Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 67831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Luckily, her childhood sweetheart, Frank, the kindest lumberjack in the world, was there to help her pick up the pieces. They reunited at a Scottish festival not far from Reindeer Corners and have been inseparable ever since. They’re married now with two kids and a thriving maple syrup business. Vivian manages the shop and distribution while Frank works for the forestry service.
They’re so happy, but it took a long time for Vivian to heal from Leo’s betrayal. For years, just the mention of Sketch Night Live was enough to make her tear up. Every time, I’d silently curse Leo Fenton and his dirty cheating dick.
Ugh! I can’t believe I indulged in a make out fantasy about this man, and I really can’t believe I almost made his life even one tiny bit easier.
I’m not usually a vengeful person, but when it comes to my friends and family, I know how to hold a grudge. I’ve never escalated a grudge to vengeance before, but suddenly I’m wondering…why not?
I mean, Fate went to a lot of trouble to ensure I ended up in an inflated igloo with this man. It seems like I should at least take this meeting and…consider my options.
“Well, this might have been meant to be,” Leo says, still looking pleased and flattered.
I beam up at him. “Seems like it.”
To myself, I add, You have no idea, buddy.
We head toward the elevator. While one part of me discusses my favorite Leo Fenton sketches with the one and only Leo Fenton, the other part of me is contemplating all the ways a person might teach a cheating reality show sleazeball a lesson he’ll never forget.
four
. . .
Leo
The meeting with Ainsley goes off without a hitch.
Ainsley charms Caroline, Caroline charms Ainsley, and I’m charmed by an excellent dirty martini as the paperwork is signed.
All is once again right with the world, and my show is back on track. The weatherman is even forecasting a warmer-than-seasonal evening for ice-skating, which will make filming more pleasant for everyone involved.
So why am I haunted by the creeping certainty that I’ve made a mistake with Miss Caroline “Candy” Cane?
“What am I missing about this girl, Satan?” I murmur as I spoon ridiculously expensive organic cat food into Greg’s dish and warm up half a stale sandwich for my own dinner. “She seems perfect. So why has my gut been in knots since she signed the production contract?”
Greg “Satan” Fluffy Stuff, the 1st of his Name, sniffs from his place on the kitchen floor, where he watches me with his typical lack of affection or respect.
It’s because you want to date her, dumbass, he says, his golden eyes glowing in his ginger face. You’ve got a crush. But the crush will still be there when filming’s wrapped, and you’re not her boss. Now please, put my fucking food down before I’m forced to gouge holes in your ugly pants with my claws.
“You have a point,” I say, setting his dish on the place mat on the floor in the corner of my tiny kitchen. I refill his water and turn to wash my hands at the sink, but my thoughts are still churning. “But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m about to get punked.”
You need a therapist. Maybe then you could stop talking to a cat, achieve a modicum of self-growth, and move the hell on from the trauma of losing Vivian.
“Why is everyone so pro-therapy for everything all of a sudden?” I snatch the towel from the stove handle and turn to glare at Satan as I dry my hands. “I mean, I support it for a woman who punches her co-workers, but I remember when therapy was reserved for people who had real issues to deal with. So, my ex ghosted me? So what? That’s not trauma. Bombs exploding in Afghanistan is trauma. A friend getting shot is trauma. Being forced to walk through Times Square on a hot summer day when it’s packed full of tourists and smells like ripe ass, is trauma, but I know all the short cuts around that cesspool so I’m fine.”
Then why are you such a bitter, jaded, sad clown who only believes in love for “the younger generations?” He turns to study me with a bored expression as he licks one orange paw clean. Say what you will about Satan, but he keeps his ginger coat impeccably groomed. You’re old, you’re not dead. Get a life.
“I’m not old,” I grumble. “Forty isn’t old. Forty is the new thirty. I read it in The Times.”
Satan’s tail flicks back and forth in silent irritation.
I exhale. “I know, you hate The Times, but they have compelling content, and the investigative journalism is unparalleled.”
The Times can suck my juicy pink asshole, he says, his tail still flicking. It’s a rag for rich East Coast yuppies. There’s nothing there for me.