Page 7 of His Curvy Obsession

His words sting, a harsh reprimand from my boss. And suddenly I’m about to cryagainfor the second time this week, this time with the added humiliation of doing so in front of my cold, emotionless boss.

“For your information,” I say, wiping away a tear and looking away from him. “I didn’t even drink that much tonight. It’s just that I started this new medicine recently, and I’m not supposed to be drinking with it. I forgot. That’s all.”

Eric raises his brows, his anger fading into to concern.

“What medication?”

I give him the name, and I can practically see him scanning his mental encyclopedia. With his heavy work in medicaltechnology, there’s a good chance he’s already aware of the medication in question. Hell, maybe he even wrote a patent for it. The man has hundreds of them.

“You shouldn’t drink with medication like that,” he says darkly. “You’re going to damage your liver.”

“Stop with the lecture,” I groan. “Please? It was an accident. It’s already done, I can’t undo it. I’ll be fine.”

“You will,” he agrees. “Because I’m going to make sure of it. Come on.”

5

Eric

Rebecca is growing more intoxicatedby the minute.

“You know what’s dumb?” she slurs, saying the words to nobody in particular. “Why does everyone think once a woman turns thirty, her life is over? Why is that?”

“I don’t know,” I say quietly.

My driver glances curiously back at me in the rearview mirror. I shake my head, pressing a button nearby to raise the partition between the back seat and the front.

“Nobody says stuff like that about guys,” Rebecca continues, her words running together. “Guys play the field and focus on their career and nobody cares! But if you’re a woman you’re supposed to get married. Have babies. Wear aprens-n-hills.”

“Wearwhat?” I repeat.

“Aprons…and…heels,” she repeats, pronouncing each word carefully. “Aprons. And. Heels.”

It’s alarming how intoxicated she is right now. I can’t stop thinking about what would have happened to her if I hadn’t come upstairs when I did.

That fucker Larry Welch was going to take advantage of her. I ball my fists by my sides.

If Rebecca hadn’t been waiting for me upstairs, Welch would have gotten a much worse punishment at my hands. As it is, he might need a few stitches for the busted lip that I gave him in the parking garage. Maybe an ice pack for the deep purple bruise around his eye that he’ll be sporting tomorrow morning.

When he finally stopped crying like a little bitch, Welch said he’d be pressing charges against me for assault. What a fucking joke. I’d like to see him try. My lawyers would bury him—that is, if I didn’t do it myself first.

I’d bury him. And I’d enjoy doing it.

If I see him anywhere near Rebecca ever again, he’s a dead man. That’s what I told him as my security team dragged him away.

“Aprons and heels,” I repeat. “Heels, like high heeled shoes?”

The car makes a sharp right turn and she loses her balance, tumbling into my lap.

I flinch at the unexpected touch. Generally, I’m not a fan of physical contact. Handshakes are fine. Hugs from family members are tolerable.

Sex? Sex is fine…as long as I’m in control.

Glossy black hair spills across my lap. The smell of it hits my nostrils, vanilla and spice. Like a chai latte, like apple pie, like…home.

Home.

That’s the kind of smell that it is. I can’t even place it, exactly. It’s the kind of elusive scent that calls back to vague memories from childhood, happier times, cozy autumn days and the crisp pages of a newly borrowed library book. It’s the smell of hope and comfort.

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