Curvy Girls Can't Date Bad Boys
Chapter One
I PREFERRED WATCHING Ryde Alexander on
the big screen as opposed to sitting across from him.
But here we were at Halfway Café, drinking expen‐
sive lattes and eating smoked salmon bagels that
were only half as good as the muffins at Seaton
Bakery but cost five times as much. Good thing
money was no object for him, because otherwise I
might feel a little guilty for leaving my food mostly
uneaten.
“So, Friday? Are you free?” He flipped his hair
out of his sea-green eyes
With a slight shake of my head to clear my
thoughts, I asked, “What?”
An annoyed look flicked across his face but
was quickly gone. Ryde didn’t leave his acting for
the set. Every second I spent with him, he was
putting on one act or another. “I was telling you
my friend’s movie is premiering Friday. Are you
free?”
“Which friend?” There were a few premieres
coming up that Dad was keeping his eyes on.
“Ambrose. I’ve only been talking about this
movie for the last ten minutes.”
I knew—I’d checked out after minute one. I
flashed him a guilty smile, doing a little acting of
my own. “Sorry, babe. I’m a little distracted.”
Seeming a bit relieved, he reached across the
table and took my hands. “If this arranged
marriage is going to work, we have to get to know
each other. We have to try.”
A heavy dose of unexpected guilt swept through
me. I wasn’t the only one being pressured to marry
someone not of my choosing. Ryde was just as
implicated in this Indian tradition-turned-business
arrangement as I was.
“I know.” I sighed. “Tell me, how’s filming
going?”
His eyes lit up. He loved talking about himself—
especially his work. “We’re doing a stunt today.
Sixteen-story jump into the crash pad.”
My eyes widened. “Sixteen stories?” Just the
thought of being that high made my stomach turn,
not to mention jumping off.
“Of course my double’s doing it, but it should
be fun to watch. Something good for my Insta
account, anyway. Speaking of...”
He lifted his phone from where it lay face-up on
the table and snapped a selfie of the two of us. I
barely had a second to flash a smile before he pulled
it back and frowned. “Can you lift your chin a little
more?”
My eyebrows drew together. “Lift my chin?”
“Yeah, your neck kind of disappeared in that
one.” He showed me the photo on the screen, then
demonstrated stretching his neck out.
“You know,” I said, “I’d rather not. That picture
is just fine.”
His lips formed a thin line for a moment, then
he flashed his movie-star smile at the phone. “I’ll
just do one by myself then. My fans deserve better
than ‘fine.’”
I sipped from my latte—if only to keep my
mouth busy with something other than a scathing
retort—as his thumbs flew over the screen. The
selfie he edited and posted would easily garner
hundreds of thousands of likes. None of which
mattered to me. I hardly got on social media, as to
not affect Bhatta Productions’ carefully curated
brand.
Across from me, Ryde rose to standing and
shoved his phone into his pocket. With an openly
frustrated look, he said, “You know, I thought when
I got into a relationship, it would be with a girl who
actually liked me.” He dropped a hundred-dollar
bill on the table. “See you Friday. I’ll pick you up at
six. Be red carpet ready.”
I lifted my eyebrows to show him I heard and
rested my chin on my hand. What a great start to
the week—getting up an hour early so I could make
a breakfast appearance with my arranged
boyfriend.
Dad required us to have at least one date in
public each week—which he said was doing
wonders for his movie set to premiere this summer.
For my self-esteem? Not so much.
I’d always liked my body, the curves, the shapes,
the colors, but Ryde picked apart everything
without saying anything I could repeat as rude. I
was tired of it, and with my high school graduation,
and therefore my wedding date, getting nearer, time
was running out. I needed to find a way out of this
arranged marriage with Ryde before it was too late.
I glanced up and caught sight of a strong,
tattooed arm with a leather jacket draped over it.
Most people who came into Halfway Café didn’t
have tattoos like that. No, just Chinese symbols they
didn’t really understand or Roman numerals and
the like. The tattoo sleeve covering this arm was like
nothing I’d seen before.
I followed the muscular arm up to the face, and
my mouth fell open. I’d seen him once before. He’d
delivered food for movie night at my friend’s house.
The delivery boy with the motorcycle and the
intense gaze.
I followed said gaze past the counter. The
barista gave him a disgusted look and turned away
to whisper with her coworker. My gut gave a
visceral reaction to the slight. What right did they
have to judge him?
I stood and took the receipt and money to the
counter. I could have easily left the bill on the table,
but I wanted a chance to see the barista’s overly
done face.
Keeping my eyes straight ahead—and off of the
delivery boy—I set the receipt and money on the
counter a little harder than I needed to.
The barista who had been so rude to him set
down a canister of beans and smiled pleasantly at
me. “Let me get you checked out.”
Each courteous word and action she extended
my way just irked me more. So she could only be
polite to people with money?
She took the receipt and rang up our meals.
“Would you like the change?”
All seventy dollars of it? “No.” Her eyes lit up
for a moment until I said, “Pay off the next few
tickets with it.” No way was I giving her a tip and
rewarding her profiling.
With a disappointed look, she began tapping on
the screen. I watched, making sure she didn’t just
pocket it for herself. When all the money had gone
in the cash drawer, I lowered my voice so the
tattooed guy couldn’t hear and said, “And next
time, why don’t you save your judgement for
yourself.”
“Excuse me?” she said.
I turned my gaze toward him, then back to her,
then walked outside.
Brisk spring air greeted me, and I already felt
better away from the rich stuffiness of the shop. I
breathed in the breeze before continuing to my car.
“You know,” a voice said from behind me, “I
can fight my own battles.”
I jumped, not having heard the shop door open.
Turning to the sound of the voice revealed an
amused expression on the guy from the café. He
wore all black, and his dark hair fell over his fore‐
head. Each muscle on his wiry arms rippled as he
shrugged on his leather jacket and folded his arms
across his chest. His brown eyes had a glint in them
that confused and intrigued me all at the same time.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said,
finding my voice.
His full, pink lips curled into a smile. “I’ll see
you around, Zara.”
How he knew or remembered my name, I had
no idea. All I knew as I watched him race away on
his motorcycle was that I wanted to hear him say it
again.
