I don’t mind being here at all. It’s no hardship to spend time at Christian’s home on the canal, especially during the glorious late summer days when the water gleams like a sapphire, mirroring the powder-blue canvas above us in the sky.
But right now, I simply need to sit.
I close my eyes, but the second I do, a little voice calls out to me.
“Mummy, come look!”
I sigh but heed the call of my three-year-old son, James. Rising slowly, I head to the sliding glass door and step into the yard.
The sun is glaring, and the reflection is so bright, I can’t quite make out what Christian and James are doing. But as I shield my eyes with my hand and squint, it becomes patently obvious.
“I can do handstands just like Daddy.”
I groan and march down the yard, shaking my head at my husband. “You’re not making him part of that club.”
Christian holds up his hands ever-so-innocently in a who, me? “Of course not. I’m fully clothed.”
“Do it with me, Daddy.”
Christian flips over on the dock, onto his hands like our son. At least this time, both are wearing shorts.
I smile and relent. After all, maybe the world needs more men who can do handstands, naked or not.
I run a hand over my belly. “Just don’t teach our daughter to join your club.”
Christian laughs, flips over, and stands up. He rushes to me and sets a hand on my gigantic basketball. “Good point. No daughter of mine will ever be flashing tourists naked.”
“She better not.”
“But you can flash me later.” He winks, and then James runs over and joins us, and I take his little hand. We walk to the dock, sit on the edge, and watch the boats go by.
Happily.
THE END
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DEAR SEXY EX-BOYFRIEND
ABOUT
Let me just say -- none of this was supposed to happen.
I didn't expect the letter to go viral. I didn't think anyone would figure out who Dear Sexy Ex was. And I especially never thought he would find out about it.
Yeah, bit of a miscalculation there.
But see, I need the money to fund my brand new venture. And Dear Sexy Ex, well, it turns out he needs me to save his business.
By becoming his fake fiancée.
Yup, that's the pickle I find myself in -- pretending to be madly in love with the charming, brilliant, and utterly infuriating man known as Dear Sexy Ex.
Only, it's not an act. And he can never know.
DEAR SEXY EX-BOYFRIEND
By Lauren Blakely
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Content Warnings For This Title on my web site.
PROLOGUE
Summer
Dear Past Me,
In about twenty-four hours, you’re going to have a spectacularly brilliant idea.
One that will make all the sense in the world at the time because it’ll solve a big, hairy problem. And you love ideas that solve big, hairy problems. Like in sixth grade when you decided to sell origami door-to-door to raise money for the soccer team’s travel. (Who knew there was such a big demand for folded frogs in suburban New York when you were in middle school? You did!)
Or in eighth grade when you ran for Chief Fun Officer on a platform of two junior proms, the second one including a carnival, because who doesn’t love a carnival?
But this idea? This outstanding, fantastic idea that’ll make your dreams come true?
Watch out, Summer.
You’re going to end up with a soaking wet bridesmaid’s dress, a swan boat incident you’ll never live down, the disappointment of your entire family, plus the crushing heartbreak you’ve sought to avoid for decades, and also . . . a pole.
Yes, that kind of pole. The kind of pole everybody whispers about when they see it in someone’s basement. A “Do they really do that with that?” pole.
I wish I could tell you it’ll all work out.
But, as I stand here now, clutching the wet remains of the dress while figuring out what to do with this pole, I don’t have an earthly clue how any of this will resolve.
