My Book Read online

  My Book

  Donna

  Contents

  Untitled

  Untitled

  (Not) The One

  Quote

  1. Miranda

  2. Miranda

  3. Miranda

  4. Miranda

  5. James

  6. Miranda

  7. Miranda

  8. James

  9. Miranda

  10. James

  11. Miranda

  12. James

  13. Miranda

  14. Harry

  15. Miranda

  16. Miranda

  17. Miranda

  18. Miranda

  19. Miranda

  20. James

  21. James

  22. Miranda

  23. James

  24. Miranda

  25. James

  26. James

  27. Miranda

  28. James

  29. Miranda

  30. James

  31. James

  32. Miranda

  33. James

  34. Miranda

  35. James

  36. Miranda

  37. Miranda

  38. Miranda

  39. Miranda

  40. James

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Untitled

  Untitled

  (NOT)THE ONE

  The moral right of this author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the express permission of the author

  This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  © Donna Alam 2019

  Cover Design: Lou J Stock

  Editing: Editing 4 Indies

  Image: Specular

  Model: Oliver Hines

  Created with Vellum

  Untitled

  (Not) The One

  A Standalone Romance Novel

  (Not) The One

  Three reasons why rebound s-e-x with my hot neighbour is a very bad idea.

  My life is already complicated enough

  He knows I wear Batman undies (please don’t ask)

  He’s older, sophisticated and so hot he makes me go weak at the knees

  I know that’s more than three. But it still didn’t stop me.

  On paper, we’re the worst kind of match.

  He’s rich.

  I’m . . . not. My second job is pet sitting!

  He says we’re friends.

  I say barely, but I do love those benefits . . .

  The man rocks my world.

  But he’s so not the one.

  Which is unfortunate,

  Because he’s also the one who got me pregnant.

  Disclaimer: This is not (just?) a story about accidental pregnancy.

  It’s a story about accidental love.

  Quote

  I do not wish women to have the power over men; but over themselves

  ~ Mary Shelley

  1

  Miranda

  FOR SALE

  One brilliant cut two-carat diamond engagement ring with a platinum band.

  Worn for only three months before finding out my fiancé was a cheating, whoring scumbag, and my best friend a slut.

  When he said he’d put a ring on it, it wasn’t quite what I had in mind.

  His . . . yeah . . . that. In her. . . yeah . . . that.

  Starting bid is pretty low, just like my self-esteem . . .

  My fingers retract from the keyboard as I contemplate my half-finished, half-joking, yet half-deadly serious ad on FleaBay. I’m not normally so impulsive, but I might’ve said yes before he’d fully gotten down on one knee. We’d only been dating three months at that point. Three months dating, three months engaged, three months living together, and now three months after our breakup, and I’m beginning to emerge from the other side. The pain is no longer a physical thing, but that’s not to say I’m over the experience.

  But I am over him.

  Betrayal. It’s the worst of words.

  And no fiancé is better than one who lies to you when he says he’s going straight from work to the gym because he wants to look good for your honeymoon. And he did develop the most amazing abs; it’s just a shame his workout was over Tamara, my former best friend.

  Duplicitous. Another vile word.

  But I force myself to count my blessings every day, and I believe a person should be aware of both their faults and their assets, and at the top of my list of failings has been to follow my heart.

  Deceitful. Another that should be banished from the English language.

  The bottom line is, it’s time to move on, and I don’t mean physically. I already did that the day I walked in on them. There was no way I was sleeping in that bed ever again. The apartment was his, and as moving back home permanently wasn’t a very appealing option, I’ve been working for a pet-sitting agency ever since. It’s not a forever thing, just something to help me save for my own place, but I’m tired of living out of a suitcase, so the ring has to go. Not that I’ve held on to it out of some sense of misplaced sentimentality. It might be worth thousands in monetary terms, but as far as symbols of love and fidelity go, it’s worthless. I’m just not sure where I stand legally. According to Cameron’s increasingly frantic texts, a broken engagement means, as it’s a family heirloom, the ring is rightfully his. And according to my text responses, he can go forth and multiply. Yep, he can fuck right off. But I don’t want to end up in court. I also don’t feel like finding myself in front of a lawyer right now, asking for advice while explaining where I’ve gone wrong in my life.

  Maybe I should just hit load and send him the FleaBay link and be done with it.

  It would serve him right.

  It’s one kind of payback, I suppose.

  As the typical sounds of the office begin to return to my ears, I lower my fingers to the keyboard again. It’s ironic that I’d find myself working at a dating site start-up in the midst of my heartbreak. But then, I could hardly stay in my old job. Not when she works there.

