Misadventures of a Curvy Girl
Sierra Simone
This book is an original publication of Waterhouse Press.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2019 Waterhouse Press, LLC
Cover Design by Waterhouse Press
Cover photographs: Shutterstock
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All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For Julie
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Don’t miss any Misadventures!
Excerpt from Misadventures with a Book Boyfriend
More Misadventures
About Sierra Simone
Chapter One
Ireland
The car was my first mistake.
I can admit that now, sitting here in the mud, my windshield almost too splattered with the stuff to make out the herd of cows chewing curiously at me on the other side of the fence.
With a low curse—and a glare back at the judgmental cows—I fumble for my phone, thinking I’ll call someone. Anyone. A friend. A tow truck. An Uber. But when the screen lights up, I realize there’s no LTE out here. There’s not even 3G.
Not even 3G.
No cell service at all, actually. I throw myself back against my seat and listen to the sporadic drumming of rain on my roof. When my coworkers back at Typeset—the social media strategy firm I work for—heard I was heading out to the Flint Hills in my Prius, they laughed and teased, and a couple even offered me their trucks, but I refused. My little blue car may look like a piece of candy, but it’s never let me down in the city. Not once. I didn’t see any reason it would let me down just because I was a couple of hours west.
I see the reason now, I assure you. Two words: dirt roads.
I get out of the car again, pushing open my umbrella to shield me from the petulant, spitting rain while I walk around my vehicle to confirm for a final time that yes, all four tires are stuck deeply in the mud. It’s rained the past three days straight—something not even worth noticing back in Kansas City except maybe to whine about how it slowed morning traffic—but out here in farm country, the rain definitely makes itself known. The roads are nothing but slicks of rough mud, and the lonely trees look huddled and limp. The long fingers of summer grass crowding up along the side of the road are battered down by the days of rain, and the wet emerald stalks peppered with yellow coneflowers and purple spiderwort look just as sodden and battered.
It is beautiful, though. And for a minute, I look up from my mud-bound car and just take it in—the heady abundance of green grass and wildflowers, the brooding sweep of the hills in the near distance. The line of black clouds in the west, promising rain and wind and danger. It’s like something that would be printed in a calendar, and the moment I think the thought, I dive back into my car for the expensive Nikon camera in the passenger seat. And then awkwardly crawl back out, abandoning my umbrella so I can capture the moment before it vanishes—the energy, the quietly decadent riot of wildflowers, the promise of abundant prairie summer.
I take as many pictures as I can, trying to pick my way through the mud in my ballet flats, and for a brief moment, I wonder what my life would have been like if I’d taken that photography scholarship out of state instead of staying local and studying marketing all those years ago.
I wanted to see the world once. I wanted to be one of those photographers who tramps all over Patagonia and Punjab, who snaps arresting photos of little Alpine villages and intrepid Antarctic outposts. And maybe if I took enough gorgeous, stirring photos, no one would’ve cared the woman behind the camera wasn’t gorgeous or stirring herself.
Stop it, Ireland.
This is exactly the kind of thought I am done entertaining. I turn to the car, seeing my reflection in the window just as I knew I would. I make myself look at it. Really look. Not the half-sideways glance I used to give, as if my view bounced off any mirrored surface without me actually seeing myself. No. I look, and I take in the pale twenty-four-year-old woman standing there. Ireland Mills.
She has dark hair almost to her waist because she loves having long hair.
A girl of your size really should have shorter hair.
She has wide hips and thighs in a formfitting pencil skirt, and a thin silk blouse that does nothing to hide the shape of her soft, swelling breasts.
Don’t you think that’s more of a “goal” outfit? For when you lose weight?
A mouth in lavender lipstick, the sweet color visible even in the faint reflection.
I wouldn’t draw attention to your face if I were you. I would want to blend in.
Pursing my attention-drawing mouth, I raise the camera and take a picture of myself. It’s not a coincidence all the negative thoughts in my head have my sister’s voice behind them, and I’m done listening. I’m done listening to her, and I’m done listening to my ex-boyfriend, who dumped me last month when I told him I stopped my eternal diet and dropped my gym membership so I could go to dance classes instead.
“But those classes aren’t designed for people to lose weight,” Brian explained patiently, as if there was no way I could understand something as complex as a hobby. “They’re for fun.” Then his expression changed, as if he were about to give me a present. “How about you keep going to the gym, and then if you meet your weight goals, you can take the dance classes as a reward? I bet it’s not even too late to reverse your gym cancellation.”
