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Just My Type
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A new standalone, romantic comedy from Tara Sivec!
Live in the best small town in the world? Check.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you say you were happy? LOLOLOLOL!” ~ Life
Ember Hastings never thought she’d be dragged away from White Timber and everything she loved, thrust in the middle of a big city she hated, or have her husband of nine years say, “I can’t do this anymore,” all within the span of three months, yet here she is.
She misses her family, she misses the farm, and she misses having a backbone and caring whether or not the stain on her shirt is chocolate or shit. She works from home doing transcription. Does she really need to shower or leave the house?
Baker Matthews has been bringing everyone down lately with his grouchy attitude. His job is stressful, and sometimes depressing, but he wouldn’t change anything about it. When a glitch with the transcription company he’s using mistakenly sends him notes he wasn’t supposed to see, Baker finds himself laughing out loud for the first time in months.
He’s never met a woman who says whatever she’s thinking and doesn’t fawn all over him when she finds out what he does for a living. Until Ember Hastings comes barreling into his life, calling him Shit Mouth and asking if he has any balls.
But she wants to keep this professional. She made him pinky swear, and you don’t mess around with pinky swears. Baker will have to get creative if he wants to prove to Ember that he’s just her type.
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“Fifty bucks says he’ll come downstairs and start whining about how hard it is.”
I laugh at what my best friend Brooklyn just said, as I balance my cell phone between my cheek and shoulder, so I can finish loading the dishwasher from dinner.
“I’m not taking that bet, because it’s already a foregone conclusion. I ask him to help out around the house, and he either can’t figure it out, can’t find whatever it is he needs to accomplish said task, or he messes it up so I have to do it anyway. This is the joy of marriage. Repeating the same mistakes over and over again until one of you dies,” I tell her with a sigh, rinsing off a plate before shoving it onto the bottom rack.
“Men are such pussies. Well, except for your brother. He is the opposite of a pussy. Which would be a dick, but he’s not that either. Although his dick is super impressive.”
She lets out a low moan of satisfaction through the line that makes me want to throw up the pot roast I made for dinner. My brother Clint and my best friend Brooklyn finally pulled their heads out of their asses and confessed their undying love for each other a few months ago. After being at each other’s throat for our entire childhoods, I never thought I’d see the day when those two not only got along without constantly hurling insults at each other, but fall so deeply in love that everyone around them was slightly jealous. Myself included. I can handle the jealousy on most days, because this is my best friend and my brother we’re talking about, and I couldn’t be happier for them. What I can’t handle is Brooklyn making any mention of my brother’s pieces and parts south of the border.
I pause with a fork in my hand, wondering how long it’s been since I moaned appreciatively about anything having to do with my husband. It would be nice if I could say our struggles began as soon as he uprooted us from my small hometown of White Timber, Montana and moved us to Chicago three months ago, when he was offered a huge job opportunity he couldn’t pass up. Sadly, I’d be lying to myself if I said that. Our troubles began long before then. Troubles I kept to myself. Troubles I figured would work themselves out eventually, because at the end of the day, I thought we were solid. Troubles I hoped would magically disappear if he took this dream job and was finally content with his life.
Moving away from White Timber, the people I love, my family’s pumpkin farm, and the only home I’d ever known was the hardest thing I’ve done in my life, and I’ve given birth naturally, without drugs. But I did it for Brandon. I did it, because for the first time in years, he was excited about something. For the first time in a long time, I was hopeful about our future together. I figured maybe a move to a big city, something Brandon had always dreamed about, was what we needed. A new start. A change of pace. A place to live where everyone didn’t know your business—or whatever poor choices you made the night before—by 9:00 a.m. the following morning. Unfortunately, all moving did was put a big, flashing, neon sign on our problems, the chasm between us growing bigger and bigger every single day.
“Speaking of dicks, how was the fancy-ass dinner you hosted last night with all of Brandon’s co-workers? Did he give you an unlimited supply of orgasms after everyone left, for all the work you did to get ready for it?” Brooklyn asks, pulling me out of my depressing thoughts as I put the fork in the dishwasher and continue grabbing more dirty dishes out of the sink.
I haven’t told Brooklyn or my brother about what’s been going on since we moved here. Hell, I never told them about mine and Brandon’s problems before we moved here. She knows I haven’t really adjusted well to living in a big city, but that’s it. That might be the only good thing about moving away from White Timber. It’s easier to keep up with the lie that your life is perfect and everything is wonderful, when it’s nothing but a great big dumpster fire. I hate lying to my best friend, and the guilt eats me alive every time she makes a random comment about Brandon and our relationship. I don’t even know why I do it anymore. I think I’ve just been pretending for so long that I’m in too deep. If I tell her now, she will lose her fucking mind on me. I don’t need that added stress in my life. Not right now. When Brandon and I are back on solid ground again, I’ll explain everything to her then. Brandon and I will get there eventually; I know we will. I just need to be strong and have faith.