I had it bad for Oscar. I’d lived most of my adult life able to date pretty much whomever I chose. A late bloomer, I’d spent much of my teen years hiding my ample body under big sweatshirts and a loud mouth, never letting boys close and certainly never letting anyone under the big sweatshirts. My freshman year at culinary school (a disastrous decision considering I could burn water, but a great decision considering I met my two best friends, Roxie and Clara), I embraced my curves, my natural good looks, and realized that confidence went much further than a small ass in tight jeans.

I’d spent the first part of my life as an observer, watching the world as it went by instead of participating, particularly when it came to men. I’d watched my girlfriends fumble through relationships, watched guys run circles around them, especially when the girl lacked confidence. I learned things about how men and women operate by listening and watching and remembering.

I’d had one boyfriend, just the one, and when it ended, it ended badly. It nearly broke me, in fact, and when I came out the other side of it I was determined to never let a man define me again. Moving across the country and enrolling in culinary school on a whim, I found a new family of friends that welcomed me with open arms.

No one knew me. No one knew my story. No one knew I was the ugly duckling, and in a school where everyone was as in love with duck fat as I was, no one blinked an eye at a pretty (which was news to me), chubby girl who was finally finding her way back out of the dark.

When I finally found my own confidence, I took my sharp tongue (honed from years of defense humor) and my surprisingly good looks (a mother with gorgeous Celtic genes mixed with a Viking-like father) and used every trick of the trade I’d observed over the years on the opposite sex.

I found a certain kind of power in walking into a room where I knew no one, and figuring out how everyone ticked. Narrowing in on the best-looking guy in any room, and going on the offense. Size-eighteen women were supposed to be timid. Size-eighteen women were supposed to be shy. Size-eighteen women were supposed to be grateful for any male attention, and to feel especially honored if a good-looking man paid attention to them.

Fuck all that noise. I took the best-looking guy home with me whenever and however I pleased. Confidence went a long way. You walk into a room armed with the knowledge that you can have anyone you want? You can literally have anyone you want.

Plus I had a sweet rack. Which always helped.

I made up for lost time, dating as much as I could, discovering what men liked and what men loved. And when it became apparent that a career in the culinary arts was not in the cards for me, I said good-bye to my new best friends, packed my bags, and headed east. I crashed back onto the scene in Manhattan, unpacking confidence and a touch of cheeky along with my new sexy clothes, determined to keep the party going New York style.

Enrolling at Columbia, where I’d had been accepted my senior year of high school but deferred while I played line cook in Santa Barbara, I discovered a newly untapped talent for writing quick and edgy copy. I spent four years pursuing an advertising degree, dating almost nonstop the entire time, and when I graduated at the top of my class, I had my pick of junior copy editor positions at several New York advertising firms.

Mmm, professional men. I loved it.

I loved men, and I didn’t apologize for enjoying them. I wasn’t looking to get married, I wasn’t looking for someone to take care of me, and I certainly wasn’t looking for a man to take me home and stick me in an apron. But I did enjoy myself.

Did I run into jerks? Sure, that was par for the course. Are there great-looking guys out there who are also assholes? Of course. But instead of shying away, I went crashing right on through, making them want me, making them need me, making sure the thought of sleeping with a big girl as a pity fuck was a thought they’d never have again.

I was confident around men of all sizes, shapes, colors, and political persuasions. I prided myself on being a connoisseur of the opposite sex, and never felt “lucky” or “grateful” when a man dated me.

I overheard a beautiful man once say that fat chicks give great blow jobs, because they needed to make sure a guy kept coming around. That same man gave me incredible head three times a day for a solid week, and I never once sucked his dick. He was lucky. He was grateful. I was grinning.

I dedicated my days to becoming one of the youngest advertising executives in the business. I dedicated my nights to indulgence in all the things I never thought I could have, figuring out what made a man tick and then taking him home with me.

Yet there was one guy who reduced me to mush every time I saw his gorgeous face and heard his gorgeous voice say that one gorgeous word to me, every week at the farmers’ market.

The first moment I’d laid eyes on him, I’d been dying to lay thighs on him. My thighs. On his shoulders. I’d been hit with an instant wave of lust. Months ago I’d been visiting my favorite farmers’ market, visiting my favorite stalls, chatting with some of the producers I’d come to know, as I was here almost every Saturday. A new stall caught my eye: Bailey Falls Creamery, Hudson Valley, NY. Thinking I might have stumbled onto a new source for yummy local dairy treats, I headed over, drawn by the chalkboard sign advertising butter, milk, cream, and . . . oh!

Behind the counter was the best-looking man I’d ever seen. Six feet six inches of stunning. His skin was a deep golden color, tan but swirled through with the lightest caramel. Thick chestnut brown hair was caught back in what looked like a leather tie, but a few wavy pieces had escaped and were strewn about a chiseled face. That perfectly tousled pony would have cost forty dollars at any decent blow-dry bar, but you know he just tugged it back in the morning and ran with it.

The hair framed a sinful face, deeply set gray-blue eyes shone out from under heavy brows, one of which had a slashing scar through the middle. Very Dylan McKay. Except this guy could have broken Dylan McKay with his ponytail alone.

His features were dark and, coupled with the golden skin, hinted at sun-swept island beaches and South Seas waves. I’d ride those waves.

But the ink! Sweet mother of needles, the ink. From across the market I could see the swirls of red, green, orange, and black coating him in full sleeves, stopping just above his wrists.

I’d dated bad boys, and I’d fucked my share. But this guy was like . . . hmm. Cross a bad boy with a supermodel, add a dash of linebacker with a big scoop of Polynesian love, and then you might, just might, have an appreciation for the wet dream across the market from me.