Weddings, Revenge & Fake Dating (Rom-Com Book Boyfriend #1)

1. Jeanie

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jeanie

O-Face

If my horoscope had warned me I’d be waking up this morning pretzeled with a manly blow-up sex doll as if we’d had a wild night of bumping uglies, I would have laughed. But now that I’m here, I’m ready to cry.

And honestly, I can’t be sure Bobo the Boy Balloon and I haven’t done the deed because his strangely attractive facial features are frozen with an overly happy O-face, like he came and died on impact.

At least he got his. If only I could remember mine. I frown.

His firm vinyl limbs squeak like balloons as I disentangle myself from him with slow movements. Somehow the noise hurts, making my eyeballs itch and my teeth ring like high-pitched bells.

What’s worse? Sitting up causes a new intense pain.

A hangover blooms, igniting a tremor that snakes its tentacles throughout every inch of my body. I wince and squeeze my eyes tight, deciding to feel my way through this unfortunate situation instead.

With my eyes closed, I rise from the bed with stiff, robotic movements. My bedroom floor feels different beneath my feet, but I don’t have the mental bandwidth to figure out why.

On shaky legs, I hobble forward, stub my toe, and stumble several paces until my face slams into a wall where my bathroom door should be. I whimper and stagger backward, rubbing my nose.

Maybe I should open one eye?

One sticky eye cracks open. Through the crusty blur, I discover something epically disturbing. I glance around, but I have no idea where I am. When I scratch my head in confusion, a rainbow clip-on hairpiece falls to the floor near my feet.

The unfamiliar bedroom is strangely quiet, except for the slow, methodical rotation of a highly annoying pulsing disco light. It casts purple-and-pink colored beams across the ceiling.

I navigate a myriad of crap littered across the floor ... beach balls, unicorn masks, confetti, stuffed animals, pompoms, and too many empty champagne bottles to count.

Too bad I can’t remember the wild soirée a party store clearly sponsored in my honor.

Despite the bizarre items, something even stranger captures my attention.

A brilliant halo of light peeks around the edges of a curtained wall. I know it’s not so weird to the average person, but to me, it’s the brightest sun I’ve seen during a Chicago winter since, ah, never .

Curiosity outweighs my lack of energy, so I yank open the curtains. A blinding death ray pours in, and I crouch into the shadows like a vampire disintegrating to dust. It turns out sunshine mixed with a hangover is unbearable.

I cringe. Stick a wooden stake in me.

After adjusting, I shade my eyes with my palms and investigate. Beyond the window is a bluebird-colored sky, palm trees, and charming pastel-colored lifeguard stands dotting a stretch of majestic beach.

This is not the wintry hellscape of Chicago I’m used to. In fact, this is the opposite of a blustery ice-covered city where people dress like polar bears for half the year to stay alive.

Alarmed and bordering on shock, I place my palms and naked body against the AC-chilled window, desperately scouring the landscape for more details.

Below, beautiful men and women sunbathe at a glistening pool near a tiki-style bar. On the beach, a volleyball game draws a cheering crowd. Rollerbladers and bikers glide along a meandering path, cutting between sand dunes.

Not only am I very far from Chicago, but I can’t account for how I got here.

After wrapping a bedsheet toga-style around my body, I stumble toward the nightstand. Beneath a lamp, I find a brochure for a hotel that confirms my suspicions. On the cover, it reads :

LA FONTAINEBLANC HOTEL

“Miami Beach.” I sink onto the mattress and my eyes glaze over.

Without conjuring them, a collage of memories that most likely led to this moment fill my mind: a difficult promise I made to my son, Dex, the finalized divorce with Roman, my immediate meltdown, the shock of finding out Roman was getting remarried in Miami Beach to my childhood nemesis, and then later, meltdown 2.0 with my mother trying to soothe me.

“The Beefmobile!” I scream and launch myself from the mattress.

Bedsheet trailing, I careen through a pair of double sliding-glass doors onto the terrace with a new mission. Precariously leaning over the railing, I squint at a nearby parking lot. I breathe a sigh of relief when I spot my trusty behemoth.

Parked diagonally across three spaces and crushing a bed of tropical flowers sits the Beef. It’s my thirty-foot-long, eleven-foot-high, Italian beef sandwich shaped from fiberglass on wheels, which accelerates from zero to sixty in under ten minutes. It’s one of two identical vehicles used to promote a chain of Italian beef and hotdog sandwich shops my husband, Roman, and I own in Chicago.

Or technically, he now owns. If we’re being technical, he’s my ex now.

I groan and slump onto the railing.