He smiled benevolently at me then, like he’d just solved all my problems. Maybe a year ago I would have done anything he asked because I’d been so grateful anyone could want to be with me—because I wanted to be this better, skinnier version of myself that he seemed to envision.
But something shifted deep in my brain, and while I didn’t know exactly what it was, I knew I was over it. I was over the diets that didn’t work. I was over the grueling gym schedule that left no time for fun. I was over hiding behind my friends whenever we took pictures. I was over shopping for print tunics at Blouse Barn.
I want to wear the clothes I want to wear, not the ones I’m supposed to. I want to spend my nights doing what I choose, not going to the gym and then listening to Brian’s pointed remarks about my body while I pick at my frozen diet entree and stare miserably at the table. I want to live now, have fun and do fun things now, not wait for some distant, skinnier future that may never come. What if I wake up one day at fifty and realize I spent my youth on diet shakes and broth cleanses for nothing? What if I spent the rest of my years being criticized by Brian and gym trainers and my sister, all while wearing tunics I hated?
So I stopped.
And started wearing the c
lothes everyone said I shouldn’t—crop tops and leggings and short dresses and over-the-knee boots—and I started taking dance classes for the hell of it, because it sounded fun and because I wasn’t going to care anymore about being the biggest woman in the room or the one who sweats the most or breathes the loudest. I was going to live in my body now.
It was amazing—it is amazing. Yes, my sister still keeps sending me links to new diets and making sure my plate is smaller than everyone else’s at Sunday dinner. And yes, Brian did dump me after it became clear I wasn’t “taking care of myself anymore.” But I feel freer than I can ever remember.
And if the price of freedom is being alone, then fine. I’d rather be alone than be with someone who will only love me if I’m skinny.
For good measure, I take another picture of my reflection, feeling a bite of satisfaction when I glance at the digital display on the back of the camera. Dark, loose curls. Cheeky lipstick. All of my curves on display.
I look good. Fuck anyone who says differently.
The wind picks up, reminding me that no matter how confident I’m feeling right now, I’m still stuck in the mud in the middle of nowhere with an angry thunderstorm bearing down on me. And no cell service.
With a sigh, I finally accept I’m going to have to leave the car here and try to walk to better service. I’m not looking forward to plodding back to the last sign of civilization I saw—a tired gas station five miles back when I turned off the small two-lane highway onto the gravel county road that led me to the mess I’m in now. Ugh, and in my cute pencil skirt, which had been perfect for “young professional meets Kansas farmer for a marketing campaign” but is not ideal for “size eighteen girl hikes five muddy miles in the July heat.”
My thighs are already wincing, knowing from long experience the chub rub to come.
Why couldn’t I have worn jeans?
Because I wanted to look professional, that’s why. A grown-up girl with a grown-up job. Instead, I’m going to be the least professional thing of all—a freaking no-show. I was supposed to be at Caleb Carpenter’s farm twenty minutes ago, and without a working cell phone, I can’t call to explain myself. I’ll just have to wait until I get to the gas station and figure it out from there.
If there’s one thing Brian made me good at, it was apologizing, so at least I know I’ll be able to work up the appropriate amount of remorse when I call the farmer back. So it will just be chub rub and professional embarrassment. No big deal. At least the rain seems to have tapered off.
Well, no sense standing here feeling sorry for myself. I grab the weekender bag I packed, throw in the camera, my wallet, and my phone, and then lock the car and start walking. The cows have already moved away in disinterest. This situation is so dull, it bores livestock.
I reach a mud-covered wooden bridge over a swollen creek, and bang!—like a gunshot. Close enough to make me duck.
Holy shit.
I know Kansas farmers can be fussy about trespassers, but surely it’s fine to walk on the road? Or maybe it has nothing to do with me and it’s normal farm business to shoot off guns every now and then? Or maybe someone is hunting nearby? Do people hunt in July?
Before I can rationalize away the sound, it happens again, much closer this time, and then up and over the hill behind me comes a rattletrap pickup truck, sluicing through the gloppy mud without a single problem at all, easily shaming my little hybrid—even though my hybrid is barely a year old and the pickup appears to be held together with rust and fond memories.
It comes charging through the mud, heading my way, and for a moment, I almost want to hide. Not only because I’m a woman alone in the middle of nowhere and I have no way to dial 9-1-1 if I need to but also because I’m a bit embarrassed. Okay, a lot embarrassed.
Embarrassed of my car and my clothes and—even though I’m annoyed with myself about it—my body. Sometimes it feels like there’s already one strike against me, that whatever happens, no matter what it is, a stranger will look at the situation and then at me and think, Oh, well, it’s because she’s overweight. There’s a whole host of things people assume about my intellect and moral compass because I have a bigger body than they do.
