Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 65712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 263(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 263(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
Read Online Books/Novels: | Trust (Wrong #3) |
|---|---|
Author/Writer of Book/Novel: | Jana Aston |
| Language: | English |
| Book Information: | |
“Knock knock!” “Um… Who’s there?” Yeah. That was me, on my last date. Before you feel sorry for me you should know that I was the one telling the jokes. Jokes as in plural, because I didn’t stop with just one. Of course not. Hi, I’m Chloe Scott. The most awkward single girl in the city. But I’m going to get it together. I am. I’m going to learn how to date like a grown up. I’m going to have an orgasm not given to myself. I’m going to fall in love and live happily ever after. Right after I get out of this interrogation room. | |
| Books in Series: | Wrong Series by Jana Aston |
| Books by Author: | Jana Aston Books |
One
Chloe
“Look at us. We are so ladies who lunch.” Everly glances at the waitress. “Can I have tea, love? Do you have tea with a proper cup and saucer?” Everly blinks at the waitress in complete sincerity while the poor woman smiles politely and replies that they just have regular mugs. The four of us—Sophie, Sandra, Everly and myself—have met for lunch at the Italian restaurant located in the building Sophie lives in. We just sat down, so I’m not sure yet why Everly is speaking in the worst attempt at a British accent I’ve ever heard.
“She’ll have an iced tea—in a regular glass. Thank you.” I cut Everly off and smile at the waitress, who happily accepts my interference and bolts. It’s warm inside the restaurant so I slip out of the sweater I put on before I left the house. You never can predict how the weather will behave in October, so it’s best to be prepared.
“Cheerio, Chloe, thank you for ordering for me.”
“Why in the hell are you suddenly British?” I lower my menu and stare at her.
“She’s practicing,” Sandra says. “Sawyer’s taking her to London with him on a business trip.”
“I can’t imagine anyone really speaks like that in London,” I say drily.
“They might, mates, they might.” Everly looks hopefully around the table while Sandra, Sophie and I stare at her, unconvinced. “Am I getting any better, loves?”
“You might want to work on that a bit longer,” Sophie suggests. “Or maybe just get a hat. They wear a lot of hats in the UK, don’t they?”
“Oh, holy shit, I am getting a fascinator!” Everly drops the accent and her face lights up as she waves her hands around in excitement.
“Here we go,” I mumble. “Thanks, Sophie.”
“Do you think I can get one online? Or do you think I should wait till I get there to buy one?” Everly’s eyes widen. “Do you think I can pull off a feather?”
“You should definitely wait,” Sophie tells her, setting down her menu. “Definitely not to the feather. Now pick something to eat. I’m starving. And if you try to order fish and chips in an Italian restaurant I will punch you in the face.”
“Tsk, tsk, someone’s a little crabby,” Everly complains.
“I’m not crabby, I’m pregnant. So freaking pregnant. I’ve been pregnant for a year. I know it’s nine months, blah blah, but guess how long nine months is in gestation time? I’ll tell you, it’s an eon. My ankles are swollen, my boobs are ginormous, my back aches and I’m big enough to be carrying a litter, but no, my doctor and my husband both insist there’s only one baby in there.” She finishes her rant pointing to her stomach. “One!”
We all stop looking at our menus to look at Sophie. She’s adorable, actually. She looks good pregnant, even if she doesn’t think so. Her stomach is indeed huge—she’s due in less than two weeks—but it looks like she’s got a basketball shoved under her shirt. She’s all limbs and bump.
“Yeah, about that.” Everly waves at Sophie’s stomach. “How is the sex with that thing?” The question is directed at Sophie, but Sandra blushes and I groan.
Sophie doesn’t even blink. Apparently growing a human reduces your embarrassment threshold. “I’m horny all the time,” Sophie wails in a whisper. “All the freaking time. Luke says it’s the hormones and perfectly normal, but I don’t think it’s normal. I think I’m a pregnant pervert.”
“So like…” Everly looks at her seriously, smoothing her long dark hair over her shoulders and leaning in closer. “Doggie style?”
Sandra and I glance at each other, then to Sophie. Fine, I’m curious. That bump is huge.
“For a while, but my boobs got so big it hurts when they bounce. So now I cowgirl him and make him hold my boobs with his hands.”
Huh. Well, then.
“Well, I am never having children,” Everly proclaims, eyeing Sophie’s bump warily, “but I might cowgirl Sawyer when I get home.”
“You have a child,” I remind her.
“Obviously, Chloe,” she replies, waving her hand at me dismissively. “And Jake is the most perfect kid anyone could ever hope for. But he arrived already walking, talking and potty-trained.” She looks at Sophie’s giant bump again with genuine concern in her eyes. “I wonder if Sawyer has any other secret baby mommas.” She says this hopefully, like only she could. “A little girl would be super fun if I didn’t have to push her out of my vagina.”
Sophie’s the first one of us to have a baby, even though Everly has a five-year-old son, Jake. Everything is happening so fast. Well, for my friends anyway. Sophie met Luke last fall during our senior year at Penn. She was pregnant and married before graduation. Everly met Sawyer last Thanksgiving and they were married over the summer. Sawyer’s son from a previous relationship lives with them full-time and Everly adapted to insta-motherhood better than anyone could have expected. She’s working on a children’s book series about blended families now. Weird, I know. I always assumed she’d write porn. And then there’s Sandra; she’s a few years older than us. Sandra works for Everly’s husband and quickly became a part of our friendship circle, or squad, as Everly prefers we call it. Sandra started dating Gabe at the beginning of the year and was living with him by summer.