by Max Monroe
“Darlin’, I don’t have one damn clue. But I know I can’t wait to find out.”
THE END
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SINGLE DAD SEEKS JULIET EXCERPT
Chloe
“No, you lunatic! I am not typing those words about my father—ever.”
“Oh, come on!” my best friend and altogether wild woman, Hailie Hargrove, teases, setting her chin on my shoulder and rubbing it into the muscle awkwardly. “Not even if there were a werewolf chasing you? And I’m not talking about dreamboat Jacob Black trying to imprint on you either. I’m talking full-on werewolf with beady eyes and sharp teeth that can’t be deterred by humans or hella sexy vampires.”
I roll my eyes and jerk my shoulder to make her weirdo chin find another home. “For the sake of our friendship, you need to stop rereading Twilight.”
“It’s not my fault Stephenie Meyer released Midnight Sun and I’m back on my Team Edward bull-shizzle,” she responds, acting like her words provide a perfect explanation for the fact that she’s read the Twilight series no fewer than fifty times.
No joke. She’s been reading that series since we were, like, twelve. And considering we’re both seventeen—almost eighteen—now, her obsessive love for a fictional vampire is going five years strong without any signs of letting up.
Don’t get me wrong, I love Twilight, but Hailie could stand to read about some socially conforming mortals every once in a while.
“It would do our friendship some good if you fit in a few John Green or Jenny Han books between your Edward Cullen binges.”
“Speaking of us talking about my vampire boyfriend and your dad’s penis, do you think Edward’s penis sparkles in the sunlight too? I mean, his skin sparkles, but does his—”
“I don’t care about Edward’s sparkly penis, Hail!” I cut her off on a whisper-yell. “And we are not talking about my dad’s penis. You keep trying to. But I am not.” Ew. Just saying those words threatens my gag reflex. No teenage daughter should be forced to think about her father’s…you know what.
“Okay, fine. I’m the one talking about your dad’s penis,” she corrects. “And you’re the one who never answered my question.”
“Because your werewolf analogy was horrible, and the question was so ridiculous. it didn’t deserve a response. Saying illicit things about my father’s penis-power, as you so eloquently put it, would do absolutely nothing for me in a chase with a werewolf.”
“Oh geez. What is that? What are you doing there? Are you trying to be rational?”
I skewer her with a glare, but my best friend is undeterred. She swings her long dark locks over her shoulder and scoffs.
“That’s so boring, Chloe. You need to live a little.”
“Excuse me? What exactly do you think I’m doing here?” I question and scrunch up my nose. “I’d say typing up a personal ad for my dad for the Bachelor Anonymous contest—that he has no freaking clue about and will most likely kill me for—is living a lot.” My laugh is equal parts amused and terrified. “Heck, I should get it all in now. Just live. It. Up. Because when Jake Brent finds out I entered him into a dating contest, I’m going to be D-E-A-D, dead.”
“Don’t be such a worrywart! Chances are, he’s never even going to know you did it. They only notify the winner, right? Out of, like, hundreds of entries, he’ll probably never win. Especially since you’re too much of a prude to tell everyone about his big dick energy.”
“Oh my God. Shut up,” I whisper.
“What?” Hailie questions like it’s no big deal that she’s still talking about my dad’s… Good God, don’t you dare even think it! “You know your dad is hot, right? I mean, back in the day, he was a big bad military god and still has the body to prove it. There is no doubt in anyone’s mind that man is packing some serious heat in his pants.” She laughs, waggles her brows, and then adds, “Just deal with it, Chlo. Your dad is a total babe!”
“Keep your voice down,” I hiss. “He is right outside in the family room.”
“That’s the only thing that’s lame about him,” she whispers and rolls her grayish-blue eyes toward the ceiling. “What kind of parent doesn’t let their almost eighteen-year-old daughter keep their computer in their bedroom?”
“A dad who was a Navy SEAL,” I say matter-of-factly. “Plus, we share this computer. It’s just easier to keep it in the den.”
“Sure, Chlo-Chlo.” She snorts. “You live in the bougie part of San Diego. You have a formal living room, a family room, and a den. Not to mention, you have to go through a gated, Fort Knox-esque entrance to even get to your house. Pretty sure your dad can afford to buy you guys separate computers. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, though. He refused to let you have a phone or the Gram until you were fifteen.”
The Gram—aka Instagram. Hailie’s favorite social media app on the planet. If I had a dollar for every selfie she’s involved me in, I’d probably be able to afford my own college tuition.
Not even kidding. “Do it for the Gram!” should be written on her freaking tombstone.
