The Biker’s Plus-Size Obsession

The scent of sugar and frosting should have been comforting. This bakery had always been my sanctuary—my family’s pride, the one corner of the world where I felt like I belonged. But tonight? Every stolen bite was nothing but proof of my weakness. Every cookie, every slice of cake melting on my tongue was a reminder of how pathetic I must look—stuffing myself while pretending it fills the hollow ache inside me. Today was supposed to be different. Today was supposed to be a victory. I had been good all week—baking without tasting, limiting myself to one tiny bite. And then Jessica had to ruin it. A blind date. Her brilliant idea of love, wrapped in “I only want the best for you.” Except she should have known better. She should have known I am not anyone’s “type.” Not with this soft, curvy body, my round cheeks, the stretch marks painted across my thighs and arms. Yes, my chest might catch a man’s eye at first glance. But the second his gaze trails down, disappointment always follows. I saw it happen tonight. The moment I walked into the restaurant, I saw it. His eyes lit up when they met mine—blonde curls, big smile. For a heartbeat, I let myself believe. Then his gaze dropped lower. To my chest. I saw him swallow hard. Blood rushing south. And then—he noticed my stomach. My thighs. His face shifted instantly. The flicker of disgust behind his eyes was like a slap across my skin. His body leaned back, already planning its escape. His hand slid toward his phone, no doubt crafting a message to Jessica: How could you set me up with her? I couldn’t even sit down. Couldn’t play pretend for half an hour. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled before he could speak, before I burst into tears right there. His eyes softened, almost apologetic. But he didn’t stay. Of course he didn’t. So instead of going home and letting my family see the failure written all over me, I came here—to the bakery. My hiding place. My punishment. Like a thief, I crept inside and tore open a box of butter cookies. I pulled out the leftover cookies-and-cream cake from the display fridge and sank to the floor. No fork. No plate. Just me, licking frosting off my fingers while tears burned at the corners of my eyes. I knew how this night would end. It always ended the same. “—So, how was it?” Jessica’s voice cut through the silence before the bell above the door even rang. I stiffened, focusing on the dough I was rolling out as though it demanded all my attention. Jessica didn’t know the art of baking. She was the marketer, the face of the family business. She didn’t understand how precise the pressure had to be—firm enough to hold the dough, gentle enough not to tear it. I had perfected this skill over years. Almost blindfolded. So for a moment, I let my body take over while my brain scrambled for an answer. Something casual. Something that wouldn’t crush her hope entirely. “It was… nice. He was charming, really,” I said finally. Then I rushed the words that mattered: “But it just wasn’t there. No connection, you know?” Jessica huffed, slamming her coffee cup onto the counter. “Connection? That grows! Do you think I had instant sparks with Darren?” Of course she mentioned him—her perfect husband. She always did. “You two started dating at sixteen!” I shot back, bitterness dripping from my smile. “Still, it wasn’t love at first sight,” she said, softer this time. Her frustration melted into worry. “Oh, Amara… I just want you to be happy.” “I know, Jess.” I forced a smile, letting her hug me from the side—even though it meant flour dusted all over her tailored blue blouse. She never learned. “Jess, leave the kid alone! Let her stay my baby forever.” Dad’s booming voice filled the shop as he marched out from the oven room, carrying trays piled high with steaming rolls. His flour-covered apron hugged his belly like always. “She’s twenty-seven, Dad,” Jessica shot back. “Still my baby,” he declared, tweaking my cheek until I swatted him away. “Can we drop it, please?” I muttered. Silence was their only answer. “Amara, sweetheart, take the cakes out to the display, will you?” Dad asked. I nodded, my throat tight at the thought of the half-cake I had devoured just hours ago. I arranged the remaining cakes behind the glass, silently promising to bake a fresh one before anyone noticed. But then—before I could turn back— I heard it. The low, dangerous rumble of an engine. My heart clenched instantly. I knew that sound. His sound. The guy from across the street—the mechanic with the tattoos snaking from his neck down his arm, the leather jacket hugging his frame. The one I caught myself stealing glances at through the bakery windows more often than I’d admit. I froze, watching as he pulled up on his motorcycle, broad shoulders shifting as he swung off the bike. For one impossible moment, it felt like his gaze landed on me—straight through the glass, straight into me. But his helmet still hid his eyes. Maybe I imagined it. Of course I imagined it. And yet, as my heart thundered in my chest, a dangerous thought refused to leave me: what if the man I had been secretly watching all this time… had been watching me too?