He hums, nodding. “I hear you. Maybe I understand a little.”
I raise my eyebrow at him, not sure how he could ever really understand. With his enormous muscles. He could be on the cover of a magazine, easy.
He smiles at my disbelief. “I’ve always been a big guy. But once I started working out, getting bigger, people started making assumptions about me.”
Huh. “Like?”
“Like I use steroids. Like I’m self-centered. Like I’m stupid, and they need to use little words.” He snorts. “I have a fucking master’s degree, but people still slow down when they talk to me.” His smile is sharp. “I’ve used it to my advantage. Being the dumb muscle comes in handy sometimes. But people don’t usually make that mistake twice.”
“Wait. What? You have a master’s? In what?”
“Psychology. I defended my thesis a few months ago.”
My mouth drops open. Who is this guy? “That’s amazing Colt. What made you choose psychology?”
The corner of his mouth tips up and he shrugs. “In my line of work, understanding what makes people tick is helpful. Knowing your opponents makes them a lot easier to defeat. Plus, my brothers are all kinds of fucked up, so it comes in handy.”
I snicker. “I have this mental image of you in spectacles with a pipe listening to Micah stretched out on the couch.”
He laughs, “No. It’s more like beers and shooting the shit. I’m not a counselor, but I am a good listener, and I hate seeing my brothers in pain. So we talk, and sometimes I can help.” His smile falls. “I’m sorry people think it’s ok to talk about your body. It makes me so fucking angry to think about someone talking to you that way.”
“Someone? You did it too, Colt.”
He rears back, eyes widening.“What? I’ve never s—.“
“You showed your disgust when we met and then seemed upset when you thought I wanted to lose weight in the gym.” I remind him. “You clearly have opinions on my body.”
To his credit, he doesn’t immediately deny it. His ears turn red, but he studies me for a second. “You’re right. I did do that. But it was worry, not judgment. You were so fucking weak when I picked you up. You know that. You were starving to death.”
I snort, but he slashes his hand down, cutting me off. “You werestarvingEvie. You know that’s true. Just because you weren’t skeleton thin doesn’t mean it’s not. I was fucking terrified you’d end up in the hospital.” He rubs the back of his neck, the muscles in his biceps and chest popping, distracting me from our discussion.
“I saw your pictures from before. You were stunning. The contrast between the woman in those photos and the woman standing in front of me was…shocking. So when you asked me to show you the gym, after you were finally looking healthy, it freaked me the fuck out.”
“So you’re saying you don’t have a preference? When it comes to women you date, I mean?” Danger. Danger. Why the hell am I asking him about his type? I’m just determined to crush every secret hope I have, apparently. Though, maybe it’s a brilliant plan. Maybe if they’re crushed, I’ll stop fantasizing about him.
He leans forward, planting his hands back on the island, the two feet of granite separating us. “I had a type, yes. I liked thick women. The ones who could handle a big guy like me. I liked strong women.” He stops, considering me, eyes burning into mine. My food sits cold, forgotten.
“Ask me what my type is now, Evie.”
Moisture pools in my mouth. I swallow, caught in his gaze. Clearing my throat, I obey, because I really, really want to know. “What’s your type now?”
His smile is predatory. He’s never looked at me like that. No one has ever looked at me like that. The back of my neck tingles.
“You, Evie. Whatever size you’re at…whether it’s a ten or a twenty-four, it doesn’t matter. You are my type.”
22
COLTON
Holy fuck, I said it.
I just opened my mouth and let that shit fly. I clamp my lips shut to hold back the verbal vomit on the tip of my tongue. What the fuck am I doing? I was supposed to keep it cool, be the friend. I had a plan.
“Hilarious Colt. Ha, ha.” Her eyes are glassy as she pushes away from the island, leaving her mostly untouched food behind.
Evie’s eyes are wide, her cheeks flushed. That little pink tongue comes out to wet her lips again, and I’m lost, wanting to taste her. To put her tongue to work tracing my tattoos.
So her words take a second to register.