Big Boned (Heather Wells Series #3) by Meg Cabot

From the Publisher

Life is reasonably rosy for plus-size ex-pop star turned Assistant Dormitory Director and sometime sleuth Heather Wells. Her freeloading ex-con dad is finally moving out. She still yearns for her hot landlord, Cooper Cartwright, but her relationship with "rebound beau," vigorous vegan math professor Tad Tocco, is more than satisfactory. Best of all, nobody has died lately in "Death Dorm," the aptly nicknamed student residence that Heather assistant-directs. Of course every silver lining ultimately has some black cloud attached. And when the latest murdered corpse to clutter up her jurisdiction turns out to be her exceedingly unlovable boss, Heather finds herself on the shortlist of prime suspects—along with the rabble-rousing boyfriend of her high-strung student assistant and an indecently handsome young campus minister who's been accused of taking liberties with certain girls' choir members.

With fame beckoning her back into show business (as the star of a new kids' show!) it's a really bad time to get wrapped up in another homicide. Plus Tad's been working himself up to ask her a Big Question, which Heather's not sure she has an answer for . . .

Publishers Weekly

Cabot's cute third crime fest featuring Heather Wells, teen pop sensation turned 20-something college student (last seen in 2006's Size 14 Is Not Fat Either), tackles the recent graduate student union controversy at NYU-like New York College head-on. Heather is paying her tuition by working at the college's Fischer Hall, a residence hall nicknamed "Death Dorm" after several recent murders. She's also semisecretly dating Tad Tocco, her remedial math prof, while pining for her neighbor and true love, Cooper, a PI who's not happy about Tad but has difficulty expressing his feelings. When Fisher Hall's interim director, Dr. Owen Veatch, is murdered, Sebastian Blumenthal, a Graduate Student Collective protest leader, becomes the prime suspect. A tip that Blumenthal is innocent leads Heather into some tight spots. Thankfully, Tad has coaxed her into working out occasionally, and she's more than able to squirm out of trouble while never losing that perky princess Cabot vibe that keeps fans coming back for more. (Dec.)

Kirkus Reviews

Murder in a New York college dormitory once more complicates the life of its assistant director. Life has finally led ex-teen pop star Heather Wells (Size 14 Is Not Fat Either, 2006, etc.) into relatively calm waters. She's passed her probationary period as assistant director of New York College's Fischer Hall even though the period was marked by two unrelated homicides, and she's using her tuition-remission privileges toward a degree in criminal justice. The guy she pines for, private eye Cooper Cartwright, refuses to serve as her rebound man, but she's settled into a comfortable (if technically rule-breaking) relationship with Tad Tocco, her aggressively vegan math instructor. Waters in "Death Dorm" are never calm for long, however, and Heather returns from a Belgian waffle binge in the cafeteria to find the brains of her boss, interim director Owen Veatch, splattered all over his Garfield calendar. Sebastian Blumenthal, head of the Graduate Students' Collective, is arrested when police find a gun in his manbag. But Heather's grad assistant Sarah persuades her that Sebastian's arrest on the eve of a GSC strike for healthcare benefits is a little too convenient. Torn between her loyalty to her students and pressure from above-President Allington has yoked her with public-relations twinkle Muffy Fowler in representing New York College to the media-Heather does what she does best: investigate. Cabot (Queen of Babble in the Big City, 2007, etc.) continues to charm as Heather tries even harder to get it right.

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Chapter One

You're not fat
Though you could get toned
But it's not your fault—
You're just big boned

"Big Boned"
Written by Heather Wells

"You came!"

That's what Tad Tocco, my remedial math assistant professor, says as I walk up to him that morning in Washington Square Park.

He doesn't kiss me, because our relationship is totally illicit. Professors—especially tenure track assistant professors in the math department—aren't allowed to have romances with their students.

Even students who, like me, are practically thirty, work as an assistant director in one of the college's dormitories, and are taking the course pass/fail anyway.

"Of course I came," I say, trying to sound like there'd never been any doubt. Except, of course, when I'd rolled over a half-hour earlier and looked at the clock, and seen the big hand on the twelve, and the little hand on the six, all I'd wanted to do was pull the covers back over my head and hunker down for another two and a half hours of blissful sleep. I mean, isn't that the whole point of living two blocks from where you work? So you can sleep in until the absolute last minute?

