Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“Refreshingly average is a compliment?” I mutter, wondering just how stupid a guy has to be to say something like that.
She rubs her rabbit’s ears and I’m still not sure if it’s real.
“And the kicker? This all happened before dessert. I didn’t even get to eat my crème brûlée. Which feels criminal.”
I snort, because yeah… gearing up for crème brûlée and then being denied is just fucking wrong.
She leans closer to the camera. Her voice isn’t syrupy or fake. It’s a little breathless, but honest. Worn in. Like she’s been carrying hope for longer than she wants to admit.
“Here’s what I’m thinking… maybe I’ve been aiming too high. Looking for a unicorn when I should be out here searching for, like… one decent man who knows how to shut up about bacteria and doesn’t use the phrase ‘my ex and I’ like it’s punctuation.”
I can’t help but laugh and I can see it in my mind’s eye. Some dipshit dude who thinks he’s God’s gift to women and the universe. Totally not the way to get laid, my man. I watch the woman as she continues, wondering where this is going.
“I’ve dated lawyers, doctors and bankers. I’m talking men who are successful and seem to be what a woman wants. But… it’s not panning out for me. Maybe it’s time for an experiment.”
Her expression issues a challenge to anyone watching.
“Thirty days of dating to find a normal guy. Someone… refreshingly average like me, apparently. He doesn’t have to be perfect. He just has to not make me want to crawl out a restaurant’s bathroom window. And I’m guessing that this platform is big enough to open my dating pool. So, I’m appealing to all you, besties… help a girl out. Let’s see if he exists.”
I stop breathing for a second. She’s not flashy. Not filtered. Not pretending to be anything other than who she is.
And somehow, I’m wondering what it would be like to have a conversation with her. Admittedly, she’s also thrown down a challenge, which intrigues me even more.
Atlas nudges me. “You look like you’re trying to telepathically will your phone into bed with you.”
I ignore him. Scroll back. Watch the video again. Atlas watches over my shoulder and I check out her profile.
@WinnieTheNotWild. Interesting name.
Interesting woman.
Before I can even think what I’m doing, I hit “stitch.” Her video opens with her face, soft and sincere, right before her line, Thirty days of dating to find a normal guy.
My part cuts in. I lean into the frame, hair damp, grin half-cocked. “Lucky here—actual name, not just wishful thinking. Challenge accepted. I’m not perfect, but you won’t be sneaking out bathroom windows. I also bring snacks.” Then I lean in a little closer, pop my dimples. “Challenge accepted, Winnie.”
I tag her handle—@WinnieTheNotWild—and post it before I can second-guess myself.
Atlas whistles low between his teeth. “I cannot believe you just signed up for internet humiliation and possible heartbreak.”
I shrug and toss my phone onto the bench beside me. “Guess we’ll find out.”
CHAPTER 4
Winnie
I wake up to the sound of Buttermilk chewing on something and that’s never good.
“Please don’t be the charger,” I mumble, rolling out of bed in a panic.
It’s the charger. My favorite pink, braided, extra-long lightning cable has been gnawed to a frayed mess, and my phone is sitting at three percent on the nightstand.
“Buttermilk,” I groan, scooping him off the floor. He squirms, unimpressed and defiant as if he’s saying, “I have the right to chew these things, peasant.”
“You’ve got a whole pile of hay, a chew toy shaped like a banana, and this is what you go for?” I chastise as I set him down on the kitchen floor.
He thumps once, which I assume is rabbit for you were late feeding me last night and I’m still pissed about it.
The clock on the oven says seven forty-two a.m.
“Oh no. No, no, no.”
I’m supposed to be at school by eight fifteen, so I mentally run down all the things I normally do to prep for a workday. I still haven’t packed my lunch or my school tote or figured out if I’ve already worn the same sweater three days in a row.
I fly around the house in a panic, like a toddler on a sugar rush—brushing my teeth with one hand, pulling my hair into a ponytail with the other. I throw on a cardigan that at least doesn’t smell like Chinese takeout and jam half a protein bar in my mouth. Shoving my phone in my coat pocket, I grab my keys and jet out the door.
I make it to Bloomfield Elementary with three minutes to spare and a headache thumping behind my eyes because I didn’t get my morning cup of coffee.
At least my phone partially charged in the car. The morning drop-off rush is in full swing, kids waving to teachers, parents rolling down windows with last-minute reminders. My favorite part of carpool is watching all the littles hiking up their backpacks filled with books and snacks over their shoulder and looking like they’re about to tip over as they earnestly make their way inside.