“Yeah, eighth grade. This is Michael,” he said, tapping the screen with his fingertip.

The light blond boy, tall and surrounded by his athletic friends, smirked, looking as though he owned the world. And back then, he had. “And this,” Cole added, now moving on to a taller, larger, portly face with round, thick, Coke-bottle glasses at the back, “is me.”

Her eyes bugged in her pretty face. Then, to his surprise, she grinned. “Is that a Power Rangers shirt? You were adorable!”

Tension he hadn’t known he’d been holding left his shoulders. She truly didn’t seem to care, feel awkward, or even pity him.

“I was fat,” he stated pointedly.

“Yeah, well, I had braces. And we don’t talk about my hair pre-college.”

She just didn’t give a damn at all.

He should have known. She seemed to take everyone and everything with the same lack of judgment.

Except for bad food and drinks. That, she judged. Harshly.

“Well, it took me a while to get rid of the weight. My diet has never been the healthiest, so it makes sense to be careful with calories.”

Tessa tilted her head. “Have you talked to a dietitian if that’s a concern? I mean, a lot of kids are pretty heavy, and then grow out of it after puberty.”

He shrugged. “Not really. I just don’t want things to get out of control again.”

“And having delicious drinks would mean getting out of control?” She sighed. “Life is cruel and unfair. Cream should be calorie-free. And cheese. And…”

“Pizza?” he supplied.

“Yes, that too. You know, you could just eat a little less red meat and get to enjoy coffee that doesn’t force you to make that face.”

“I’m not making a face,” Cole immediately denied.

She rolled her eyes. “You need a mirror. And cream. Mostly, cream.”

“You’re a terrible influence, Tessa Michaels. You know, that’s how men like me end up with dad bods. We do our thing, stay cream-free, and then a pretty little thing like you comes along and whispers in our ears like the snake telling Eve to go for the apple.”

She grinned like he was paying her a compliment. “You know, I might just draw that. Come on. Take your drink of misery. We can look at my sink.”

Her house included one bedroom at the back, with a direct view of a micro-garden—a luxury in the city. It was a little messier than the living room, and oh so feminine. Her bedding was silver, and there was a purple throw on top. Too many cushions. The sink was in her en-suite. Cole had a hard time showing enthusiasm about the fixture when his mind kept traveling back to her bedroom. Her queen canopy bed wasn’t as vast as his California emperor, but it’d do. Oh, it would do for many, many things.

His dick hardened in his pants, pushing against his zipper. Dammit.

Sink. He had to concentrate on the sink.

“Is that also cast iron?” he asked, pointing to the freestanding lion-claw bath.

She sighed. “No, just imitation, I think. It’s not engraved and antique and adorable like the sink. Is that a super girly thing to be excited about?”

“You own a lovely house in the city. If you weren’t excited about it, there’d be something wrong with you.”

She smiled.

“Thanks for indulging my crazy.”

“Anytime.”

He meant it.