“Hailie, shall I remind you that you live in the same bougie neighborhood as me? Your house is literally right across the street from mine,” I retort, but she ignores me completely and rambles on about anything but the darn personal ad I’m trying to write.
“Although, I guess I sort of get it,” she continues. “If I had a daughter who looked like you, all long legs, gorgeous blond hair, and big, pretty eyes, I’d probably lock you in a closet until you turned thirty-five.”
We are polar opposites when it comes to looks. Where I’m tall with blond hair, Hailie is short with dark hair. I look like I was born and raised in our home state of California, and she looks like she came from some exotic Mediterranean country.
“The same
can be said for you,” I counter. “You’re like a teenage version of Megan Fox and have had boobs since we were in sixth grade.”
Hailie shimmies her chest, and I let out a deep sigh when I realize just how off track she’s managed to get us.
“Do I need to remind you that today is the last day to enter this contest?” I glance over my shoulder and glower at her with a stare. “I need you to stop shaking your ta-tas around and help me write this thing.”
“I’ve been helping,” she whines. “You just don’t want the help I’m giving.”
“That’s because you’ve taken a leave of absence from reality, Hailie. You really think I’m going to write about my dad’s penis in a newspaper personal ad? Can you even fathom the number of hours I’d have to spend in therapy if I did something like that? Not to mention, if my dad actually saw it? The money he saved for my college tuition would end up going to our freaking therapists!”
“I don’t know why you make that sound like such a big deal. Everyone is in therapy these days, Chloe. Everyone.”
“News flash, girlfriend,” I say and shoot a pointed look in her direction. “If I don’t have money for college tuition, then you’ll end up going to Berkeley by yourself.”
When Hailie and I were thirteen, we begged my dad to drive us seven hours to see the Golden Gate Bridge. And my dad, being the awesome dad that he is, gave in and took us on a three-day trip to San Francisco. We did all kinds of touristy things that weekend, but the one thing that stuck with us girls the most was walking around Berkeley’s campus.
Ever since then, that school became our dream college, and we’ve been bound and determined to go there together.
“Fine.” She blows an annoyed breath from her pursed lips. “How about this? Man seeks woman. Not to turn his world upside down, but instead, to help him keep it right-side up. Must have sense of humor, heart of gold, and big, fat tits.”
I choke on my spit as a laugh catches in my throat, and Hailie has to slam the flat of her palm on my back to save me.
It makes a hell of a ruckus, and the door cracks open gently. “Everyone okay in here?” my dad asks.
Of course, Hailie cackles like a hyena. A nervous habit she’s had since we were in elementary school.
“Yeah, Dad. We’re good,” I sputter over my best friend’s insanity. He smiles, obviously surmising by my track record of staying out of trouble that I’m continuing my streak, and chalks up Hailie’s laughter to her being her usual, crazy self.
Instantly, though, with him standing mere feet away from the computer screen that showcases the evidence of my in-process crime, cramps make my toes curl into the carpet, and an anxious twist wrenches my belly.
Why am I doing this? He’s going to kill me.
I hold my breath and hope he doesn’t decide to come any closer.
“Okay. Then I guess I’ll leave you girls to it,” he agrees with a laugh, and I offer up a silent thank you to the Big Guy upstairs that I will live to see another day.
And while I hate when Hailie rambles on about my dad being a total babe, with him standing right there in the doorway, his thick, dark hair kind of mussed and his handsome smile and bright-blue eyes directed at me, I can’t deny he is an aesthetically good-looking man.
I study his face and the lines around his eyes. Lines I know are there from laughing with me, and before I know it, I’m trying to picture him after I’ve left for college next year. I’ll be over seven hours away from him, and he’ll be here, alone, in this big house, having completely wasted all his best years raising me by himself.
He’s such a good guy, and I hate the idea of him feeling lonely at all. That’s why I’m doing this, I remind myself. For him.
He’ll freaking hate it at first…but he’ll thank me later, right?
Goodness, I hope so.
I turn back to the computer as he shuts the door and try really hard to focus. Hailie is right about one thing. There will probably be hundreds of entries, which means this thing is going to have to be good if he’s going to win.
Even the title needs work. Man Seeks Woman.
It’s so mundane. So regular. So blah.
I need a wow factor. Something that’ll hook everyone right from the start.
“We need a better title,” I tell Hailie. “Something that really grabs people.” She opens her mouth to speak, but I cut her off preemptively. “And it cannot have the words dick, cock, or penis in it.”
She frowns but laughs at the same time. “Don’t worry, Chlo. My vocabulary is bigger than that. And I’ve moved on from your dad’s dick—at least metaphorically speaking. In some sense, I feel I’ll never move on from your dad’s big, beautiful—”
I slug her in the shoulder, and she laughs.
