Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 122125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
“Girlfriend, shit is a mess,” I mutter to her as I rub my fingers through her soft fur.
She just purrs in response and snuggles closer into my arms.
“I’m stealing her,” I declare easily, walking past Lydia and Lou with Matilda in my arms.
As I head toward the back hallway, where the stairs to my upstairs apartment are located, Lou holds out a generous hand containing a small box of their signature snickerdoodles.
“Here, take some cookies,” she offers, her eyes soft with sympathy. “They might not be able to solve problems, but they certainly have the power to take the edge off.”
I don’t hesitate to snag it from her hand. “Thank you.”
Pretty sure anyone who accidentally gave their new boss their underwear needs cookies. Especially since said person—me—is going to have to face him again…tomorrow, on the first official day of classes.
At this point, I don’t know what’s worse—my dad and his constant need to press me on everything, or the fact that I have to face Professor Ty Winslow every Monday through Friday for an entire semester.
Is it possible to go back in time and just…stay on the West Coast?
Tuesday, January 15th
Ty
While my American Lit class exits my lecture hall, I kick up my feet on the desk and check my phone until it’s time for my next class. I have a few missed texts, which is nothing new when you have as many yappers in your family as I do. Someone is almost always saying something, and for the most part, I don’t even bother checking messages until several have accrued.
One is from my sister Winnie about an upcoming Mathletes fundraiser for my niece Lexi. She’s the smartest person I know, and I’d put money on her winning even if it was my last dollar. Not that that’s the point of Mathletes for kids, but you know, if it were, she’d kick all those kids’ asses. Regardless, I let my sister know I’m game to donate a hundred bucks and move on to the next unread.
This one is from Tiffany, a woman I dated for about two weeks last month, wondering if I’d like to meet up for drinks later. I groan. I might’ve brought her along for some of the Winslow Christmas festivities, but our relationship ran its course, and I sure as shit don’t want to lead her on. As politely but succinctly as possible, I decline.
And then there’s a text from my mom, Wendy. The two of us are something of buddies, but we’ve done a decent job of keeping it a secret that I’m the favorite child—wouldn’t want everyone else getting a complex.
Mama Winslow: Have you ever used Match.com?
Texts between my mom and me are normal, but the subject matter today? That’s a whole new venture. I sit up, sliding my feet from the heavy wood surface of my desktop down to the floor, and type out a response.
Me: Um, no.
Mama Winslow: What about Tinder?
I nearly laugh at the absurdity.
Me: Mom, I don’t need to use Tinder to find women.
If there’s one thing my mother would like to see happen, it’s for me to find a nice woman to settle down with and, eventually, give her some grandbabies. It’s what she wants for all her sons, and while Jude and Flynn have managed to find the women of their dreams, and Flynn is getting started with the bambinos, I’m happy living life the way I am. I’m not lonely—I’m content.
Mama Winslow: Ty, honey, I think you and I both know you don’t need help finding women. If anything, you need help NOT finding women. I always make extra food, just in case you drag one in off the street.
Me: You have a lot of bachelorettes just lurking outside your house, Ma?
Mama Winslow: You wish, son. What about TapNext? I hear that’s one of the better sites.
Me: TapNext is good, I guess. You know Kline Brooks runs that, right? Anyway, like I said, I’m not getting online. I don’t need another place for people to find me.
Kline Brooks is a family friend. He’s best friends with my brother-in-law, Wes, and his wife Georgia is one of Winnie’s gal pals.
Mama Winslow: I’m talking about online dating for me, not for you.
Hold the fucking phone.
Me: WHAT? You’re getting on Tinder?
Mama Winslow: I’m considering it.
Me: Mom, I fully support your dating, but for the love of God, do not start a Tinder profile.
Mama Winslow: What’s wrong with Tinder?
Me: Because it’s for hookups. Booty calls. Not date nights.
Mama Winslow: But what if that’s what I’m looking for?
Is she high?
Me: WHAT?
Mama Winslow: LOL. I swear, you boys are so easy to mess with. Anyway, Aunt Paula is here. I gotta go. It’s a girls’ shopping day.
Me: Wait a minute, crazy lady, so you were joking about the whole online dating thing? Or just Tinder booty calls?