Such a Pretty Fat: One Narcissist's Quest to Discover if Her Life Makes Her Ass Look Big, or Why Pie Is Not the Answer by Jen Lancaster Page B

stove, he gingerly picks up each egg, pausing to let the water drain. “I’m serious, Jen. You’ve got to be a little more Zen about everything. Give yourself credit for the progress you’ve made and you’re going to feel much better. Ditto on flying. Get a grip—everything is going to be fine.”
    He plates up our food—I’m having Atkins-approved poached eggs with a side of Canadian bacon, and he’s eating the same thing, except he’s also having a side of multigrain French toast. I watch as he puts a neat little pat of the extra-rich European butter on each slice, and then covers the stack with pure maple syrup. He heated the syrup first, so the butter melts instantly and the heady combination begins to ooze down the side of the toast. I feel myself salivate as he slices into his first bite, and my eyes follow the trajectory of his fork from plate to mouth and back again. I would kick kittens for one small taste right about now. 66
    Fletch notices me staring at his breakfast with naked lust. “I’m sorry—do you and my French toast need a moment alone?”
    God, I am the worst dieter ever. Here I am on a plan that allows, nay, insists on plenty of protein and enough volume to never feel hungry, yet all I want is the six-month-old frost-laden French toast Fletch found at the back of the freezer. Even though I’d be allowed to eat ten rib eyes or an entire wheel of Tillamook cheddar, I would give up my favorite triple-strand pearl necklace to drink the syrup puddle on his plate.
    “No, no; I’m fine.”
    “Excellent.” He continues to tuck in to the stack.
    “Hey, it looks like there’s a light powdering of cinnamon and sugar on the crust.”
    He turns his plate to examine its contents. “Yeah, I guess there is. Now, what else do you have to do before you leave? You have your ticket, and your hotel is confirmed?”
    “Yep. Everything’s set, and I’m even done packing. All I have to do in the morning is stash my makeup in my carry-on. ” I pause to choke down a bite of my Canadian bacon. “Is that as good as it looks?” I gesture toward his plate.
    Fletch raises a beleaguered eyebrow at me. “No. It’s kind of stale, if you want to know the truth.” He takes another bite, and a bit of butter-syrup drips off the side. I feel something on the side of my mouth, and I think I may actually be drooling. Shameful. “Are you looking forward to tomorrow? This is your first trip back to New York in how long?”
    “Six years.” I break the yellow part of my poached egg and make yoke swirls with my knife. “So, your French toast . . . is it, um, lightly crunchy on the outside but all soft and warm inside?”
    He shrugs. “Yeah. Anyway, what’s the plan? You land at LaGuardia, take a cab into the city, and then what?”
    “I check into the hotel, and then I go to my publisher’s office to meet up with my editor and publicist. And then we’re all going to go out for drinks with my agent.” I’m going on a temporary Atkins vacation while I’m there, but I’m totally going to watch my fat and calories.
    “You know where yet?”
    “No.” I gaze longingly as Fletch dips a piece of Canadian bacon into Lake Deliciousness, its sweetness providing what I’m sure is a wonderful contrast to the ham’s saltiness. “How’s the European butter in combination with the syrup? Would you say it’s a flavor party in your mouth and everyone’s invited? Is it richer and nuttier than regular butter?”
    He lays down his fork in disgust. “The only thing nutty in this kitchen right now is you. Here.” He slides his plate over to my side of the table. “Have a bite if you want it, but if you don’t, then stop grilling me. Either way, we’re going to have a conversation that doesn’t include carbohydrates, agreed?”
    “I’m sorry; I’m sorry. I won’t say another word, I promise. ” I slide his plate back over to him . . . after I decide against licking it.
    “What else is on your mind?” he asks