 by Lauren Blakely.jpg)
Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 51427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 257(@200wpm)___ 206(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 257(@200wpm)___ 206(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
There’s just something about bad boys. Tattoos and leather jackets, am I right?
Trouble is, my last boyfriend was a teensy bit too bad and now he’s in prison. Yikes.
When my friends challenge me to take a dip in the good guy side of the dating pool, I see their dating bet and I raise it, looking up the guy I crushed on growing up.
With a winning grin and heart of gold, Gabe Clements is now the star receiver for a pro football team.
Except, the supposed good guy turns out to be nothing like I imagined. He’s better. He’s growly, possessive, smoldering.
And he’s determined too. At the end of the night, he asks me to be his fake real girlfriend for the rest of the week.
Sounds like my kind of dating challenge since he’s a good guy by day, and a very dirty man after dark.
I’ll cure my bad boy blues in no time.
Well, as long as I don’t fall for Gabe’s big heart too
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
MONDAY
A Day for Big Things Ahead
1
BETTER THAN A SCREAMING ORGASM
Ellie
I can see the sign for my Venice Beach exit up ahead, past all the cars at a dead stop. LA traffic…we’ll move eventually. I’d be copacetic if I didn’t have to pee so freaking badly.
Too bad I can’t cross my legs as I drive.
I mean, as I wait.
I wiggle my rear, then I squeeze my thighs.
I can do this.
“We’re almost there,” I say to my girl in the back seat.
Gigi side-eyes me from her dog bed, a look that says I don’t buy that bullshit and you don’t either.
“I swear. We’ll be there in no time.”
Lies. Sweet little lies.
“Look, girlie girl. The GPS says we’ll be there in”—I glance at the app mocking my hopes from the dashboard of the cherry-red convertible—“in thirty minutes.”
I slump. Thirty minutes for one stinking mile.
She turns around, flipping her tail at me.
I get her. I so do.
“It’ll be worth it, I promise. Once we’re settled into our new home, it’s going to be amazing. There’s no snow in Los Angeles, and I’m pretty sure there won’t be street rats,” I say. God, I hope not. I’m so over rats, and subways, and piss on the street.
Dammit. Why did I have to think about pee again?
I stare longingly at the console between the seats, where my empty travel mug invites me to relieve the pressure.
Last resort, Ellie.
“Any minute. We’ll be there any minute,” I say, fighting off the temptation with cheer. “As long as I don’t pee all over the seat. And don’t you do that either,” I warn my six-pound pup.
From the back seat, Gigi barks once, a declarative arf that loosely translates to as if.
“Fine, fine. It’s my fault. I should not have had that last caramel iced latte in Santa Barbara, but TJ said it was a delish coffee shop and—oh!”
I turn forward to see that traffic has miraculously parted like the Red Sea. This is better than a screaming orgasm!
I grip the wheel and press the gas in my tricked-out electric, which I picked up in San Francisco over the weekend.
“We need a final song,” I tell Gigi. Because life’s big moments demand anthems, and I have just the tune. I open a playlist, then put “Runnin’ Down a Dream” on repeat. Now there’s no chance of another song playing when I roll up to my new home.
The sun is dropping toward the horizon, Tom Petty is my companion, and soon I’m cruising the streets of my Venice neighborhood, bursting—literally almost bursting—with excitement.
“One more minute till we can whiz,” I sing. My phone trills an accompaniment.
Of course. I swear my mom has a sixth sense for my every move. I click accept. “Hi, Mom. How are you?”
“Much better now,” she says with obvious relief.
That’s odd. I talked to her this morning, and she seemed fine then. “Were you sick earlier? Everything okay?” I ask, concerned for her as I scan for street signs in my new neighborhood.
“No, just worried. About you.”
Ah. Got it. “Nothing to worry about anymore. I’m almost there. Only four-tenths of a mile to go.” And my bladder is counting every fraction of that mile.
“I know,” Mom says serenely.
I laugh. That is so her. It’s sweet but scary how well she knows me. “I’m sure you timed exactly how many rest stops I’d take, how many coffees I’d down, and how many dog walks I’d stop for, and you guesstimated my average speed,” I say as I slow to a stop at the intersection.
One more block. I can see my new street up ahead. Freedom is nigh!
“Two coffees, three dog bathroom breaks, and sixty-five to seventy miles per hour. Am I right?”
“Whoa. Did you put a chip in me?” I joke because that’s impressive.