“Fine. How about Single Dad Seeks Juliet?”
“Single dad? Should I really say that?”
She nods with wide, convinced eyes. “Oh yeah. That’s, like, at least fifteen percent of Jake’s hot factor.”
I groan. “You know I hate it when you call him Jake.”
“I could call him Daddy. But somehow, I thought you’d prefer this.”
“Forget it.” I cringe. “Let’s just get back to the ad.”
I turn back to the computer and start to type inside the personal ad template on my dad’s Bachelor Anonymous application.
Single Dad Seeks Juliet.
Yeah. That’s it. It’s got flair without being too ridiculous. I mean, it is for a contest being run by our local paper in which readers vote on the personal ad of their choosing to select an anonymous, unnamed bachelor who will be farmed out on several dates to find his Mrs. Right, so a certain amount of absurd is welcome—necessary, even—but I don’t want it to be too over the top. It should, at the very least, capture some sense of who my dad is as an actual person.
Fingers poised at the keyboard, I continue.
At 40 years old, after almost eighteen years of raising my daughter on my own, I’m ready to find someone for myself. I’m loyal, passionate, grounded in reality, and looking for someone who can say the same. I’m looking for my Juliet—without the tragic ending. Sense of humor is an absolute must.
Hailie looks over my shoulder, reading along with me as I type. When I get to the end, she whispers the addition of a finale so close to my ear, I squirm. “P.S. You’re beautiful. Yes, you.”
“What?”
“Talking to the reader always ups a feeling of engagement. That ad with that ending?” She shakes her head. “He can’t lose.”
“Great,” I say aloud as I type the addition into the template on the SoCal Tribune’s website.
On the inside, I am a mess.
But Hailie? Apparently, she’s just peachy-keen-jelly-bean with the whole sordid situation and reaches around me, scrolls down to the end of the page, and clicks the big red Submit button at the bottom.
“Hailie! What the heck?” Panic makes my heart lurch inside my chest like it’s stubbed its toe on the leg of the living room sofa.
But my best friend just smiles at me. “Too late to back out now, sweetcheeks.”
It’s really happening. My dad, Jake Brent, is officially in the running to be Southern California’s first Bachelor Anonymous.
Holy macaroni.
I want happiness for him more than anything in this world. He’s the best dad, and he deserves it. He deserves to find a woman who will make him happy. Someone who will make him laugh and smile. Someone he can spend time with when I’m away at college and no longer living at home. Someone he can build a life with.
But I can’t help but ask myself…Am I really prepared for him to win?
Because if he does, I can guarantee he’s going to be pissed.
Gah. Immediately, I glance at the date on iCalendar—June 15th. And then, I scour SoCal Tribune’s website to find out when the last round of voting for Bachelor Anonymous will occur—July 26th.
So…okay…almost six weeks of summer to enjoy until I have to worry about whether or no
t I’ll make it to see the first day of my senior year of high school…
Fingers and toes and pretty much everything crossed the next month and a half moves like Hailie that time she attempted to try out for the track team in the name of her crush on Taylor McKinley and ran the sixty-yard dash in a staggering two minutes—aka very, very, very slowly.
Holley
Today might be a Tuesday, but it’s feeling all kinds of Monday.
My work to-do list is a mile-long, and I have the lovely—cough painful cough—pleasure of fitting in a quick meeting with my editor in chief before I start my day.
With the fresh cup of coffee I snagged from the shop up the street in tow, I tip-tap my heels across the shiny white tile floor as I take a left out of the elevators and head down the long hallway that leads to Gloria Favorelli’s large corner office. Her door is already open, and the lively, early-August sun peeks its rays through the partially opened blinds of the window behind her desk.
And unfortunately for me, once I step inside, she doesn’t waste any time diving into the meat and potatoes of why she requested this powwow.
“Are you just as thrilled as I am about our Bachelor Anonymous contest, Holley?” Gloria asks, a far-too-happy smile on her face.
Sigh. I sit down in the chair across from her desk, and it takes a Herculean effort not to let out a deep, heaving, frustrated breath. Of all the journalists at the SoCal Tribune, for some insane reason, Gloria chose me—the woman who, just a little over six months ago, ended a more-than-a-decade-long relationship—to run this three-ring dating circus.
“Oh yeah,” I answer, the phony friendly tone of my voice not at all matching the pain that’s already starting to make its way inside my chest.
I had a feeling this was why she wanted me to stop by her office this morning, but I was desperately hoping it was about something else. Like, her telling me I’ve been switched to a new assignment and will no longer be running the dreaded Bachelor Anonymous contest.