Maybe my brother knew Dottie would offer me a job, and he just really wanted me to earn enough money to move out of his house. Which, fair enough. I lived with him and his wife and his stepkids for a few months after moving here.
Harry turns to me. “So what are you waiting for? Get out your laptop, and let’s take a look. This is much less depressing than trying to find another roommate.”
“For you,” I mutter. I enjoy adventure as much as the next girl, but I’ve been dragging my feet with this challenge. Why knowingly walk into trouble? I do well enough stumbling into it. But I agreed to let them help me, and they all think this is the way forward…so I grab my shitty laptop, and Harry and I start sifting through the ads they’ve forwarded along.
Nicole sent me a bunch of personal ads from craigslist that don’t exactly exude romance. Then again, I’m pretty sure she’s never read a romance novel.
“This one’s definitely a murderer,” Harry mutters, skimming an ad from a man who wants to whisk someone away to a cabin, no phones allowed, for twenty-four hours of forced proximity.
“Either that or he won ‘So You Think You’re Safe.’”
He gives a rueful twist of his mouth and moves on to the next one—a widower looking for a nanny for his three children. Fifty-two-year-old doctor seeking a woman under thirty to watch my children and cook and clean for us. Must be trim so you can keep up with the kids! Send full-body photos.
He makes a face. “This guy doesn’t want a nanny. He wants an arranged marriage.”
“Yeah, right?” I say. “I’m pretty sure Nicole only sent me that because she wants me to puncture the guy’s ego by acting like a nutcase, but even so.”
We move on to Mary’s most recent recommendation. She sent me an ad for a pottery class taught by a father-son pair, but Harry takes one look at the guy’s picture and pronounces he’s gay.
“How do you know?” I ask, unconvinced. “You can’t just tell from a picture.”
His brow furrows. “It’s not his picture. I went on three and a half dates with him. He said I was the inspiration for one of his vases, but then he invited me over to his apartment, and he had an enormous clay model of a spider in his living room.”
I shudder dramatically. “Hence the half date?”
“Needless to say, I left,” he says, throwing his beanie on the coffee table, only to reconsider, fold it, and put it in the drawer of the side table. “You definitely don’t want to go out with a guy who has a spider fetish.”
“Or one who’s gay.”
“Fair enough. What did Dottie come up with?”
I laugh. “She hasn’t sent me anything, believe it or not. She says the perfect situation will come to me when I’m ready. Whatever that means.”
Truthfully, I wonder if she’s just absorbed in the tea shop. Tea of Fortune keeps getting busier and busier. Even though Dottie is very young for her age, she’s still in her eighties. I can’t imagine this is what she anticipated when she started the shop.
“My turn,” Harry says, commandeering the laptop.
“Oh, come on. Three mentors are enough. I don’t need you joining them.”
He raises his brows and gives me a holier-than-thou-art look. “Do you really think they can internet better than I can?”
If nothing else, I suppose his paranoia will help ensure I don’t find myself the subject of cautionary tales.
Lifting my hands, I say, “I stand corrected. I’m going to make us some dinner.”
“Anything but spaghetti,” he says. “You always make spaghetti when it’s your turn.”
I give him the stink-eye, and he laughs. “Your mom will never know if you branch out.”
“My mother already holds a grudge against me for moving here. If I move past spaghetti, I’ll be dead to her.”
He snorts. “And you’re dead to your nonna because you’re living in sin with a man.”
“It’s not my fault she doesn’t believe you’re gay,” I say, getting up and heading into the kitchen. “You can lead a ninety-year-old Sicilian woman to the truth, but you can’t make her drink. And if you tell her I said that, I will end you.”
But he’s not listening; he’s already absorbed in trying to find me some fantasy romance situation I can sour. Fast forward forty minutes, and I’m setting the table with dinner—penne and sauce, because I only sort of felt like listening to Harry--when he looks up at me with a troubled expression.
“What?” I ask.
“This is a little harder than I thought. I found something that would fulfill your challenge and help us put off our roommate problem, but I’m not sure how I feel about it.”
“Well?” I say.
“Come see for yourself. The ad was on the Citizen Times’s website, so there’s a minimal chance you’ll be murdered, but...well, you’ll see.”
So I go look.
Want to be my fake date at a fancy party Saturday night? If so, there’s money in it for you (and no, before you ask, this is not a Pretty Woman scenario—the only thing I expect you to do is pretend to be my girlfriend). A little about me: I’m thirty-two, good-looking, wealthy, and I like to cause trouble. I’ll be interviewing candidates on Friday afternoon at the Grand Bohemian Hotel. Go to the attached Google form to reserve your spot!
Forced proximity again, though this guy’s less creepy. It sounds kind of fun, actually, like the sort of thing Molly would have done back when she was a dating blogger, and even if he doesn’t pick me, I might be able to get my Greek Chorus to shut up if I snag an “interview.”
Interview…
“The guy sounds like a douche. He’s probably a doughy, middle-aged, balding man. That’s what happened to Molly the third time she got catfished.”
Harry scrubs his receding hairline. Oops. “That’s not what I’m worried about. I don’t like the bit about causing trouble. Seems to me that we have enough trouble. And what if he expects you to pull off a heist? Like steal a microchip from one of his rich relatives and bury it in your”—he mimes boobs—“it might not be worth the risk.”
“But he’s rich, or at least he says he is. And he’s probably stupid.” I think about it for a moment, tugging on my earring. “Harry, this is either the best or worst idea we’ve ever had.”
Preorder Fraudulently Ever After now!
Also by A.R. Casella and Denise Grover Swank
Asheville Brewing
Any Luck at All
Better Luck Next Time
Getting Lucky
Bad Luck Club
Luck of the Draw
All the Luck You Need
Bad Luck Club
Love at First Hate
Jingle Bell Hell
Fraudulently Ever After
November 2021
About the Author
A.R. CASELLA has the distinct pleasure of writing romcoms with Denise Grover Swank. The Bad Luck Club is their second co-written series; Asheville Brewing is the first. She lives in Asheville, NC with her husband, daughter, and two geriatric dogs. Her hobbies include herding her daughter toward less dangerous activities, stress baking, and marathon watching TV shows.
You can find out more at www.arcdgs.com.
About the Author
Denise Grover Swank was born in Kansas City, Missouri and lived in the area until she was nineteen. Then she became a nomad, living in five cities, four states, and ten houses over the course of ten years before she moved back to her roots. She speaks English and smatterings of Spanish and Chinese, which she learned through an intensive Nick Jr. immersion period. Her hobbies include witty Facebook comments (in her own mind) and dancing in her kitchen with her children. (Quite badly if you believe her offspring.) Hidden talents include the gift of justification and the ability to drink massive amounts of caffeine and still fall asleep within two minutes. Her lack of the sense of smell allows her to perform many unspeakable tasks. She has six children and hasn’t lost her sanity. Or so she leads you to believe.
You can find out mor
e at denisegroverswank.com
Jingle Bell Hell (Bad Luck Club) Page 36