Lilian T. James

Sometimes I wondered if the person who first said money can’t buy happiness ever knew what it was like to be poor.

No, thanks. Reverse harems were sexy in books, but the female anatomy could only take so much. I swore my vagina clamped shut just thinking about more than one dude climbing on top of me in a twenty-four-hour period.

Garrett’s smile was like the fucking sun, sucking me into its gravitational pull against my will. I was pretty sure my panties disintegrated on the spot. The man had fucking dimples.

Single parents were expected to work full time yet stay home with our kids, be educated yet not abuse federal assistance, and somehow afford rent, bills, food, clothes, and gas by ourselves.

I’d never been a car girl, I couldn’t tell one car from another, but seeing him leaning over the front made me want to invest in a photo calendar…or a wrench and pliers.

When I’d texted Layla to tell her I had a feeling it’d be a late night, she’d offered to pick Jamie up this morning so I could get an extra hour of sleep. God bless that woman, I’d needed it. I owed her an actual, real bottle of wine…and maybe a male stripper. She was the kind of partner every parent needed.

My mother taught me, if you ever feel like shit, make sure to at least dress cute as shit because it’s a whole lot easier to feel awful if you also look it.

Grocery shopping was the devil’s favorite activity. It was like my own personal hell cloaked in elevator music and cereal boxes. If somebody told me they enjoyed it, I would instantly assume, with no hesitation, they were secretly a serial killer.

If awkward had a name, it’d be mine.

There was a whole lot more to this man than I’d have ever guessed after our first few interactions. I’d gotten a glimpse of the cinnamon roll hiding underneath his sexy, stoic coating, and I liked it.