But I'd promised.

And now I'm glad I'd dragged myself out from beneath my cozy comforter. Because Tad looks great. The early morning sunlight is glinting off his long blond hair—pulled back in a ponytail that's almost longer than mine—and off the golden hairs on his bare legs, as well.

And I can see a lot of those golden leg hairs, thanks to the tiny running shorts he's wearing.

Hello, God, are You there? It's me, Heather. Just wanted to say thank You. Thank You for the bright sunshine and the clear cool air and the pretty spring flowers, bursting into bloom.

Thank You for tenure track assistant professors in tiny running shorts, as well. These things really are worth getting up two and a half hours earlier than I need to. If I had any idea, I'd have started getting up this early a long time ago.

Well, maybe.

"So I figured we'd take it slow," Tad informs me. He's doing stretches on a park bench. His thigh muscles are lean and hard, without an ounce of fat on them. Even when in a relaxed position, Tad's thighs are firm as stone. I know this because I have felt them. Even though we are forbidden by our mutual employer, New York College, from having romantic relationships with students, Tad and I are sneaking around behind everybody's back.

Because when you're both in your late twenties to early thirties, and you're taking a remedial math class pass/fail just so you can take real classes later anyway, who even cares?

Besides which, it's been approximately forever since I've gotten any. What was I supposed to do, wait until May, when my course is over, before jumping his bones? Yeah. Like that was going to happen.

Especially considering Tad's bones. I mean, the guy is fit—partly due to his athletic lifestyle (he runs, swims laps over at the sports center, and plays on a killer Frisbee team), and partly due to the fact that he eats extremely healthfully.

If you consider not eating meat healthy, which I am not completely convinced I do.

When I am in a relaxed position, my thighs feel spongy. This is partly due to the fact that I don't run, swim, or play Frisbee of any kind, and also due to the fact that I will eat anything if it has chocolate sauce or ketchup on it. Or even if it's just plain, as in the case of Krispy Kreme doughnuts (which Tad will eat, too, because they are fried in vegetable oil, not animal lard. Although I notice that when Tad eats Krispy Kremes, he enjoys just one and seems satisfied, whereas I have to consume the entire box, as I cannot stop thinking about them until I know all the Krispy Kremes are gone. What's up with that?).

Wait. Why am I thinking about Krispy Kremes? We're supposed to be exercising.

"You want to stretch out?" Tad asks me, as he is pressing the back of his heel into his butt. I know that Tad's butt is as rock-hard as his thighs. My butt, on the other hand, is even spongier than my thighs. Although it's big enough that I can touch it with the back of my heel quite easily. It's hardly a stretch at all.

"Sure," I say.

As I stretch, I notice that all the runners in the park are wearing shorts, like Tad. I'm the only one in leggings. Or, should I say, yoga pants. Because no way am I putting on a pair of leggings. Let's face it, Mischa Barton I am not.

That's why I was so glad when I found a pair of yoga pants that are almost bell bottomed. They're what I'm wearing instead of leggings or running shorts. I'm hoping the bell-bottoms will balance me out, so I don't look, you know, like a Weeble.

"Okay," Tad says, smiling down at me. He is wearing his gold-rimmed glasses, which make him look especially professorial. I love his glasses, because you really can't tell that behind those lenses, he has the most beautiful blue eyes ever. Until he takes them off. Which he only does at bedtime. "Four times around is a mile. Five kilometers is about three miles. So I usually go around about twelve times. Does that sound all right? We'll take it nice and slow, since this is your first day."

"Oh," I say. "Don't worry about me. Go at your own pace. I'll catch up."

Tad's golden eyebrows constrict. "Heather. Are you sure?"

"Of course," I say, with a laugh. "I'll be fine. It's just a little morning jog."

"Heather," Tad says, still looking concerned. "Don't try to shrug this off like it's no big deal. I know this is a big step for you, and I'm really proud of you just for showing up. The truth is, I care about you, and your physical health is really important to me. And race training is serious business. Do it wrong, and you could seriously injure yourself."