 by Winter Renshaw.jpg)
Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98485 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98485 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Alec Mansfield haunted my memories like a cruel specter. In high school, he was my tormentor and the bane of my existence. When he wasn’t defying authority alongside my older brothers, he was sabotaging my dates and sending me “anonymous” emails signed “yours cruelly.”
Alec was merciless, an emerald-eyed devil spending his daddy’s money and wreaking havoc over our hometown of Sapphire Shores like he owned the place. But mostly, he hated that I didn’t fawn over him like all the other girls did.
It’s been ten years since he left town.
But now he’s back, working as an ER doctor at the local hospital, and in a strange twist of fate, we match on a dating app. I agree to meet up, but only because I want to tell him off for making my life a living hell all those years ago. But four cocktails, one tequila shot, and a shared Uber later, I find myself about to have scorching-hot hate sex with my sworn nemesis.
The next morning, I leave before the sun comes up, slamming the book on that chapter of my life forever.
Except a few weeks later, I discover our story has an epilogue—one that starts with two pink lines on a pregnancy test.
Turns out there are things more life-altering than hooking up with Alec Mansfield … like having his baby.
NOTE: This is a complete standalone that can be read without reading HATE MAIL first, though it's strongly recommended if you want to avoid spoilers.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
Stassi
I’m not one to call people losers, but the guy slumped over the bar, giving me sleepy-eyed come-hither looks over his beer? It’s not looking good for him.
“You should go talk to him,” Madison, my roommate-slash-ride-or-die, kicks me under the table. “He has this clueless Bambi thing going on. It’s kind of endearing actually.”
“Did you forget to wear your contacts again?” The guy has serial-killer eyes and a neck that rivals most giraffes. On top of that, his nostrils keep flaring like two ever-expanding black holes. I’m two drinks in, but I’m not that desperate. Not yet, anyway. “Maybe you should go talk to him.”
She considers my suggestion, sipping her strawberry basil mojito through the stirrer straw. “I’m already dating Joe though.”
I give her a look. Two random meetups and a screw in the back of a movie theater shouldn’t constitute dating in my book, but then again, what do I know? I’m in a dry spell so arid it rivals the Sahara.
As if reading my mind, Mad says, “He’s better than Bryson.”
She’s not wrong.
My last blind date—the one I got by swiping right—wound up having stale coffee breath I could smell from across the table every time he opened his mouth. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Throughout our date, he insisted on referring to himself in the third person. “Bryson Winward wants to order calamari. Bryson Winward would love to escort you home.”
At first I thought he was trying to be funny … so I laughed.
Turns out, he wasn’t.
Before our appetizer had a chance to arrive, I faked an emergency phone call and ordered an Uber faster than a person could say “mozzarella sticks with extra marinara.”
Every one of my last few dates has come in a distant second place to a book, a bubble bath, and a cold tub of Ben & Jerry’s AmeriCone Dream.
“I don’t know if I’m made for this dating scene anymore,” I say. “I thought about looking into some convents.”
“Stassi.” Tenley, one of my oldest friends, offers me a sympathetic look as she places her hand over mine. “You’ll find the right guy when you least expect it. That’s how it always goes. Once you stop looking—bam. They waltz into your life and you suddenly can’t remember life before them.”
Easy for her to say—Tenley resembles a Hadid sister, makes working at an award-winning, high-pressure law firm look like a cakewalk. On top of that, her problem is the opposite of mine. Every time she turns around, she’s getting asked out by handsome strangers and turning them down because she’s already married … to her job.
I glance at old Googly Eyes, who is now picking his teeth with his fingernail.
“Anyway,” I say. “I didn’t come out to find a guy. I came to hang with my best friends.”
Campbell, the only married one of our group, lifts a shoulder. “There’s no unwritten rule that says you can’t do both.”
Best friends since kindergarten, I always imagined Campbell would be an old spinster-type, home on weekends with her various animals and eclectic interests. She’s always been the quirky one with the oddball sense of humor. Growing up, she rarely showed romantic interest in anyone, though in college she made out with a few guys. I didn’t think she had a flirtatious bone in her body—until she showed up last year sporting a glimmering diamond ring, a mile-wide grin, and the most shocking news she’d ever delivered: she was engaged—and to a devastatingly gorgeous billionaire, no less.