One could say I am not a morning person. As in, I may be borderline vampire. All these people who wake up at the crack of dawn to enjoy a leisurely pot of coffee and read the paper completely baffle me. And don’t get me started on those five-a.m. gym weirdos. In my world, no sane person ever wakes up a minute earlier than it takes to frantically throw things together and arrive at the day’s destination a mere hair’s breadth from being tardy. And usually looking like their five-year-old styled their outfit. And hair.
Armed with my caffeine, I made my way into the laundry room to see if I had somehow managed to wash and dry appropriate clothes to dress Rocco for daycare and me for work in a somewhat presentable fashion. Luckily, the dress code at Brach Technologies, where I log my 40 hours a week, is pretty laid back. I can usually get away with pants and a blouse or even a nice t-shirt if I throw a sweater over it. Comfort is key if I’m going to sit in a cube all day being hypnotized by my monitor, so my work wardrobe receives almost zero effort from me—much to my best gal pal’s horror.
On the complete opposite end of the spectrum, my best friend, Fiona, puts together outfits in a manner I can only describe as “crafting.” Copious amounts of thought, skill, and passion are involved when Fiona gets dressed in the morning. Remember the character Cher in Clueless? Now you’re getting the picture.
Last Tuesday I rendered Fiona completely speechless (a miraculous feat in itself) when she’d picked me up from work and spied the pair of Skechers I was wearing. What?! They’re comfortable! And they were the dressy-ish kind anyway, so suck it!
The moment my Skecher-shod foot had hit the floorboard of her Prius, Fiona’s mouth dropped open, her head tilted back, and she crossed herself, all while doing some kind of deep breathing thing. I had already settled in the passenger seat so there was no escaping the drama. May as well get comfortable, so I pulled my brunette mess of hair into a sloppy ponytail with the hair tie I always keep on one wrist. Let her rant about that one too.
“Dear Saint Jimmy, she knows not what she does. I swear,” she muttered to the roof of the car.
“Um, I know who you’re talking to and I’m pretty sure he’s still alive and well and no doubt creating more toe crushers as we sit here.”
“Of course he’s not dead!” Fiona’s head snapped to me.
Oh, it looked like Exorcist Fiona was coming out to play.
“I just wanted to apologize in case he’s listening,” she whispered before clearing her scowl and finally gracing me with her cheery customary Fiona smile. “So, aside from the fact that you clearly got dressed in the dark this morning, how was work?”
Letting her dig slide like I always do, I tapped my index finger to the side of my mouth in feigned thought. “Let’s see, ten being a complete lobotomy and one being menstrual cramps, I’d give it a six. Annette brought doughnuts,” I explained.
“Mmmm,” Fiona mused while pulling carefully out of the parking lot, both of us silent for a moment, contemplating the sheer yumminess that is a perfect doughnut.
“Oh!” she brought her head around suddenly, startling the bejesus out of me. “You’ll never guess who I saw on my Starbucks run this morning! For once I know something before you do,” she taunted in a sing-song voice before prattling on and gesticulating like a varsity cheerleader with the semester’s hottest gossip. “And don’t let me forget to tell you about the party we’re invited to this weekend—a wellspring of man candy, I promise you. God, I need to get laid.” Her head tilted back before she straightened again, perhaps remembering she was supposed to be driving. “Anyway, about the coffee thing, I was running late because Gary kept reminding me about needing his half-caff extra, extra hot, as if that’s actually a thing, so I had to wait forever for the poor barista to get it right and I was just turning around when—” she stopped abruptly. “I forgot. Where am I taking you? Pete’s or the other place?”
My seven-year-old Corolla had kindly held onto the last fragments of its bald tires just long enough for me to save for the new ones, thus my chauffeured ride to the body shop. “Pete’s. He gave me a better deal on the tires and said he’d try to fix my door dent for free,” I replied. Is there anything more depressing than blowing $300 on tires?
She looked at me out of the corners of her Gucci-sunglass-covered eyes. “Yeah, and I’m sure it had nothing to do with Thelma and Louise bobbing around under his nose when he gave you the estimate.” Her chin raise saluted my “girls.” “Did he manage to bring his eyes anywhere above chin level at any point in the negotiation?”
I chose to ignore her little joke at the expense of my rack. If I’ve told her once I’ve told her a thousand times, you don’t get to have big boobs without having big other stuff to go along with it. Mother Nature has some sense of justice, after all. “So, continue with this big news,” I redirected her, pulling my drugstore sunglasses from my purse.
Fiona has what I like to call an “Oh look, something shiny!” level of distractibility. Her habit of losing track of thoughts and taking little verbal strolls during conversation can be a tad confusing. Listening to her tell a story is like picking your way through a vocal minefield. But since she’s my best friend, I choose to find it charming. As do most people, actually. That’s just Fiona—a charming little verbal-diarrhea-spewing pixie with a gorgeous heart-shaped face and wispy blond hair. She is also the most cheerful and positive person I know, and although she occasionally has a temper and definitely has a dirty mind, everyone loves Fiona. Most people would like to carry her around in their pocket like one of those celebrity purse dogs, but infinitely better. However, she’s mine and I will never give her back.
