Genre: Romantic Comedy
Publisher: Self Published
Date of Publication: January 11, 2016
Number of pages: 225
Word Count: 64,930
I’m having the suckiest day ever. First, my father, aka Mr. Grumpy Pants, calls to say his nurse just walked out on him. Likely story. I rush home to pack, only to walk in on my husband getting it on with his younger, skanky secretary. Unfortunately, my quick weekend trip home to fix Dad’s problems turns into a stay of a few weeks. Luckily, I’ve got Danny, the neighbor boy I’ve had a crush on since I was a dorky, braces-wearing, nose-buried-in-a-book teenager, and a brand-spanking new blog to keep my mind off things. Before I know it, I’m writing product reviews of vibrators and getting questioned by a store rent-a-cop at the world’s worst date ever. All while trying to figure out how to take things with Danny to the next level. Not to complicate things or anything, but my boss decides to give me an ultimatum—come back in four weeks or don’t come back at all. How in the world did my life get so complicated?
Stomping. That’s how my mornings begin. To be completely fair, I don’t think Dad purposely wakes me up with stomping every morning. Not like when I was a teenager in high school and he was deliberately loud as all get out when he woke in the morning. But whether he means to do it or not, Dad’s thunderous footfalls wake me every morning.
There’s no time to lollygag in bed and slowly come to life. Not when his highness needs to be fed. Dad would just love for me to feed him bacon and eggs every morning. But the doctor put the kibosh to that idea. Which is a good thing since I’m not a short order cook. I’m not a cook at all. In fact, if it’s not a premix package or a microwave meal, I’m in trouble. Trouble with a capital T.
After Mr. Grumpy Pants is fed, I head back down to my basement domain to get some writing done. I have a blog, Molly’s Misadventures, or is it a website? Well, whatever it is, I spend the morning writing at least one blog entry. I usually finish before lunch and then it’s time to lace up my running shoes and get my jog on. Now, don’t get the wrong idea, I’m not some fitness freak or anything like that. Nope. I’m just a curvy girl who knows that if she wants to continue to enjoy a glass of wine or two, she needs to get her run on. At only two inches above five foot, my female assets can move from voluptuous to overweight at the mere sight of a bottle of Pinot Noir.
Dad grumbles that I only make him sandwiches for lunch when I come home hot and sweaty from my run. If he thinks his grumbling is going to convince me to make him a hot meal, he’s living in la la land. Oh, I probably should explain why I act as Dad’s slave. He has emphysema from a lifetime two-pack-a-day habit. So far his disease hasn’t progressed much. He has to use oxygen almost all the time, but that’s it. Secretly I think his lazy gene took one look at his diagnosis and thought Yeah! Time to become a bum! But that could just be me feeling bitter.
After listening to Dad grunt through lunch, I head back to my computer and spend the afternoon going through emails and trying to come up with blog and marketing ideas. Sometimes I even escape my basement incarceration and head outside to do a product review or an interview for Molly’s Misadventures. I’m doing a whole series on life coaches and often meet with my own life coach who helps me with the series. She also sponsors the blog, which means she’s in the top five of my favorite people.
In the evenings, I often babysit the girl next door. I’m not a babysitter or anything like that, but I do have a major crush on the girl’s dad. I sometimes manage to finagle the man into drinking a glass of wine with me on the porch after he puts his daughter to bed. Apparently I’m not above using a child to try and get a boyfriend. Actually, I’m not sure if I really want a boyfriend since I’m in the middle of a divorce. That’s doesn’t mean I don’t want to spend as much time with my drool-worthy neighbor. Everyone keeps telling me to take chances. This is me taking a chance. Gulp.
I grew up reading everything I could get my hands on from my mom’s Harlequin romances to Nancy Drew to Little Woman. When I wasn’t flipping pages in a library book, I was penning horrendous poems, writing songs no one should ever sing, or drafting stories which have thankfully been destroyed. College and a stint in the U.S. Army came along, robbing me of free time to write and read, although I did manage every once in a while to sneak a book into my rucksack between rolled up socks, MRIs, t-shirts, and cold weather gear. A few years into my legal career, I was exhausted, fed up, and just plain done. I quit my job and sat down to write a manuscript, which I promptly hid in the attic after returning to the law. Another job change, this time from lawyer to B&B owner and I was again fed up and ready to scream I quit, which is incredibly difficult when you own the business. Thus, I shut the B&B during the week and in the off-season and started writing. Several books later I find myself in Istanbul writing full-time.
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