Authors: Faith Andrews
Tags: #Moore to Love
Moore to Love
Copyright © 2016 by Faith Andrews
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Except the original material written by the author, all songs, song titles and lyrics contained in the book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.
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Table of Contents
To my daughters, Julia and Leah. May you always be confident and secure in your beautiful, remarkable, inspiring individuality. Never let anyone make you feel less than the perfection you are. And if by chance someone does, I’ll kick their ass.
BIG BONED. PLUS-SIZED. JUNK
in the trunk. Muffin top. Thunder thighs. Chubster.
I’ve heard it all over the course of my life because, unfortunately, that’s what I am. There’s no two ways around it or my frumpy, jiggly body. I am
the ideal. While the majority of Americans are tipping the scale these days, I’m still not considered the image of flawless beauty and sleek perfection most men desire. How do I know this, you ask? Well, because I’m single. Alone, unloved, unwanted. Twenty-five and on the road to spinsterhood. Heartbreaking, I know. But don’t dwell on it. I don’t. I mean, I guess that’s what I’m doing right now, but that’s only because the bitch in my chair just rudely pointed out the obvious.
“You have such a pretty face.” I force an unenthusiastic smile, assuming she’ll leave it at that, letting the unspoken words “if you only lost weight” dangle awkwardly between us. But nope. Not this time . . .
The Barbie doll-looking wench actually takes the liberty to continue. “I bet you could be a model. You know, like for Lane Bryant or,
Hips and Curves
? With your cheek bones and trendy style you could . . .” She rambles on and on about my finest qualities, all while sticking it to me about my unavoidable plumpness.
Nodding and yessing her to death, I go on with my work. Painting her face is effortless. I have a great canvas. Smooth ivory skin, neatly groomed brows, and lips that collagen freaks would pay insane amounts of money for. This chick is everything I wish I was. Blonde, blue-eyed, spunky, beautiful, and most importantly,
As I brush her lids with a shimmery pink shadow, I allow my insecurities to get the best of me. Thousands of recurring promises to restart a diet, rejoin the gym, and revamp my life jog through my discouraged mind. I’ve been here before. A beautiful girl sits in my chair to be dolled up for a date or a wedding or
and I swear to myself I’ll do everything in my power to look more like her.
But it never works. I don’t have solid motivation. My parents love me as I am—they’re great parents. Great,
parents. I’m perfect to them even if I can’t squeeze my ass into a pencil skirt the way I long to. My best friend, Tatum, is the most non-judgmental person in the entire world. She has friends of all races, creeds, and sizes. Her last birthday get-together looked like a meeting between the United Nations and Ringling Brothers. No joke.
And then there’s me. Don’t get me wrong, I love so many things about my life. My job, my apartment, my family, my friends. Oh, and I have great hair—even if it’s not the color of Goldilocks’ here in my chair. Yes, thank you God for gracing me with a long flowing mane of hazelnut locks, but did you have to give me Mom’s ass and Dad’s sausage fingers? I mean, what do you have against me?
It’s not God’s fault I’m five foot six and over two hundred and twenty pounds. And I should love myself no matter what. Be proud of my accomplishments and happy for what I do have. Unfortunately, I’m my own worst enemy. Positivity has never been my strong point. And goddamn it, sue me for loving food. I’m Italian. We eat.
. It’s a lifestyle. And no amount of burpees or crunches can burn away the nine hundred course meal Mom makes every Sunday without fail.
Meatballs, pasta, prosciutto bread. Yum!
“Hello?” The girl interrupts my drooling. “I think you’re putting on a little too much liner.”
I have a heavy hand but I know what I’m doing. Her eyes look sick. She should thank me for making the turquoise hue pop even brighter. I step back to appraise what looks like a makeup masterpiece. I’m usually all for what the client wants, but she looks gorgeous and I’d hate to erase what I’ve already done. “Would you mind letting me finish first? I think you’ll really wind up li—”
“No! I said it’s too much. Tristan
too much. It’s his birthday and I want to make sure he likes how I look.” She fingers her hair and purses her lips.
I stop myself from rolling my eyes but try to convince her one more time. “I
it won’t be too much. In fact, I think your boyfriend will—”
Miss Prissy Pants releases a haughty laugh, snort and all. “Oh yeah? How would you know? You’re a pretty girl but I don’t see how someone like
would care about impressing anyone else.”
Did she just—? Yeah, she totally went there. I’d love to smack the MAC right off her face, but instead I take a cleansing breath and let it roll off my too-wide shoulders.
Kill her with kindness, Leni. The customer’s always right.
“Of course. I’m sorry. Let me just grab some remover.” I ignore the vein throbbing at my temple, telling me to get the tweezers and pluck this girl’s brows to smithereens.