Chapter 1 Alexandria
ALEXANDRIA
For the first time since I let my best friend talk me into diving back into dating, I admit defeat.
In the last six months I’m positive I’ve found every damn frog in the dating pool—some slimier than others—and not one of them was a prince in disguise.
Not that I kissed any of them to find out. Or even wanted to.
Months in the dating game have taught me one thing. Dating is a full-body contact sport. One I don’t want to play. Ever again.
The saddest part about the last few months is that I can count on one hand the number of dates I’ve actually enjoyed.
The two times I was stood up. Both turned out great because I had no one to please but myself when choosing what to eat or do after dinner.
Surprisingly, going to the movies alone isn’t as depressing as it sounds or I thought it would be.
Since then I’ve gone on my own every time a new movie came out I wanted to see and neither of my best friends could join me.
Then there was the one date where I chatted with the woman in the seat next to me—not my date who was busy making eyes at the woman on his other side—about the play we were watching and the dress I was wearing. My date hadn’t complimented my outfit, but she sure had.
Sliding into the driver’s seat of my car, I close the door and my eyes and lean back against the headrest, wondering how the hell I got here.
Thirty-six.
Single.
Divorced.
Childless.
Ten years ago, I never could have seen this coming.
Never could have predicted where I’d be in my mid-thirties.
A decade ago, I was twenty-five, planning my fairytale wedding to the man of my dreams and looking forward to the life we’d build, the children we’d have.
Except every year there was a reason why we should wait before starting a family.
He wanted to enjoy being just us—husband and wife—for a little longer.
We bought a dream home and needed to get settled.
It wouldn’t be good to travel while pregnant in case I suffered morning sickness.
He needed to spend extra time at work before and after he made partner at the law firm my great grandfather founded.
Always a reasonable excuse to put off starting a family.
And I bought them all. Hook, line, and sinker.
Until the woman who called herself executive assistant instead of secretary announced she was pregnant.
With my dream man’s baby.
It infuriates me to think I wasted most of my adult life on a man who so easily turned us into a cliché.
And to add insult to injury, it isn’t even twelve months since our divorce was final and they are expecting baby number two any day.
Sitting here, I can’t decide if my best friend’s suggestion to start dating was a good idea or not. It has taken my mind off everything Julian robbed me of. Especially when he seems happy to give my dreams to someone else. Not that I want him back. Or wish I was her.
No. I am well and truly over my ex-husband, and honestly, with time and distance, I can say I’m grateful to be out of that one-sided relationship.
It has taken a while, a lot of internal reflection and talking to my best friends, but I finally accept Julian never loved me the way I’d loved him. Or loved who I thought he was.
Turns out, the loving, honorable man I believed I married was a figment of my imagination.
I don’t feel like I missed out on something with Julian. But I did miss something. I’m just not sure what’s missing is something most of us are lucky enough to find.
It doesn’t help that my best friend has stumbled on to one of the good ones. A man who worships the ground she walks on, treats her like an equal—like she matters—and supports her in everything she does. I’ve never seen a relationship like theirs.
Then again, Carter isn’t from our social circle, doesn’t come from money or privilege. He might not be rolling in cash but he is rolling in morals. He would never cheat on Olivia. Never knock up his assistant then marry her the second his first wife was legally removed.
“Fuck!”
It feels good to yell the curse even if it is contained inside my car and no one can hear me. Maybe that’s why it feels so good. Maybe that’s my problem. Instead of worrying about what everyone else wants, I should worry about me. Do only what I want.
Maybe I should forget about finding new people to enter my life and concentrate on those already in it. I don’t need a man to buy me things or take me places. I can do that myself.
And spending time with men who aren’t interested in anything more than a roll in the sheets or someone to suck their dick isn’t what I want to be doing either.
Except at heart, I’m a pleaser. I know it. I thought I’d curbed those tendencies after my divorce, but maybe I haven’t. Maybe I’m the pushover Julian once told me I was.
Dinner tonight is a classic example of my doormat ways. I agreed to meet my date at a restaurant I knew I’d hate.
Raw might attract the elite of Sydney’s society and serve the best sashimi in the city with the prices to match, but I’m not a fan of fish. Raw or otherwise.
Which burns even more when the toad—tonight’s date does not deserve frog status—expected me to pay for my own meal!
I open my eyes to find the street through my windshield empty. The flashy car my date arrived in is no longer parked in front of mine.
I scoff. The toad didn’t even stick around to make sure I not only got into my car safely but got safely on my way.
Slapping the steering wheel with my palm, I let loose the emotions rising in my chest with a primal scream.
When I slap it a second time, I wrap my fingers around the cool leather and yell, “I’m done with selfish men!” Shoving the key in the ignition and turning it, I yell, “So done with men!”
Except when my voice fades away, the only response I get from my car is a quiet click, click, click. And with each twist of the key, I realize I might be forced to deal with the opposite sex after all.