  ‘Coffee?’ Heather, my younger cousin, reaches across my desk for my empty mug without waiting for an answer. She’d recently begun a summer internship here at E-Volve before she leaves for university. Four years younger than me, we’ve never really been close until recently when she stepped into the role of friend.

  ‘I don’t think I could face another cup of crappy.’ It’s so unfair. Not only did Tamara steal my fiancé, but she also got to keep the fancy city office and its even fancier coffee machine.

  ‘I could pop to the bakery and get you a cappuccino?’

  ‘Thanks, babe, but I’m okay.’

  ‘How about happy hour cocktails after work?’

  I shake my head. ‘What would be the point? I currently have the knack of making happy hour anything but happy.’ It’s entirely possible to be bored with your own company. Why should I choose to inflict that on others?

  ‘Come on, two-for-one cocktails makes everyone fun.’

  I opt for a distraction, so I hook my index finger under my computer screen and turn it so Heather can see.

  Her eyes widen slightly before flicking my way. ‘Drinks are on you, then?’

  ‘I haven’t listed it yet.’ I drop my attention back to my screen as I turn it back to face me again. I don’t really want her to read the ridiculous verbiage.

  ‘But you’re going to, aren’t you? It’s about time you did,’ she adds darkly.

 
‘I know.’

  ‘Seriously, Mir. After what he did to you? I’d chuck it in the Thames and be done with it.’

  ‘But it was his grandmother’s ring. It’s irreplaceable.’ I flip over my phone and stare down at his latest text threatening legal action. Seems that his pleading phase is over.

  ‘You can block his number, you know,’ Heather says, pointing at my phone. ‘Block him, then chuck the thing. It might teach him to remember that people are more important than material possessions.’

  ‘He’s not getting it back, not if I can help it, because fuck him and the slut he rode.’ I just need to know I’m not going to end up in prison.

  ‘Hurray! Oh, hang on . . . what was that?’ Eyes widening, she cups her hand to her ear. ‘I think I can hear a celebratory margarita calling your name.’

  ‘Heth, I’d be really bad company tonight.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’ll be much better company than another tub of Ben and Jerry’s. And I’m much kinder on the thighs.’

  ‘Are you saying I’m getting fat?’

  ‘I’m saying Ben, Jerry, and Marmaduke, the ginger tom, are muscling in on my turf.’

  ‘Marmaduke was last week. This week’s furry charges are Pawdry Hepburn and David Meowie, actually.’ They have the attitude of A-listers, too.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’

  ‘Oh, I wish I was.’

  ‘People are weird.’

  ‘And rich people are weirder still.’

  ‘Exactly. What’s wrong with Fluffy or Spot as a name?’

  ‘Well, Sphynx breeds have neither fluff nor spots. Although, David Meowie does have this weird wart thing on his—’

  ‘Enough! That’s it. I’m staging an intervention. No four-legged company for you tonight,’ she says, poking a finger in my direction. ‘You’re coming out with me, and that’s the end of the matter.’

  ‘Oh, fierce Heather-feather.’

  ‘No, serious Heather-feather. You’ll come out with me, or I’m going to announce at the next family gathering that you inhaled a nose full of Grandad’s ashes when you were ten.’

  ‘You wouldn’t.’

  ‘Try me,’ she retorts, her hand on her suddenly cocked hip.

  ‘I told you that in confidence.’

  ‘No, you told me that drunk off your tits.’ In my defence, I was looking for biscuits. He was in an urn, and to a ten-year-old, that’s kind of a jar. And someone had left it on the kitchen table. How was I supposed to know?

  ‘You huffed Grandad,’ she says with a disparaging shake of her head. ‘Or would that be blew him?’ The wicked biatch adds a pensive finger tap to her chin.

  ‘You are a horrible, horrible person.’

  ‘And you are coming out with me. And you’re going to have fun. Remember fun? It’s the other f word.’

  2

  Miranda

  ‘Here, kitty-kitty . . . Ouch! Dammit!’

  ‘What? What is it?’ Heather’s voice hisses from my phone as it skitters out of my hand, bouncing along the ground, but thankfully landing with the screen facing the evening sky.

  ‘Well, that wasn’t fun,’ I mutter, pushing myself up from my knees, my movements shuffling and ungainly. I wince as I brush tiny bits of gravel from my smarting knee. Lurching a little to the left as I straighten, I catch myself on the wall. I totter to where my phone lies in a patch of moonlight.

  ‘I tripped over a bloody plant pot,’ I say, bringing the phone to my ear again.

  ‘God, you’re such a lightweight.’

  ‘Am not. I’m just out of practice,’ I answer a little indignantly.

  ‘This is what happens when you remove yourself from society. Unless you take the vodka on your cornflakes approach to breakups, I suppose.’

