Confessions of a Bookaholic
Reviewof My Personal Love Story: 1.5 Stars
Love burns holes in the hearts of the innocent; the holes in mine are now permanent scars, reminders to always guard your heart.
I’m done with Lucas Stone, the drool-worthy morsel of hunky-hotness everyone read about when I accidentally published my digital diary online almost a year ago.
Done with him ignoring my calls.
Done with seeing him sprinkled all over TMZ riding the JockStar Express.
Done with Mr. Money Bags, the NFL’s Most Valuable Prick.
Just. Done.
Shame on him for treating me like some throwaway hussy.
Shame on me for still wanting to get lost in his touch, his kisses, his love—but no one gets to fuck my heart up the way he did.
Mind made up, I’m on my way to London, England, shuffled away to the airport byCosmo’sluxury car service, waving goodbye to all the broken promises of forever, goodbye to the idea of happy endings, goodbye to romance books and their stupid too-good-to-really-ever-exist book boyfriends, goodbye to false hopes. My personal love story gets 1.5 stars.
This is my last blog entry.
Why? As you all may recall, I’ve shamelessly compared all book boyfriends to Lucas Stone, and seeing how I’d rather imagine a block of cheese instead of him, I need to step away from reading and reviewing, step away while I embark on this new chapter in my life, step away while I mend a tragically broken heart…
Take care of yourselves, my book besties,
Macy Sinclair, Former Romance Bookaholic
39
London, England
Two Weeks Later
“This is where we keep all the bloody file folders and rubbish we rarely use anymore since most things are stored digitally.” Oliver, the lead assistant to the Social Media Director was giving me a rundown on all thingsCosmopolitan,London.
Tall and incredibly handsome, he trekked fast as I struggled to keep up, spoke with a strong cockney accent, and wore a tight, muscle-hugging button-down with a different color bow tie every day.
“And do not, I repeat, donotever put anything that is not almond milk in her tea,” he leaned in, lowering his high-pitched voice an octave, “because she will shit her knickers, literally.”
“Oh,” I said, face heating, taking copious notes as we sprinted through the large office space. “And what about her lunch order again? Salad with or without dressing?”
Giving me a sideways glance, Oliver halted his tracks, chin raised high. “I usually make it a habitnotto repeat myself, expecting fresh blood to keep up with my flow.” He turned to face me, eyeing me up and down. “But I like you, Blondie. Feel like we could be mates.”
“Mates?”
He rolled his eyes. “Bloody Americans.Friends, okay? Mates, as in friends. Anyway, on her salad”—he paused, flicking his gaze to pencil and pad in my hand—“you’ll want to write this down.” He waited until he saw me scribbling. “Dressing on the side, two croutons, four dried cranberries, and six pieces of baked chicken breast…diced.”
“Right. Got it,” I said, wanting to die.
It was my first full week and there was so much to learn. How to answer the phones, who was who, where to go for tea and coffee orders—all when I struggled to remember how to get from my tiny corporate-owned apartment to the office most days, which is sad considering it was just around the corner.
“Anyway,” he said, motioning for me to follow. “Poppy Wright hates imperfection. So, the way to see she’s happy is to make sure everything is perfect. Now, today, I’ll leave it up to you to fetch her salad.” He flashed a plastic smile that faded almost instantly. “Best of luck.”
“Right. Cool. Thanks.”
“I asked for extra cranberries.Can’t you getanythingright?”
