1. Daria
One
Daria
Moving to a new city comes with its own complications.
For starters, you have to learn where everything is.
Second, making friends as an adult is weird.
And third? Apparently dating in a Jersey Shore town is just as terrible as dating everywhere else.
Still, here I am.
Thirty-six.
Still single.
Living in Maccon City for the first time in my life.
And honestly?
I love it here.
I grew up landlocked.
No beaches.
No boardwalk.
No salt air.
Now? I can walk the boards after work with an ice cream cone and watch the ocean whenever I want.
I love the little shops.
I love the tourists.
I love the old Victorian houses mixed in with newer condos.
And for some reason, this town is absolutely crawling with hotties.
Seriously.
What are they putting in the water around here?
Half the men I pass on the street look like they should be chopping wood shirtless in romance novels.
Not that any of them are paying attention to chubby old me.
Which is fine. Mostly.
Okay, maybe not mostly.
Because despite all the body positivity quotes I repost and all the confidence I pretend to have, there are days when being perpetually single gets old.
And my biological clock?
Oh, she's not ticking anymore.
She's banging pots and pans together while screaming, “HELLO? WE'RE THIRTY-SIX!”
So, I did what any ambitious, almost-middle-aged woman does.
I downloaded a dating app.
And it sucks.
Absolute trash.
Date Number One spent forty minutes talking about CrossFit and referred to himself as an “alpha male.”
Immediate no.
Date Number Two brought his mother.
His mother.
Apparently, she wanted to “help him choose.”
I wish I was kidding.
And now there's Date Number Three.
Brad.
Or Chad.
Something ending in “-ad.”
I stopped caring twenty minutes ago.
The man has spent the entire evening talking about himself.
His job.
His investments.
His golf game.
His Tesla.
His protein intake.
Meanwhile, every time I try to contribute to the conversation, he interrupts me.
Which is rude.
Very rude.
I didn't move to a new city to become an audience member.
Next, he made a joke about my weight.
A joke.
As if he should talk with his beer belly and growing bald spot.
Not that I'm shallow.
I really am not.
A man doesn't have to be a ten.
Hell, neither am I.
But come on.
At least have a personality.
At least pretend you're interested in the woman sitting across from you.
At least don't compare calorie counts on appetizers.
Which he did.
Out loud.
“I'm just trying to help,” he'd said.
Help.
Right.
I should've left then. Instead, I stayed because apparently I hate myself. And good dates are hard to find.
“You know,” he says now, leaning back smugly, “women are usually thrilled to go out with me.”
I blink.
“Are they? Cool.”
He laughs like I'm joking.
I'm not.
“I run my own accounting business.”
“Congratulations?”
“I’m quite a catch. I’ve never been divorced.”
“Which also means you’ve never been married, I take it?”
He frowns.
“I don't follow.”
Clearly.
I sigh into my margarita.
Honestly, at this point, I would rather be home in yoga pants eating mozzarella sticks while watching true crime documentaries.
At least serial killers have interesting personalities.
I glance around the bar while my so-called date checks his cell phone—again.
And honestly, I’m glad for the reprieve.
That's also when I notice him.
Not Brad.
Or Chad.
No, no.
Him.
The man sitting at the bar.
He’s… big.
Broad shoulders.
Dark hair, long enough to brush his shoulders.
He’s wearing a leather cut.
Jeans.
Boots.
And I am intrigued.
Then I get a glimpse of his tattooed forearms—and I swear my heart starts to thud heavily inside my chest.
This is the kind of man romance readers would describe as rugged.
The kind of man who looks like he rides a motorcycle and says things like, “Hop on, Kitten.”
And sadly, this is also the kind of man who absolutely isn't interested in me.
Still.
I catch myself sneaking glances.
And every single time—he's looking.
At me.
Not creepy looking.
Not judging.
Just… watching.
And holy cow, I mean, that’s so not the norm for me.
Something strange flutters in my stomach the second my gaze reaches his face.
He is handsome. Like really handsome.
And I gasp—out loud.
Because his eyes?
They are absolutely beautiful.
They’re this pale, mossy green color with a perfect ring of amber circling the perimeter—and I mean, I’ve never seen anything like them.
Warm.
Intense.
And somehow—familiar.
Which is super weird.
I've never seen this man before in my life.
Yet something about him makes me feel… safe.
Which is ridiculous.
I've watched enough true crime to know better.
Still, every time our eyes meet, something deep inside me settles.
Like taking a deep breath after holding it too long.
Strange.
Very strange.
“So anyway,” Brad-or-Chad says, reclaiming my attention, “if we're going to continue seeing each other, I'd probably want you to commit to a healthier lifestyle.”
Excuse me?
I blink.
“I'm sorry?”
“You know. Diet. Exercise.”
He gestures vaguely.
“Some men might not overlook those things.”
Oh.
Oh, hell no.
I smile sweetly.
Dangerously.
“Some women might not overlook your personality.”
He frowns.
“That's unnecessary.”
“So is your face, but your mother kept you anyway.”
His mouth falls open.
Nearby, somebody snorts.
Actually snorts.
I think it's the bartender.
I feel slightly better.
Brad-or-Chad apparently does not appreciate comedy.
“You know, this is why you're still single. You don’t know when to close your mouth—not for food or words, apparently.”
And there it is.
The insult all plus-sized women know by heart.
As if our relationship status is somehow a punishment.
As if love is something we're supposed to earn.
Something inside me wilts a little.
Not because I believe him.
Because I'm tired.
Tired of proving myself.
Tired of hoping.
Tired of waiting.
Tired of wondering if maybe everyone else is right.
Maybe my prince really is coming someday.
Maybe I just need to be patient.
But patience gets lonely.
And I want more.
I want love.
I want a family.
I want someone who looks at me like I matter.
Is that really so much to ask?
Across the room, the handsome biker's expression darkens.
Really darkens.
Interesting.
Before I can think much about it, Brad reaches across the table.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he says. “Let's not end the night angry.”
Sweetheart?
Absolutely not.
I lean back.
He grabs my hand.
I pull away.
Then—the idiot actually tries to yank me across the table for a kiss.
And suddenly a shadow falls over our booth.
“Can I help you?” Brad/Chad asks.
A deep voice says one word.
“Nope.”
A fist flies.
And my terrible date hits the floor.
I stare.
The entire bar goes silent.
Then I slowly look up.
Way up.
Holy.
Mother.
Of.
God.
The gorgeous biker from the bar is standing over us.
And I swear—for one impossible second—his eyes seem to glow.