That’s the old Ireland talking, I remind myself. Potential for being murdered aside, it would be just plain stupid to pass up the chance for help because I’m embarrassed. At the very least, he may be able to give me a ride to the gas station.
So I stand by the side of the road and wait for the creaking truck to come closer, and it thoughtfully slows down long before it reaches me, so as not to splatter me with mud.
Up close, I can see it’s an old truck—but not some classic Ford that belongs in a parade. No, this is a brown and white monstrosity from the late eighties with a broken tailgate and rusted wheel wells. The bed is full of an assortment of empty buckets, baling wire, and bungee cords. A tarp, shovel, and a dented toolbox complete the mess.
It rolls to a stop, and the door opens before I can get a good look at the person inside. A three-legged dog jumps nimbly down, barking madly at me but also wagging its tail, as if it can’t decide to be happy or distressed about a stranger.
Three-legged dog. Truck that looks like a rolling junkyard. I’m expecting the man climbing out of the truck to be full Grapes of Wrath—weather-beaten and gaunt and probably in overalls—and I’m hoping he’ll be the kindly sort of old farmer and not the scary American Gothic kind when he walks around the door, and oh—
Oh my God.
Oh my God.
He’s not Grapes of Wrath at all. He’s nearly six and a half feet of muscle and potent masculinity…shoulders stretching a Carhartt T-shirt in the most panty-dampening way, worn jeans clinging to his hard thighs and narrow hips. Big boots, bright-green eyes in a sun-bronzed face, and a close-trimmed beard that would redden the inside of my thighs very nicely…
Oh God, now that would definitely be an upgrade from chub rub.
He looks to be in his early thirties, with the kind of straight nose and full lips that make you think things like all-American and wholesome, which makes me keenly aware of how unwholesome my thoughts are right now. Thoughts about his beard and his hard thighs and his hands, which are big and strong and currently flexing by his sides as if they’re itching to do something. I don’t see a wedding ring—or even a tan line suggesting he’s ever worn one—and the bare finger is practically daring me to imagine sweaty, grunting fantasies.
I manage to drag myself away from my dirty thoughts long enough to realize the farmer is talking to me.
“Ireland Mills?” he’s asking. Hearing my name out of this prairie god’s mouth is disorienting, and I merely gape at him.
He smiles, revealing even, white teeth and a dimple sent from heaven. “I’m Caleb Carpenter. Thought you might have gotten lost on the way to my farm.”
Chapter Two
Caleb
I feel like I’ve been punched in the chest, and the person doing the punching is a five-foot-two girl with purple lipstick and eyes the color of a spring sky.
I’m suddenly a clumsy country boy all over again, even though this woman is at least ten years younger than me and clearly in need of help. I should feel pretty confident in this situation. Instead, all I feel is a dry mouth and a racing pulse—and an undeniable swelling against the front of my jeans—like I really am a horny teenage boy and not a man in his thirties who should know better.
But it’s like that punch in the chest knocked all the sense straight out of me, because suddenly I’m thinking thoughts no gentleman should think. Like how I can see the heaving swells of her breasts under her fancy shirt, how those swells would overflow even my big hands and spill over my fingertips as her nipples harden against my palms.
Like how warm and soft her thighs would be against my hips as I nestled into them, how her ass would feel in my hands as I cupped her bottom and tasted the only woman I want…
The only woman I want.
The thought hits me like a second punch,
and I suck in a breath.
This one.
Mine. Ours. Somehow, it’s this city girl—the same girl I’ve been silently cursing all morning.
A friend of mine from my college days called and asked if I’d be willing to let someone from his company come out and take some pictures of the farm. At the time, it seemed dickish to say no. But as the day dawned and I saw how much work I had to do, I began wishing I was more of a dick to my old friend. I didn’t have the time to spare to play tour guide, and I felt even surlier about it when the time for her arrival came and went and it became clear she’d stood me up for this thing I was only doing as a favor in the first place.
It took an unkind amount of time to even consider the possibility she might have gotten lost and not stood me up—after all, spotty cell coverage means getting disoriented in these parts happens often enough. After I had that thought, I pinned a note to the door just in case and then climbed into the truck, grumbling the whole time.
But now.
But now.
I owe my old friend an apology and a drink; I owe him everything. Because even though I’ve just met her, even though I can’t explain it, somehow I know something has just changed.
Something I’ve been waiting years for.
“Oh, thank goodness,” Ireland Mills says as I step forward, and she’s got one of those voices. A slightly throaty alto that sounds like she’s been in bed all afternoon.
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