One of a Kind

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

HAPPY FRIGGING NEW YEAR

“Yo! Mac. Hottie at three o’clock,” my best friend says as she approaches me.

Looking to my right, I scan the crowd. “I don’t see any hotties.”

“No, I said three o’clock,” Lauren clarified, annoyed. “Don’t make me point. It’s bad manners.”

“I know. I looked at three o’clock and saw only Father Time.” Seriously, there’s a guy dressed up as Father Time. Ah, New Year’s Eve in Chicago. It brings out the crazies.

“No, dork, my three o’clock.”

“That would be my nine o’clock, not my three o’clock.”

“Crap, girl, just look to the right.”

“Wait, my right or your right?” Lauren can be so confusing.

“Jesus, now he’s gone. You missed him. He was your dream man.”

“Ooh, you mean he looked like Jason Momoa?” I look frantically around the room.

“What? No. Jason Momoa is your dream man?”

“Uh… yeah. After Game of Thrones, he’s everyone’s dream man. Ooh, did you know he’s the new Aquaman? He was perfect for that part. The man is a god.”

“Well, this guy was hot, and he was actually here,” Lauren says, rolling her eyes. Even at the best of times, the girl barely puts up with me. She continues, “He’s got blond hair, and he had that faux-hawk fade haircut that’s so in right now. Plus, he had on nerd glasses.”

“Holy shite. I love me some faux-hawk. Add the nerd spectacles, and I can feel it in my pantaloons, giiirrrl. Gimme. Where is he?”

Lauren giggles. “God, you’re such a dork. Spectacles? Pantaloons? Where do you come up with that stuff?”

“I read a lot of Regency-era romances.”

“You mean Regency erotica. You’re a pervert,” she deadpans.

I let out a surprised giggle. Lauren, Lauren, Lauren. “It’s not erotica. It’s romance. Sure, there are some naughty little debutantes types in the books and even some wicked rakes, but it’s all in good fun.”

“Whatevs. I’m going back to Blake. He’ll be lost without me.”

I snort, rather unattractively, I’m sure.

But the truth is, she’s right. Blake is her husband of almost a year, and he would literally be lost without her.

I’m not sure the man can choose his own clothes, to be honest. I think she chooses his outfit for the next day and sets it all out before they go to bed.

It works for them, and I guess there’s nothing wrong with it.

He adores her and she him, no matter how creepy their love seems to me.

Now that I’m on my own again, I decide to move around the ballroom with eyes peeled for the mysterious “hottie at three o’clock.

” While I do, I do my best to put this into perspective.

Even if I find him, Mr. Hottie would not be interested in me.

There’s nothing extraordinary about MacKenzie Blue Parker.

I’m just your average woman with an average face and a larger-than-average ass, but who does have an interesting middle name.

“Thank you, Mom,” I say softly, looking up toward heaven.

I’m not sure why she used a color for my middle name.

When I asked Pops about it, he just said she was whimsical.

I love that he used that word to describe my mom.

I don’t remember a lot about her, but I do remember that she was pretty and lots of fun.

I squeeze through the throng, turning my body this way and that, saying “excuse me,” “pardon me,” and “oh, I’m sorry my ass knocked your drink out of your hand.

” After all that, I’m grumpy, my feet hurt, my head hurts, and I’m still hungry even after nibbling on the delightful spread they’ve got here.

I’m trying to look on the bright side but ugh, New Year’s Eve sucks.

Are you wondering why my feelings about such an optimistic holiday have taken a nose dive?

Personal history. Yep, personal history tells me New Year’s Eve is a night filled with loneliness, sore feet, and worst of all, shattered expectations.

I’m referring specifically to the promised kiss at midnight that never seems to happen—at least not for me.

Why did I let Lauren talk me into coming to this fancy-schmancy party tonight?

Oh, I remember. It’s because I’m a sucker for my best friend’s charms. I’m a grown-ass woman.

You’d think I could turn her down, but Lauren Jacobs-Warner practically guaranteed that I’d have the time of my life tonight and I’d get a kiss at midnight.

I don’t know why I let her do this to me time and time again.

Yeah, my dress is fabulous. I actually feel sort of pretty in it.

Pretty but pained. I’ve been thrust into fashion purgatory with four-inch heels and a too-tight Spanx undergarment.

Ugh. I seriously think the people that invented Spanx are sadists—not to mention strange.

I mean, who says “undergarment”? No offense, Spanx Incorporated, or whatever you call your business.

To be honest, I’d rather be home watching Netflix and eating junk food.

That’s my usual activity on holidays like this one, but my best friend sweet-talked me into this.

I told her I didn’t have the appropriate clothes for this part.

I even modeled my best outfit, a pair of black leggings and sparkly top.

But that wouldn’t do for my friend, the little socialite.

So she gave me a dress, an old one of hers that she “didn’t really like.

” I don’t believe her for a second. I mean, how could she not love this dress? This dress is Ah. Maze. Ing.

Imagine a dress that Audrey Hepburn might wear in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

It’s black with a delicate lace overlay.

Beneath the lace overlay is a satin dress with a sweetheart bodice.

The lace top has a boat neck that is open to my shoulder.

Simply put, it’s spectacular. Itchy, but spectacular.

