He's Not My Type (The Vancouver Agitators, #4)

by Meghan Quinn

Did he eat some bad bologna?

Some might say the author of his story could have cut out the last fifteen percent, and everyone would have still been pleased with the outcome.”

“Holmes isn’t happy, and he doesn’t have a lot of sex,” Posey says out of fucking nowhere.

“It is,” Posey says. “He was telling me the other day that he wishes someone could water his bonsai tree when he’s on away trips. He’s always worried it will die when he’s gone.” What the fuck is a bonsai tree?

“Wait, what?” Penny sits up and leans over. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars? For one job? What does it entail? Nudity?”

A naked man could come flying in here, do the helicopter with his wiener, and they wouldn’t even blink an eye as silence falls around us.

But if I’ve learned one thing through such devastating loss, it’s that the sun still rises the next day. And the day after that. Life continues its motion. Waiting for your return.