  ‘I haven’t even had that much to drink.’ My heels tap-tap against the cobblestones as I continue.

  ‘Maybe I should’ve come back with you.’

  ‘Ha! That would’ve been like . . . the tipsy leading the tipsier. Besides, you blew me off for a booty call.’ Along with the reason I’m creeping around in the darkness looking for an escaped cat, cocktails are also to blame for Heather braving the London transport system at this hour just because some oik from Acton promised her a little bedroom action.

  But I’m not really drunk. Just a little anaesthetised.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m in the garden, looking for that cat. Your fault, by the way.’

  ‘How’d you come to that conclusion?’ Her question burbles with an incredulous sounding giggle.

  ‘Because if I wasn’t on the phone, the bloody thing wouldn’t have jumped over my leg and shot out through the open back door.’

  ‘Well, if you hadn’t decided you needed to smoke a sneaky cigarette, then the back door wouldn’t have been open.’

  I inhale sharply, my (very occasional) secret vice exposed. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I caught you smoking once when we were kids.’

  A memory comes into sharp focus; I’m sitting in the window seat blowing smoke rings out of the open window, ever the sixteen-year-old sophisticate. Heather stands at my open bedroom door wearing her “I’m going to tell” look.

  ‘I nearly fell out of the window from shock.’ I thought I’d locked the door. ‘I pinched your arm.’

  ‘Yeah, but I was such a little snitch. No need for threats this time. Your secret is still safe with me.’

  ‘I can’t believe you know.’ My words are part embarrassed groan. ‘I mean, how?’

  ‘You always look shifty after coming back from a sneaky cig. Furtive, as though you’ve been up to something naughty.’

  ‘I can count on one hand the number of cigarettes I’ve smoked this summer,’ I reply a little piqued suddenly. No one likes being caught doing something they’d prefer to hide. ‘I’ve had a very stressful few months, you know.’

  ‘You know what’s better for stress relief? Orgasms.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s less socially acceptable to step outside the pub to rub one out.’

  ‘Ew. There is so much wrong with that sentence.’

  ‘Says the girl who just sent a very wrong text.’

  ‘Yeah, but it’ll keep him off your back for a few days, won’t it? Cameron’s going to be so busy he won’t have time to keep sending you nasty texts and emails.’

  ‘Do you know how many Oxfam charity shops there are in London?’

  ‘And does he really think he’d be able to get the ring back from any one of them?’

  ‘Well, no, because it’s still in my jewellery box.’ We both burst out laughing.

  ‘It’ll teach the twat to keep sending you increasingly threatening messages after he treated you so crappily. Anyway, even if you had accidentally dropped in a bag of donated clothes and knick-knacks, he still wouldn’t be able to get it back. I reckon the old ladies who volunteer in those kinds of places cherry-pick all the best stuff. As if they’d give it up.’

  Oh man, she was right. This is really what I needed tonight. To let off some steam and have a little fun.

  ‘Heather, I’m so glad—’

  ‘Anyway,’ she says, brushing away my sentiments before they’re even formed. ‘If you hadn’t insisted on talking to me for the whole journey, you wouldn’t still be on the phone, and cigarette or not, the cat would probably still be in the house.’

  ‘And if you hadn’t decided to traipse all the way to the other side of London, we wouldn’t still be on the phone because I wouldn’t need to know you’re okay. Okay?’

  ‘Mir, how is talking to you all the way going to stop me from getting abducted?’

  ‘You could take a photo of your attacker. I’d send it to the police.’

  ‘So, I record my murder?’

  ‘Don’t be so morbid. I can’t help worrying about you.’

  ‘Same,’ she answers with a sigh, though thankfully, she doesn’t elaborate because we agreed, no more talking about recent heartbreaks. ‘No sign of Marilyn Meow-row yet?’
>
  ‘It’s David Meowie, and no. I’m just going to look in the neighbour’s garden next.’

  ‘The hot neighbour’s garden?’ I smile wryly at her change of tone.

  ‘You mean the neighbour you spent Saturday afternoon perving over?’

  I miss the beginning of her response as the line cuts out for a minute, the train she’s on presumably hitting a dead spot.

  ‘ . . . is fine.’

  ‘Yeah, I am. Thanks.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ohhh. I thought you were asking if I was okay.’

  ‘Ha. No,’ she says with a giggle. ‘Why do cocktails make everything funnier?’

  ‘For the same reason they take the sting out of grazed knees, I suppose.’

  ‘Not applied topically,’ she answers with a snort. ‘Maybe what I should be asking is why they make a girl horny.’

  ‘Or why they make a girl tell her parents she’s staying with her cousin when really, she’s off to the other side of London on the promise of a quick shag, hmm?’