Page 71 of Never Pucking Ending

Shifting to face him, I flatten my palms down the dress I opted for. Whenever I feel a little off about my body, dresses are my go-to because they’re more flattering. They hide things, like my love handles and the cellulite on the back of my thighs and butt cheeks or the slight jiggle to my legs when I walk. On any given day, I wouldn’t think twice about any of those things.

Okay, that’s a lie. On hot days when I wear shorts, I think about it. Thanks to my thighs’ separation anxiety from each other, there’s a lot of chafing and adjusting and jiggling happening. And God forbid I somehow miss a patch of hair while shaving, which always seems to happen on my knees, and I’m assuming every person I walk past is judging me for being too hairy or too chubby or too…something.

I sigh. It wouldn’t be so bad if I weren’t getting photographed beside somebody who had less than five percent body fat on him. It’s going to be way more obvious that I am not exactly drinking Core Charge before going to do a ten-mile run.

“Bells,” Jesse says softly, putting his hand on the spot above my knee and squeezing. I highly doubt he’s thinking about the extra weight there, or the fact he can’t get his palm around the entirety of my thigh. So why do I care? Seriously?

I’m being ridiculous. Logically, I know that. I also know that he’ll give me that ‘are you kidding me look’ when I tell him what’s on my mind.

“I’m just feeling a little…antsy,” I admit, shifting my gaze from him to the warehouse. I’ve been to one or two photoshoots of Jesse’s before. They always roll out the red carpet for him—give him the presidential treatment. I know what to expect when we step into those doors, with the exception of how they’ll treat me.

Nobody is going to judge you, I tell myself, rubbing my lips together. So what if I have back dimples? My ex-boyfriend told me they were cute once. All bodies are beautiful, back dimples and all.

“Why? You have no reason to. I’ll be here.”

When he sees the frown that my lips drop into before I can stop them, he matches it. My shoulders drop as I lean back in the passenger seat and look at him. “I’m worried about what people will say. You’re…you.” I wave my hand in his general direction. His body is covered in a Carhartt sweatshirt and jeans, but anybody can tell that he’s in great shape. “And I’m me.”

He blinks at me, clearly not seeing where I’m going with this.

“You work out,” I add.

He blinks again. “So do you.”

I roll my eyes at that. “I walk on the treadmill for an hour and then reward myself with Hershey kisses.”

I wish I was lying. I’m not. Those bitches are my favorite.

One of his shoulders lifts. “So?”

So. So. I knew he was going to do this. “It’s not as obvious to me that I’m not in the best shape of my life most days. I know I’m not as thin as I used to be, or even want to be. I also know I can work on that. But when I’m next to you, I’m a tiny bit more aware. That’s all.”

Instantly, his expression drops. “Bells.” This time when he says the nickname, there’s a somberness in his voice. “I know you don’t need me to tell you that you’re beautiful.”

Oh God. “I don’t!” I agree quickly. “I don’t. You don’t need to list all the things about me you like or tell me that all bodies are beautiful because I’ve told myself that already. It’s just a mental game. You know how it is. People have talked before, and I know they’ll talk again.”

His sigh is heavy. “It’s easier said than done ignoring what those assholes have to say,” he begins, his hand on my thigh squeezing again. “I know that, so I won’t bore you with a lecture you don’t need to hear. I want you to be comfortable in there, though. There is no reason for you not to be. We’re a team, right? You and I always have been.”

My heart turns to goo at the thought of this man claiming me with those words. “Yeah, we are.”

“And I won’t ever let anything happen to my team, right?” he presses knowingly, brows arching as I mull over my response.

Not that I have to think very hard. “No. You wouldn’t let anything happen to me.”

He nods once with determination. “You have nothing to hide, Belle. Hear me? Everybody has people who are bigger than them and smaller than them out there. I guarantee that a handful of women are going to see these photos and think to themselves, ‘damn, she has my dream body’.”

I have a feeling more people will be staring at him, but maybe he’s right. It isn’t that far-fetched to believe, I suppose. My woman crush has been Ashley Graham ever since she became the first size sixteen model to land a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit cover. And you better believe I replay every video of her walking the Victoria Secret fashion shows and cheer her on like I’m in the crowd and not in my living room stuffing my face with Cheetos. She’s a boss. A plus size queen.

“My feet are too big,” Jesse states, causing me to peel myself away from my thoughts of every Pinterest board I created of body goals over the years.

My face twists. “What?”

“My feet,” he repeats, glancing down at the boots covering them. “They’re huge. I’ve always felt like they’re too big for my body. Once, I did a commercial for Folgers and was barefoot for it. I liked how it came out. But the top comments being left on the YouTube video had little to do with the coffee and a lot to do with the size of my feet.”

I’m sure there were a handful of dick jokes too, since I’ve had friends who always said feet sizes indicated how big a guys’ package was too. And…maybe they were onto something. Because I know for a fact now that Jesse has a lot hidden away behind his sports cups and uniforms.

Annnnd now is not the time to be thinking about that sort of thing. What is wrong with me?

I wet my lips. “I didn’t know you didn’t like your feet,” I admit. Without really thinking, I say, “I like them. I mean, I’m not into feet or anything weird like that. Not that there’s anything wrong with people who are.” Wincing at my nervous ramble, I rein in it. “But yours are nice.”