More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
To all the “crazy” ex-girlfriends
YOU KNOW YOUR day is going swimmingly when you’ve been projectile vomited on and someone stole your Greek yogurt from the staff room refrigerator.
I nab the seat across from the elderly couple and set my purse at my feet, eager to avoid all reality with my trusty worn paperback.
CRYSTAL: Hope you had a good shift. We’ll meet you at the apartment soon. Just loaded all your boxes in the car! Cheers to new beginnings.
I’ve only recently peeled myself from rock bottom after my happily ever after plot twisted into a Nicholas Sparks tragedy.
Truthfully, the prospect of more change triggers my gag reflex, but I’m trying to stay optimistic.
As a lifelong connoisseur of romance novels, I’m keenly aware that eye contact lasting longer than three seconds is ripe with romantic potential.
“Good book?” His voice is thick, almost sleepy.
That’s the thing about reading romance. Book covers depicting unfairly attractive, half-nude models embracing in a passionate lip-lock are pe...
This highlight has been truncated due to consecutive passage length restrictions.
His question takes me off guard, and he can tell, because he bashfully follows it up with, “I read a little romantic suspense, if you’re wondering.”
“Okay, you got me. I lied. I just wanted an excuse to talk to you. I do read, though,”
Either I’m going into cardiac arrest, or I’m having a meet-cute with the blueprint of square-jawed perfection. It’s hard to say.
He’s twenty-five (five years my junior, but I’m willing to embrace the Cougar Life),
Cue the violins. I’ve just fallen in insta-love.
Turns out, this is no romance book. I don’t even have the chance to name our golden retriever and four unborn children.
3) By the time the crowd settles, Soulmate Nate is no longer next to me. In fact, he’s vanished entirely. 4) And so has my purse.
Thanks to the internet—don’t even get me started on online dating—real-life meet-cutes are DEAD and I’m in mourning.
I’m waiting for my in-person meet-cute too. Preferably in between rows of dusty mahogany shelves in a public library.
My bookstagram and BookTok accounts—niche corners of the internet where literature-obsessed folks bond over books—are thriving.
The moment I enter, it’s clear that this new chapter is no improvement from the last. In fact, it’s worse.
Before me is a magnificently muscled, entirely naked, tattooed man bending an auburn-haired woman over the kitchen island.
Welcome home...
This highlight has been truncated due to consecutive passage length restrictions.
THINGS GO TITS up from there. Literally.
But it’s too late for me. I saw it. The penis belonging to my new roommate, Trevor Metcalfe.
You’ll never see each other with your shift work. It’ll be the same as living alone, Scott had assured me.
a plush navy-blue towel hanging behind the door and the matching hand towel next to the sink, both probably belonging to a man with a nice, sizable— Nope. We’re not going there. Focus, Tara.
She’s so stunning, it’s frankly offensive.
“I’m hiding in my new bathroom,” I whisper. “Why are we whispering?” She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “Because. I just walked in on my new roommate. Naked.”
“Naked? As in, ass out?” “Penis out,” I correct. “Actually, he was more than naked. He was boning a girl in the kitchen,”
I’ve already seen this man’s nether regions, so does it really matter if I know his preferred brand of toothpaste (Colgate—Max White Expert Complete)?
I examine the glittery soap dispenser next to the sink, which doesn’t belong among the rest of the practical, low-maintenance products.
It’s labeled Toasted Vanilla Chai. This is a woman’s touch if I ever saw one. Maybe it belongs to the big-breasted, auburn-haired woman.
“Tara?” Trevor’s voice is gravelly and baritone. Very audiobook worthy.
“You okay in there?” he asks. “Totally fine. More than fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” Yikes. I sound like Minnie Mouse on uppers.
the majority of Crystal’s and Mel’s time is devoted to their respective long-term, committed relationships and full-time thriving social media careers—both of which I lack.
While I love being a book influencer on Instagram and TikTok, it’s a hobby, not a career.
“It’s fine. I mean, it’s your apartment, technically.” “It’s half yours now.”
“Do you regularly have sex in communal living areas?” “Well, not anymore.”
Based on his half chuckle, I picture a charming, tilted grin that could melt the panties of...
This highlight has been truncated due to consecutive passage length restrictions.
It’s nice knowing the surface I eat my Pop-Tarts over will be void of bodily fluids.
I reach to turn the knob, opening the door wide enough to make a grabby-hands motion through the crack. He’s still not visible, with the exception of his hand as he passes the bag like a dicey drug deal.
“Sorry, I’ve had a traumatic day.” The bag crunches. “Shit. Because of me?” “No. My day was already a wash before you.”
I got mugged on the subway,” I admit through a crunch, “by a guy with some serious soul mate potential. The meet-cute was going so well until he stole my purse.”
And what’s a meet-cute?” He repeats meet-cute slowly, like it’s a foreign concept.
This is why you should never trust strangers with candy,” Trevor warns. “Technically you’re a stranger, with Cheetos,”
“You’re a stranger too. In my bathroom. Who knows what you’ve done to my toothbrush.”
I have the sudden urge to change our stranger status.
His Adam’s apple bobs as he takes in my disheveled ponytail riddled with dry shampoo, scanning downward over my oversize maroon sweatshirt, which reads Nonfictional feelings for fictional men in Times New Roman font.
Now that he isn’t nude and his tattoos are adequately covered, I’m able to assess his eyes.
They’re the color of honey, like an inferno of crackling firewood resisting merciless golden flames. They probably take on a mossy hu...
This highlight has been truncated due to consecutive passage length restrictions.