“Oh, right,” Fiona said. “So, Starbucks … anyway, the barista hands me Gary’s coffee but it’s the wrong one and I turn around to tell her mine is the venti black one, not the tiny grande with cream … although why Gary doesn’t like a little cream, I don’t know.”
Something else about Fiona? She has a mouth on her, no doubt, but she also has this uncanny knack for saying things that sound overtly sexual (at least to those of us with dirty minds, so, yeah, pretty much everyone I know), but are in fact completely innocent. And she doesn’t seem to know she does it, therefore making it all the more hi-lar-ious, especially coming out of that angelic face. It’s so bad that my idiot brother and his equally idiotic best friend have a running bet where the first one to get turned on by something Fiona unwittingly says owes the other five dollars on the spot.
“… and I practically run smack into Gavin,” I heard her say.
Speak of the devil. Literally. My idiot brother, Gavin.
“Gavin? My Gavin? My idiot brother, Gavin? What in the poop was Gavin doing at Starbucks? He doesn’t have enough money for a Starbucks coffee. He doesn’t have enough money for a complimentary coffee!”
“Well, I know, but give him a break,” she chided and then grimaced. “And you’ve got to stop saying ‘poop’ so much, Laney. It’s kind of nasty.”
I waved her off with my hand. “I know, I know, it’s disgusting, but I’m trying not to say ‘fuck’ anymore and Rocco won’t stop with all the ‘poop, fart, and butt-crack’ talk so it’s invaded my vocabulary without my permission—like osmosis or something. Forget about that,” I shooed. “What about Gavin? You know, he’s been acting shady lately, the little bastard, and I know he’s up to something that’s going to end up costing me either money or pride, and I can’t afford either.” I rubbed my freckled cheeks, a habit I have whenever I get stressed or nervous.
“No!” Fiona cried excitedly. “That’s just it! He was interviewing for a job!”
My hands dropped. “Shut your face! At Starbucks?!”
“No, of course not.” She waved a dismissive hand. “He’d have to shower for that.”
“And wear a shirt,” I replied, taking in this revelation.
“And pants,” Fiona finished thoughtfully.
Hmm. The source of Rocco’s “underwear only” policy was becoming evident.
“So w
here was he interviewing then?” I asked.
“At some construction company with an office next door to Starbucks. He said something about the company renovating the Harris Teeter on Friendly by my dry cleaners. Not that you would know what a dry cleaner is, my fashion-impaired friend.” She gave a little giggle. Why was I friends with her again? “But I digress … apparently the company is growing really big and they need some new muscle to push it hard on a couple new jobs.”
I snickered only momentarily at her inadvertent dirty remark, too distracted by the notion that my beloved ignoramus may actually be growing up and attempting to take on responsibility. Wow. I might cry.
This brings me back to my laundry room at 7:15 in the morning where I was sifting through clothes while trying not to spill my Diet Coke. Rocco’s wardrobe was a snap: shorts, t-shirt, socks, sneakers. Bam. I’m not one of those moms who dress their kid like a tiny grown up in collared shirts and pleated pants with belts and Top-Siders. He’s not executing a business deal—he’s going to pre-school. Where he will most likely get paint in his hair, will most definitely get boogers (hopefully his own) on his shirt, and will quite possibly pee his pants. Shorts and a t-shirt work fine for that.
Aha! I finally uncovered a slightly wrinkled, white eyelet button down for myself that I could pair with my low-rise black pants, kickass silver-studded belt and some comfy ballet flats. Clothes in hand, it was time for me to wake up my little streaker.
Halfway back to the master bedroom, I heard music. Billy Idol, to be precise, his plea to “ride the pony” coming from the extra bedroom where Gavin had been squatting for the last few weeks. The song was abruptly silenced (thank you) with what sounded like a cellphone hitting a wall. That was odd. Gavin had the same sleeping-in gene I did so why would– Yes! I remembered now—today was Gavin’s first day of work! I squeed to myself and executed some super cool dance moves. I may soon be able to afford the $7 bottle of wine. Not that I could tell the difference, but whatever. The morning was already looking brighter.
* * *
With Rocco, now fully dressed, settled in at my shabby-chic kitchen table munching on his bowl of Cocoa Krispies—sans milk, of course—there was still no sign of Gavin. It had been twenty minutes. Further inspection back in the hall revealed a closed door and a muffled snore.
“Knock, knock.” I rapped as I pushed open the door. “I figured I should rattle your cage since eighties rock doesn’t seem to be doing the—Oh God! Put it away!” I slapped my hand over my eyes so hard I could practically feel the shiner forming, the vision of Gavin’s pale white ass cheeks burning a hole through the back of my skull. The only thing keeping the vomit down was the fortunate fact that he was on his stomach instead of his back.
