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290 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 28, 2020
Eyes blazing, she says, “You know, before I met you, I hadn’t argued with anyone in fifteen years.”
“Doubtful. That tongue of yours is way too sharp to be outta practice.”
My mistake was presenting lovely, intelligent, gracious single women who desired to meet equally lovely, intelligent, gracious single men. What Mason Spark needs is a lady gorilla.
It’s too bad the man has the personality of a chupacabra, because he’s actually very good-looking.
And here I am, a twenty-eight-year-old man who’s so fucked up his agent thinks finding him the perfect wife will save him from himself.
I’m only going along with it because I don’t have the heart to tell him that ship’s already sailed.
That ship has fucking sunk.
“Now I think maybe you should walk me to the door, because unless gravity is doing something funny and the house is supposed to be tilting like that, I’m very tipsy.”
Closing one eye, she squints at her front door.
“I told you drinking all that whiskey so fast was bad.”
“Don’t be smug, Sparky. It’s not a good look on you.”
“Sparky?” . . .
“Don’t tell me no one’s ever called you that before. It’s the low-hanging fruit of nicknames for you.” . . .
“Even if someone did call me that, they wouldn’t have the balls to say it to my face.”. . .
“Guess my balls must be pretty big then, huh?”
“Massive.” . . .
“Can you walk or do I need to carry you?”
“Psh. Carry me. As if.”
She takes a step, loses her footing, and squawks, grabbing hard onto my arm. “Why is the ground all slippery?”
“That’s not the ground, Pink,” I say, chuckling. “Up you go.”
In one swift motion, I lean over, pick her up, and swing her into my arms.
She’s horrified for all of about two seconds, stiff and outraged, then she says, “Well, hell,” and slings her arms around my shoulders. Her smile is wide and happy as she relaxes against me. “Home, Jeeves.”
I take a moment to examine her fuzzy gaze. “You don’t really drink whiskey, do you?”
“Lord, no. That stuff tastes like gasoline. How can you stand it?”
“Because I’m so manly.”
“Oh, right. I forgot. Are we going to stand here in the driveway all day? Not that I’m complaining. This is surprisingly comfortable. If the football thing doesn’t pan out for you, you could start a business carrying tipsy ladies around.” . . .
You been around as long as I have, you know real chemistry when you see it. I mean, sometimes it looks a lot like burning hatred, but trust me, that’s chemistry.
“You’ve both got a lot of broken pieces. But if you give it a chance, you might find that all your broken pieces fit together perfectly to make a beautiful whole.”
Have you ever noticed how versatile the word “fuck” is?
I know, random question, but stick with me. I have a point. As a noun, verb, or adjective, “fuck” really can’t be beat. I use it constantly in all its forms.
For example, right now I’m staring at the naked blonde snoring softly in my bed and I’m thinking This is fucked. Why the fuck did I take her home from the bar last night? I am a fucking moron. FUCK.
That last one’s probably my favorite.
Just the word all by itself.
Like that, it can mean “wow.” Or “life sucks.” Or “how did I get mustard on my shirt?” Or even “we’re all gonna die!”