Oh, and it’s got pockets. It’s perfection.

It has three-quarter sleeves and a flirty skirt that’s lined with tulle so that it flares out at the waist and stops right above my knee in a 1950s style.

It’s a flattering silhouette, because it hides my larger-than-average rump.

The truth is, that’s the only reason this dress fits me, because Lauren’s got a perfect bod.

She’s five-feet-eight with an hourglass figure in perfect proportion.

I’d be jealous if I didn’t adore her. But I do, so I’m not.

To ensure I’d attend this little shindig, Lauren even provided me with a date—her cousin, Frederick.

He’s not really my type, though. Not that I have a type.

I haven’t even had an actual boyfriend, per se, so maybe type is the wrong word.

I have book boyfriends, sure. Television and movie boyfriends, of course, but nothing in the flesh.

Yeah, so type is the wrong word. Perhaps I should just say he’s not my dream man.

He’s short, only an inch or two taller than my five-feet-five-inches.

He’s also a tad doughy. I know that’s not at all nice to say since I’m a bit doughy myself.

But he’s got a paunch on him like a sixty-year-old man, and he’s only in his thirties.

He’s a little too young to have the dad bod, if you ask me.

Too judgy? If so, I’m sorry. I’m sure Freddy is a great guy.

He seems nice enough, though. I’ve met him at a couple of the Jacobses’ family gatherings.

The Jacobses are rich as Croesus. That’s what Pops used to call rich people.

It fits. He’s rolling in it. So, this is more his kind of party, not mine.

Lauren means well—she really does. But I’m so not this girl.

I’m a starving artist. Figuratively. Not literally.

No, literally, I live off of forty-cent packages of ramen noodles and macaroni and cheese in the blue box, so, no, I’ve got lots of carb-induced meat on my bones.

Case in point. Right this minute I’m surrounded by hundreds of rich people, famous people, important people, and politicians.

I think I saw the governor a few minutes ago.

We’re in a huge ballroom in one of the five-star hotels in downtown Chicago.

The ballroom is practically the size of a football field.

Above me are the most spectacular chandeliers I’ve ever seen.

They’re enormous and appear to be dripping with jewels.

The way they glitter and sparkle makes the entire space feel like a scene from a fairy tale.

Because I’m no princess, and this place is so beyond anything I’ve ever seen, it makes me feel self-conscious.

Everyone is dressed in tuxedos and beautiful gowns or cocktail dresses like mine.

Thankfully, I don’t look completely out of place here.

Waiters and waitresses dressed in penguin suits are walking around with trays of finger foods and flutes of champagne.

There’s a relatively large orchestra sitting off in the far corner near the huge dance floor.

Several couples are already out there cutting a rug; not the kind of dancing I’m used to.

This is fancy, grown-up, ballroom dancing, not the grind-your-ass-into-the-guy-behind-you dancing that I’ve done at clubs.

No matter, I won’t be dancing tonight unless I want to make a complete fool of myself.

As my eyes scan the room, I notice the long table filled with endless amounts of food and delectable-looking desserts, and my stomach rumbles.

Of course, I’m hungry. In the center of the table is a giant ice sculpture of a swan.

If it were sitting on the floor, it would probably stand taller than me.

The swan’s neck is bent down as though it’s ready to take a bite out of all of the deliciousness below it.

The main bar is nearby, while other smaller bar stations are located throughout the ballroom.

Deciding a drink is in order, I cross my fingers that it’s an open bar.

I brought a little money with me, but I’d rather save that in case I need a taxi home.

Walking to the bar, I look to my right and spot Lauren standing with her husband, Blake.

I recognize the people they’re with as old family friends.

I scan the other way in search of my “date.” Now, where did he go?

I spot him standing near the bar with a group of guys.

They’re in a small circle, and each man has his phone in his hands, texting.

I walk toward Frederick in the hopes that he’ll be fun tonight.

He hasn’t proven to be much of a date thus far, but he is doing me a favor, I guess.

I’m sure Lauren had to coerce him into bringing me.

I move to stand next to him and wait for him to notice me.

Should I tap him on the shoulder so he knows I’m here?

Do I stand and wait for Frederick to ask me to dance or if I’d like a drink?

I decide to do my best to be a good date.

I wait. And wait. And wait. Nearly ten minutes pass, and Frederick does nothing but text and talk to his buddies.

None of the guys even look at me. It’s annoying.

What? Am I hideous? I don’t think I’m that tragic-looking.

I’ve got cool hair that’s naturally reddish-auburn and cut bluntly just past my shoulders.

I’ve also got the ends tipped with blue tonight, like my middle name.

It’s only temporary color, but I’m an artist; we artists need to have funky hair at special events.

It’s the law. I giggle, which draws several pairs of eyes to me. Oh, now Frederick notices me.

“You okay?” he asks. He doesn’t make eye contact with me, and before I can respond, he’s back to his phone. I hear him mutter to his buddies, “Chick is weird.” The men chuckle at that little slight, and that’s it? That’s all I get? Whatever.

“Asshole,” I grumble as I start to move around the room again. I can keep myself entertained. I’m used to doing things alone. That’s probably why I hate stuff like this. I’m much better on my own, in my own world, in my own head. There’s nothing wrong with being alone. It’s being lonely that sucks.