He doesn’t elaborate, but the weight in his words says enough. I can’t help wondering who broke his heart.

“Come on,” I say, “there have to be throngs of women who’d love to date a guy who reads romance.”

“And why would they want that?” He narrows his eyes suspiciously.

“Because they assume he knows what women like.” My voice falters. “In the bedroom.”

He’s blushing again. It makes me want to keep going down this road. Or maybe it’s the champagne; I’m more relaxed than I’ve been in ages.

“So you’ve never hooked up with a customer?” I say. “Never ever?”

“Not never ever,” he says, and I swear, his blush deepens. “There’s this whole thing in romance about big men and tiny women, right? Lots of women love that trope, and I get it—the pressure women feel to be small, the idea that smallness equals femininity, that kind of thing.”

I nod, remembering how it felt when he cut in on the dance floor and rescued me. The instant relief of his large frame close to mine—and a jolt of attraction, too.

But like he said, that’s probably because of his size. It’s primal, something I can’t control.

“So you’re saying it’s tough being the physical ideal of masculinity,” I say with a wry smile.

“No, that’s not—” He exhales and runs a hand through his hair. “It’s more—Well, romance novels are about the escape, the fantasy. If someone wants to fantasize about being railed by an eight-foot-tall blue alien, more power to them. I just don’t need to be used as the stand-in.”

He smiles, but it looks forced, like he’s trying to play this off as a minor irritation when it’s much deeper.

“That’s happened to you?” I ask.

“Yes.” He’s avoiding my gaze, drumming his fingers on his knee as he takes a sip of champagne. Long, thick fingers; big hands. “And I’m a man, so maybe they think I’d be thrilled, but honestly? It doesn’t feel great to realize that someone sought you out for that purpose, then dropped you.” He glances at me. “You think I’m overreacting.”

“Absolutely not,” I say. “No one deserves to be fetishized.”

He nods, holding my gaze. There’s a world of hurt behind those eyes. “I’m all for healthy sexuality, and romance novels allow people to explore their kinks in a safe way. That’s great, but…”

“But it’s not great to use someone else to explore those kinks without their full consent.”

“Exactly.” He leans forward, elbows on knees, which makes his dress shirt strain against his shoulders and broad back.

“But you still love romance,” I say. “Despite all that.”