundred-and-eighty-seven-pound giant with legs that belong on a basketball player. People see me coming and immediately start praying to whatever God handles airplane seating arrangements."

I pulled back to look at him. There was a difference between the way people looked at Matt and the way they looked at me, but I suppose on an airplane with a tiny seat and even less legroom, we were the same. "I never thought about…"

"But here's the thing," he said, and his smile was the kind that should come with a warning about potential swooning. "That's not something you'd have to worry about with me."

"Why, because you have a body shrinking machine hidden in this fortress of luxury?"

He laughed, and the sound made my stomach do that flippy thing. "I usually fly private. And on the rare occasion I don't, first class seats are basically small living rooms."