Chapter 1
Melody
Being a grown-up is waaaay harder than my parents made it look when I was a kid. I’m about to turn twenty-three, the same age my mom was when she had my eldest sister, and I’m not even close to having the whole adulting thing—or myself—sorted out.
But there are a few things I know for sure:
I’m not the kind of girl who drinks three margaritas in less than two hours.
I don’t stay out past eleven, or wear dresses that emphasize my already far-too-abundant chest, or delete texts from my ex-boyfriend without bothering to respond.
I don’t wear eyeliner and lipstick at the same time, or dance when there’s no music playing, or take off my shoes to wade in the fountain at the quiet end of downtown, ignoring posted signs that clearly state—No Wading Please.
The fact that at the present moment I’m guilty of all of the above would be enough to make my head spin even without the tequila pumping through my bloodstream.
I don’t know what’s come over me lately.
Oh, yes, you do, the inner voice slurs. It’s him, the jerkiest jerk who was ever a jerk. It’s all his fault.
The inner voice is so right.
This is all his fault. Him, Nick Geary, the bad boy who kissed me senseless against his car a month ago, awakening the sleeping sex beast inside me, only to treat me like a sweet baby sister ever since. Before Nick and I locked lips, I had no idea I could feel hungry for someone’s kisses.
Sure, I liked kissing, but I didn’t hunger for it. Hunger was for food—cheese, avocado toast, and extra dessert, in particular.
I was a fool. A naïve, ridiculous fool, twirling innocently through the world with no idea that she would soon be starved to death for another taste of Nick Geary’s lips.
That’s what it feels like…starving.
I would literally give up cheese for an entire year for a chance to make out with Nick again, but he’s decided to be a huge, hairy, kiss-withholding jerk.
Okay, he’s not a jerk.
He’s mostly nice, but even his niceness is awful, a sucker punch to the ego every time I try, and fail, to pique his interest.
And I have tried to pique it, boy have I, but no amount of flirting or cookie baking or cute dress wearing in his vicinity has caught his eye. He seems to like hanging out with me—he’s always underfoot in the kitchen at work, stealing a taste of my dish-in-progress, teasing my sisters, and laughing at my jokes—but his feelings seem purely platonic.
Ugh. Platonic.
It’s enough to sour even my usually cheery disposition.
I kick a leg in frustration, sending fountain water spraying onto the sidewalk, inches from where my best friend, Kitty, is still standing.
“Hey! Watch it.”
“Sorry!” I say, laughing as she points an accusing finger at my chest. “I thought you were in already! Get in!”
“I will not.” Kitty, one of my oldest besties, shakes her head, sending her long brown ponytail swishing back and forth. “It’s against the rules. And I might drown.”
I glance down and back up at her with an arched brow. “In less than two feet of water?”
“Maybe.” She hiccups and grins. “I’m pretty tipsy.”
Kitty only had two margaritas, but her cheeks are flushed and her blue eyes glassy. But then, Kitty weighs about forty pounds less than I do. I’m a curvy girl, a state of being that’s not likely to change anytime soon. I love to cook and to eat what I cook—and what my sisters and co-workers at Ever After Catering cook—way too much to ever fit into a size two.
Cooking is more than a job, it’s one of my passions, and for a long time, it was enough. All I needed was my family and my lucky apron, and I was a happy camper.
But now…
“Do you think I need to lose weight?” I ask, staring down at myself, shocked again by how enormous my breasts look from this angle. Really, the universe could have pulled back on the boobs a little. Small woodland creatures could get lost in that cleavage and never be found.
Good thing I stay out of the woods most of the time.
“Oh, shut up,” Kitty says with a snort. “Quit being crazy. You’re gorgeous. Every guy in the restaurant was staring at you when we walked out.”
“Really?” I wrinkle my nose. I hadn’t noticed, but I also haven’t been paying much attention to the male population lately.
I’ve only been interested in Nick’s attention.
Or lack thereof.
“Totally.” Kitty reaches back, tightening her ponytail with a firm yank. “I was invisible. As usual.”
A hard-core tomboy who owns her own auto repair shop, Kitty hates girly things with a passion I reserve for loving cheese, and I rarely see her out of jeans and a T-shirt.
Tonight is no exception.
But Kitty makes dark wash jeans and a tight black tee look edgy and cool. She has a tough, lean, sexy thing going on that makes it hard for me to understand why, aside from myself, Kitty is the only other girl from our high school graduating class not coupled up, engaged, or already married.
Hard to understand, but still, I’m grateful not to be the only odd girl out. Since my eighteenth birthday, I’ve been a member of ten wedding parties and was just asked to join our friend Dinah’s bridesmaid crew last week. At this rate, I’ll have a dozen bridesmaid dresses collecting dust in my parents’ garage before my birthday in October.
A collection of bridesmaid dresses, but not even a hint that a wedding of my own might be in the near future. The past few months, my dating life has been dismal. Even before I started crushing on Nick. Every allegedly sweet boy my matchmaking nana set me up with proved to be more annoying, self-centered, and uninspiring than the last.
It’s enough to make a girl want to give up on the opposite sex altogether…if there wasn’t an irresistible bad boy in tight black jeans strutting around under her nose every day at work.
Geez…the strutting! It would be laughable if he didn’t look so darned good doing it.
“If I ever want to get laid again, I guess I need a makeover or something,” Kitty says, pressing her hands to her flushed cheeks with a groan. “But I hate makeup soooo much.”
“You don’t need it! You’re pretty the way you are, mama.”
“Right.” Kitty rolls her eyes.
“You are!” I insist. “If I liked girls, I’d be all up in your business. I think you’re smokin’ hot.”
“And I think you’re drunk and falling out of the top of your dress.” Kitty snorts and points at my chest.
I glance down again, blinking in surprise to discover even more unruly boob-age spilling out of the V-neck of my purple dress. I chose this dress for this exact effect, but it’s still a little shocking to see so much of myself on display.
Shocking and a little exciting…
It isn’t just feeling starved for another taste of Bad Boy that’s been different lately. I’ve felt restless, experimental, tempted to push the limits and bend the rules in a way I never have before.
A part of my brain insists it’s just a risqué dress and not a big deal, but another part wonders what the heck is happening and how far this will go before I revert to my old self?