“Guhfmm … what?” came the drowsy male snuffle from the bed, accompanied by a rustling of sheets.
Still shielding my eyes, I whispered-yelled, “Get your hairy ass covered!” I did not want to alert Rocco to any possible distraction involving his favorite person and unfortunate role model.
“Hey, it’s not hairy,” Gavin protested with a yawn. “You’re just jealous cuz mine’s perfect and yours is, well, you know.”
I turned to face the hall again and lowered my hand. “You can’t be late on your first day, Gav. And for God’s sake, put on some pants—there’s a minor in this house and there is no way to un-see that whole mess you’ve got goin’ on, Billy Idol.” Careful not to glance in his direction, I made a vague circular motion with my finger and hurried away to finish getting myself ready for the day.
I returned to the kitchen with five minutes to spare. Gavin, thankfully now clothed in faded jeans and an old concert t-shirt, was leaning against the counter with his own bowl of Cocoa Krispies raised to chin level. He spooned a bite into his mouth and focused on his nephew.
“But why doesn’t she like ponies?” Rocco’s puzzled expression passed between his uncle and me, his lisp making “ponies” come out as “poneeth.” His brown eyes crinkled in confusion while his thick dark hair tilted to the side along with his head. “Ponies are awesome.”
Gavin pointed his now empty spoon at Rocco. “I don’t think it’s that she doesn’t like ponies, Rock—it’s just that it’s been too long since she’s ridden a pony,” he said, chuckling to himself at his oh-so-lame joke and giving me a sidelong glance in repressed merriment.
“Ha ha,” I responded and then gestured for Rocco to give me his empty bowl and cup from the table. “Your Uncle Gavin needs to quit with the livestock stories and get going to his new job,” I told Rocco. “And we need to get a move on, dude, or we’re gonna be late for school. Go grab your shoes.” I tossed the dirty dishes in the sink for later.
Rocco dashed to the side door to retrieve his sneakers and I turned to face my brother. “Seriously, Gavin, good luck today,” I stretched onto my tiptoes to give him an unexpected peck on his scruffy cheek. “Knock ‘em dead!”
“Yeah, yeah,” he replied self-consciously, running a hand through his unruly mass of dark brown hair—hair that I noted had clearly not been washed on this day. Baby steps, I told myself.
We both knew this job was a big deal—a turning point of sorts, I hoped—but not wanting to make him feel more uncomfortable than necessary, I threw a small wave over my shoulder, picked up my lunch bag along with Rocco’s backpack, and escorted my kid out the door.
“Yeah, good luck, Uncle Gavin!” Rocco hollered as he hopped down the garage steps toward the car. “Maybe if you do a good job we can go on a pony ride this weekend!” As the door closed behind me, I caught a brief glimpse of the cereal spewing from Gavin’s surprised mouth and onto my linoleum floor.
One guess as to who’d be cleaning that up later.
Poop!
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Acknowledgments
I feel like I always say the same thing in my acknowledgments, so I’m mixing it up a little bit this time. My first and biggest thank you is going to all the musicians out there. Whenever I talk to my fellow authors, we all agree that music is such an inspiration to our stories. When I get writers block, I turn to music; when I need to spark a specific vibe for a scene, I turn to music; and when I want to get to the heart of a character, it’s music that helps me dig deep.
For Game Changer, I found myself going directly to my favorite band in the land, Old Dominion, and they didn’t let me down. In fact, if you noticed, I dedicated this book to them and their beautiful talent. So, thanks to them and to all you amazing musicians out there inspiring us all!
Of course, I can’t go without sending my thanks to Heather (my wonderful editor and friend), all my author buds (you know who you are, you crazy hobags), and my family (you wonderful, delicious bunch).
More thanks go out to my Facebook reader group (Sylvie’s Spot) for your interest, support, and ideas! And to my ARC team for being so freaking awesome!
Lastly, thank you, my readers, for spending a few hours with my book babies and the characters I love so much. None of this would be possible without you!
XO,
Sylvie
About the Author
USA Today bestselling author Sylvie Stewart is addicted to Romantic Comedy and Contemporary Romance, and she’s not looking for a cure. She hails from the great state of North Carolina, so it’s no surprise that her books are mostly set in the Tar Heel state. She’s a wife to a hilarious dude and mommy to ten-year-old twin boys who tend to take after their father in every way. Sylvie often wonders if they’re actually hers, but then she remembers being a human incubator for a gazillion months. Ah, good times.
Sylvie began publishing when her kids started elementary school, and she loves sharing her stories with readers and hopefully making them laugh and swoon a bit along the way. If she’s not in her comfy green writing chair, she’s probably dreaming of ways to convince her husband to buy her a goat or having a glass of wine while binge-watching Hulu. Or she’s been kidnapped�
�so what are you doing just sitting there?!!
**Winner of the 2017 National Indie Excellence Award for Romantic Comedy
**Winner of the 2017 Readers’ Favorite Silver Medal for Romantic Comedy
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