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Casey doesn’t have much luck in the dating department, so when her girlfriends ditch their girls only weekend for a couple’s retreat, she’s forced to take desperate measures.
Refusing to be the only single one, she does what any quick-thinking girl would do:
It was almost too easy hiring a stranger to pretend to be her hot, rich, successful boyfriend. What she didn’t plan on was him being hot, successful, and way too much trouble for her liking.
Jim was in a slump in his everyday life. He was bored and needed something to spice up his life. Accepting a gig to play the perfect boy toy was not what he had in mind, but it was too good to turn down.
What he didn’t plan for was the smokin’ little spitfire who hired him. It’s a con, a job, a fraud. But the more she’s in his presence, the more he realizes she may be more than just a ruse.
Three days at a lake house.
Two strangers who cause a lot of mayhem.
One little lie.
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When you’re at the lake, it’s all puppies and daisies.
To the Lake Redstone crew:
What happens at the lake, ends up in a book.
Dreams are awesome.
Especially the one I’m having right now—dirty sex with 1980’s version of Axl Rose, the lead singer of Guns N’ Roses. “Paradise City” is playing in the background while I ride the hell out of him…in my parents’ bedroom, my childhood dog, Muffy, staring at me while a pair of wings unfurl on my back.
What the heck?
Okay, I take that back. Dreams are plain ol’ weird.
The song gets louder, and I begin to lose my focus on the good part. I yell, “Ride ’em, cowboy!” and move faster, because…well, dreams can end at any time. If the only time I get action is while I’m unconscious, I gotta get movin’ with this.
Sadly, the song continues to get louder while the dreamy schlong gets softer.
No, no, no…
I need this! Don’t go away, wet dream! Come back!
The lyrics from Paradise City blares from my phone as my eyes begin to blink awake. My phone continues to ring, and Axl fades out of existence.
Even in my dreams, I can’t keep a guy. I roll over to my phone and see a Facetime call coming through from Poppy. Shoot. What time is it? My bloodshot eyes search out my clock. It’s way past ten in the morning.
With the most dramatic sigh, I reach for my phone and accept the call. I see her smiling face, along with three other of my best girlfriends.
I was supposed to meet them for breakfast to discuss our annual girls’ trip.
“Jesus, you look like hell.” That’s Poppy, my best friend since grade school. The one I had my first tea party with, sleepover, and first real cry over a boy where we spent all night eating ice cream like they do in the movies, only to spend the rest of it vomiting from stomach aches. Typical Poppy, she doesn’t bother to coddle me or my sensitive emotions. Normally I would tell her to buzz off, but I bet looking like hell is putting it nicely.
“Casey, girl, you get yourself into a little bit of some trouble last night?” That’s Katie, third in charge. Katie and I met at a Girl Scout retreat when we were thirteen. Neither of us wanted to be girl scouts, but our moms thought it was our legacy to follow in their footsteps. We ended up ditching our tribe, and a few hops and a skip later, found the pot of gold: the boys’ cabin. The rest is history. “Come on, girl, don’t hold out!” Katie says, popping her bubble gum.
A little bit of trouble would probably be an understatement of what I accidently got myself into last night. And I say accidently, because no one actually plans to go out and get so drunk they end up at a strip club with a random guy, getting a massage from a stripper and the random guy. The déjà vu where I promised myself I’d never drink again is hitting real strong right now. “Let’s just say I let Jesus take the wheel and he definitely crashed and burned.”
Poppy rolls her eyes, while Katie laughs hysterically. We’re exactly the same. Or should I say used to be—until Katie got married and knocked up. Now, she’s all strapped down by kids, being a second-grade teacher to even more kids, and expects me to be disaster enough for us both. Tough shoes to fill.
“Oh, girl, start talking. I want every single detail.” Last, but not least, that’s June. The innocent—the friend who married right out of college and started changing diapers and planning dinner menus fresh off the alter.
“No can do, my little June-Bug,” I say, scraping some dry drool off my cheek. “I’d have to remember the night to tell.” Not that I don’t remember taking body shots off the stripper, or offering my random date a lap dance, but I’m still trying to forget the whole barfing and slipping off the stage part.
Poppy straightens in her chair and leans forward, taking up most of the screen. “Well, hangover or not, it’s time for us to plan our annual trip.”
Yeah it is! I love these trips. Every year, we pick one weekend out of our busy lives and get together for three whole days of fun and destruction. When I say busy, though, I’m clearly not referring to my own. Out of the four of us, I pulled the short straw. You know, the girlfriend who isn’t married with kids and can’t hold down a man or a job to save her life. That’s me. Casey Kasem—not the reincarnated radio jockey, to be clear. My parents didn’t think about the lifelong jokes they were opening up for people before they wrote on my birth certificate. Thanks, Mom and Dad.