Chapter 2
LAUREN
Paris,France
PresentDay
“Total garbage,”I yell, tossing the long, rectangular box into the trash. I look at my best friend Arabella’s wide-eyed face staring at me through my tablet screen. “Why can’t the men I date read my freakin’ bio? It’s not like I date dummies for Heaven’s sake. They can allread.”
Um, no he didn’t…roses?Ugh.
I ease onto the stool in front of my vanity table, and blow my nose into another tissue, waiting for my best friend, Arabella, to bring on her voice of reason. This is the third guy I’ve dated in less than two months who’s basicallyfailed.
“Now, hun, perhaps the idiot didn’t read yourbio?”
Okay. I love Arabella to bits. The two of us have been best friends since we were sorority sisters in college. But, her explanation makes no kinda sense. You see, my hatred for everything flowers and candy has been liberally sprinkled all over my social media profiles, like fact-boosting fairydust.
It’s not like it’sfakenews.
It’s basicallyunmissable.
Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, Google Plus—all share the same blatant description of yourstruly:
Lauren Blake, Fashionista Extraordinaire. Creator and CEO ofHaute CoutureClothing. Lover of cupcakes and fashion. Hater of flowers andcandy.
EvenWikipediaexhibits that concise, yet highly explanatorybio.
“Really Arabella?”—she flashes an icy eye roll at my cynical timbre—“of course Jean Clau read my bio. He told me he looked me up on Google before he even asked meout.”
She lets out a tiny yawn before saying, “Well, sweetie, maybe he forgot? I mean, you’re probably the only woman on the planet who loathes flowers andcandy.”
Even though she may indeed have a valid point, I can’t help the way I feel. Flowers and candy are the epitome of some seriously overrated bull crap. I’ll never drop my panties for a guy who believes my heart can be easily bedazzled by cliche’dendowments.
Why, oh why, did he have to ruin it by sending me one-dozenroses?
It’s a crying shame too. Jean Clau wasnice.
French. Intelligent.Gorgeous.
You know, perfect onpaper.
Plus, he was a hell of a good kisser with a sweet-tasting mouth that made my lady parts swoon in envy each time his tongue danced with mine. I can only imagine how it would have been if wehad—
Well, never mindthat. It doesn’t matter now anyway. He sent meflowers—an automatic deal-breaking dreamcrusher.
#BoyBye #ReadMyBio #Never
Arabella takes a sip of whatever it is swirling around in her teacup. I can only assume it’s chamomile tea, but she’s been known to add a little somethingextrato her cup, if you know what I mean. Even if it is close to her bedtime. We are separated by time zones. She in Savannah, Georgia. Me in Paris, France. The two of us have our daily FaceTime chats in front of our vanities, while she gets ready for bed and as I get ready forwork.
“Woman, I told you at least a dozen times to leave those stuffy business types alone.” She sets the cup down on her vanity table and picks up a hairbrush, its bristles running down her soft auburn-colored curls. “Now what you really need is one of them bad boys. Not abadbad boy. A good one. A hot good badboy.”
Hot good badboy?
Not mything.
And sheknowsthis.
Arabella peels off her faux mink eyelashes just as I give my eyelashes a few strokes of mascara. “Arabella, youknow—”
