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 fucking 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.
Con glanced her way. “Give us a second, Mama Vee.”
“Mmmhmmm. And a second’ll be all you’re gettin’, boy, if you plannin’ on eatin’.” She retreated back inside the fence line.
“Who is…Mama Vee?” I whispered.
“That was Mama Vee. She’s Jojo’s gran—he’s one of my boys. She invites me, and I come.” He stepped back. “This eating thing…I get that it’s a big deal for you. But I have to ask—are you going to be able to sit at her table and not insult her? Because if you can’t eat in front of her, she’s going to take it personally.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but shut it again. I didn’t know what to say to that.
“The only greens on that table are going to be drowned in butter.”
Shit.
Rock, meet hard place. Also known as my insecurities versus my Southern manners. In my circles, it wasn’t hard to eat only socially acceptable foods if I absolutely had to eat in public. Salads were on the menu at every event, restaurant, and dinner party. Mama Vee’s menu…not so much. But Con hadn’t made me feel self-conscious when I’d explained; he’d just listened and accepted what I’d said. It seemed that he wasn’t going to judge me. I straightened. I could do this.
“I won’t insult her.”
Con reached down and grabbed my hand. “Thank you. Now come on, before she throws us out for being late.”
I hadn’t known what to expect when I’d brought Vanessa to Mama Vee’s. I wouldn’t lie and say it hadn’t been a test. Because it had been. But by the end of lunch, I wasn’t sure who was being tested.
Vanessa hadn’t insulted Mama Vee. Not in the least. She’d been gracious. Charming. Engaging. There was no doubt that Vanessa would have an open invitation to return—with or without me.
Vanessa had opted for the rotisserie chicken, and the smear of BBQ sauce across her cheek reminded me of the strawberry jam I’d wanted to lick off her face in the kitchen of the gym.