At least the Beef explains my mode of transportation from Chicago. I rub my cheeks while staring off into space, straining to recall what must have been a twenty-hour drive.

That’s when I spot him. He’s just beyond the swaying palm fronds below—my bunny, my handsome Roman—the namesake of Roman’s Italian Beef shop. He’s beside a lounge chair at the hotel’s pool, shrugging on a T-shirt and gathering his things.

“No. Don’t leave me. Stay there!” I hold out my hand as if this will stop him, like he could hear me from umpteen floors up.

I launch into action. The reason I came to Miami Beach suddenly shines like a flashing sign in my head.

I’m here to win back Roman and stop his ridiculous wedding!

After a quick swish of the hotel’s complimentary mouthwash, I scour the room for my suitcase. The problem? There isn’t one. The only items I find are a pair of glittery head boppers, furry rainbow leg warmers, and white panties printed with a large glittery and very appetizing-looking mango milkshake on the crotch.

“These better be mine.” Grossed out, I shimmy into them.

With a little more digging, I find a blue-and-white striped beach towel in the closet. I secure it like a spa wrap around my body. No one will know I’m topless. A pair of fruity-colored bejeweled sunglasses cover my undereye bags.

I glance at my reflection before I go. Yep, same Jeanie: too much dark hair, big bust, marshmallow hips, and a narrow nose. I tighten the towel, making sure it’s securely in place .

“Good enough,” I mumble to my reflection before darting out the door with a keycard I found on the dresser.

At the elevator bank, I press the down button several times, willing the cab to appear faster. I traipse in an anxious circle before the elevator dings and the door slides open.

Inside, I fidget again. I can’t help it. I crack my knuckles, check my wild hair in the mirrored walls, and mentally prepare for an encounter with Roman. The thing is, I’m not supposed to know about his wedding. What will he say when he sees me here?

The cab stops. I turn to race out but realize it’s not the lobby when a man appears in the opening. He’s so tall, I automatically step back until I bump the wall.

We lock gazes, and his lazy smile dazzles against his suntanned skin. A riot of dark hair and a shade of a beard suggests he just rolled out of bed too, except he’s managed to find real clothes and not look like the local trash panda.

Before he steps inside, the door slides to close, but he reaches out a defined arm to halt it. It jolts and dings at the roadblock and slides open again. His unbuttoned tropical-patterned shirt reveals a chiseled chest, while teal flip-flops and beach trunks show off his shapely calves.

Saying nothing, he steps inside and allows the door to close.

Now locked inside together, we stare at each other as the cab heats several degrees. Nervous, I shift my weight from one foot to the other. After all, I am mostly naked in an elevator with a man I’ve never met ... and I look like a maniac.

As the cab makes its slow descent, we stand in opposite corners, pretending like the other doesn’t exist. Or I think we are until he says, “I like your milkshake.”

In the steely reflection of the door, I discover my special may-or-may-not-be-mine undies are peeking out from between the slit of the towel.

“Oh, ha! You know what they say about milkshakes,” I say, trying to recall the words to an older pop song.

I readjust the towel, mentally willing it to fit around my thick thighs, and then I glance the man’s way. He appears perplexed. Probably because I’ve said something ridiculous.

My anxiety forces me to try again so he doesn’t think I’m insane. I return his compliment instead.

“And I like your, um—” I bypass the obvious: the vibrant shirt, the sexy legs, the miles-wide chest, runway-model hair, romance-book chiseled face, and instead say, “Lips.”

I like your lips? I’m dead. My eyelids sink shut, and I immediately regret slithering out of bed.

He unexpectedly laughs, and my eyes snap back open.

Is he laughing at my comment or at me? Or both? Either way, his response flusters me, so I instantly struggle for an explanation for my strange compliment to save myself from complete mortification, if that’s possible.

“Because they’re plump and moist. No, sorry.” I press a finger to my forehead and shake my head. “I’m making this worse. Saying the word moist is taboo now. Though I don’t understand why because moist cake is the best cake. So, don’t take it the wrong way, your lips are not moist like cake. No, they’re ...”

His eyebrows shoot skyward as he watches my level-ten train wreck.

Even though I’m fully aware of what’s transpiring, I can’t stop. I have to fix this. I search the ceiling, my brain reeling on. How is moist the only word I can think of?

“Your lips, they’re ...” My hands flutter in the air as if this will make me think faster. “They’re mo-mo-mo-motivational!”

Yes!

I punch my arms toward the sky to give the newly found and perfectly normal word emphasis. When I do, my protective beach towel, the one hiding my nakedness, slips off my body and drops to the floor around my bare feet.