4th & Girl (Mavericks Tackle Love)

by Max Monroe

  If you’re already signed up, consider sending us a message to tell us how much you love us. We really like that. ;)

  Follow us online:

  Website

  Facebook

  Reader Group

  Twitter

  Instagram

  Goodreads

  Bookbub

  Amazon

  The Day I Stopped Falling for Jerks Excerpt

  * * *

  The Day I Stopped Falling for Jerks podcast

  Episode 1: “Is this thing on?”

  Hi, everyone.

  I’d like to welcome you to episode one of my very first podcast.

  [quiet, hesitant laugh]

  I’m a little nervous, so please bear with me as I try to figure out how to podcast.

  See, I’m more a writer of words than a podcaster of words, but what I’m about to tell you is honestly too damn big to fit into one of my columns.

  Way too big.

  It’s a real doozy, guys, but I have to get it out.

  And I’m hoping, once I finish recording this—since my boss says I might start feeling symptomatic of, say, poisoning, if I ruin this new venture—I’ll actually be able to upload it to Scoop’s website. Apparently, I’m told, podcasting is the wave of the future, and if we—meaning Scoop—don’t get our foot in the door first, we—meaning I—might as well find another room. Room meaning office.

  I’m pretty sure she’ll fire me, okay?

  Still, I figure pouring my guts out to a bunch of strangers has to be at least close to therapeutic, so consider my fingers and toes crossed that my technical inability doesn’t mean it’s for nothing.

  [mumble from producer]

  Oh, good. I’m told the uploading portion of this podcast will be taken care of by someone else. Smart move, guys.

  [laughs again]

  Okay, so where do I even begin?

  [long, audible sigh]

  Well, I guess my love life would be a good start, huh?

  I mean, it’s the whole reason I’m here, ready to pour my heart out to you.

  The past.

  The present.

  The future, as I’ve sworn and promised it to myself.

  They’re all kind of a hot mess, but it’s really the chaos I’ve gotten myself into this time that made me decide to take action.

  Think of a woman trying to stand up in a hammock during an earthquake, and then throw in a writhing pit of cobras dancing below it for good measure. Add in the task of juggling several oddly shaped objects and a horrible lack of hand-eye coordination, and you might have some idea of what I look like while trying to navigate lust, like, and love.

  Relationships, dating, finding love…God, you guys, it is so hard.

  I envy those people who manage to find the love of their lives on a first date or—even more mind-blowing—a chance encounter a la love-at-first-sight that blossoms into a long-term courtship.

  Like, how in the hell does that even happen?

  It feels like some trippy, magical unicorn kind of shit or, worse yet, an evil consecration for those with a special, dark gift. And I’m not exactly comfortable exploring how many pagan gods I’d have to promise ill-willed deeds to in order to experience the easy road to love.

  Hell, even the hard road.

  As long as it didn’t end in disaster, I’d be ahead of where I am now—where I always seem to be.

  See, I’ve been a serial dater, a constant cultivator of bad relationships, for as long as I can remember.

  Even my kindergarten boyfriend, Kenny, is a prime example of what I’ve come to know as normal.

  He was a swoony little bastard, even at the ripe age of nearly six, and I was a naïve five-year-old, hungry for pure love. We were happy for about a day and a half, but when another skirt-wielder, Amber Carter, ran by, the apparent love of his life—Kenny’s description of me—wasn’t the only twinkle in his mossy green eyes anymore. One push off the monkey bars, and my first official relationship promptly ended in what would be one of many breakups for me.

  Think of all the very worst guys to date—the players, the weirdos, the clingy momma’s boys, and the jerks…good God, picture the jerks.

  Do you have those men in your head?

  Well, I, Luciana “Lucky” Wright, have dated them all.

  It might sound like an exaggeration, but it’s not. I’ve been there, done that, written the book, and filmed the Lifetime movie.

  And all those good-for-nothing men left me with were weeks filled with Netflix binges fueled by ice cream and the same damn question rolling through my mind—Where are all the good men?

  You know, the men who are actually worthy of us. The men who know what they want and have good intentions to boot. The ones who know how to truly love a woman, one woman, for the rest of their lives.

  Are they underground somewhere? In one of those highly discriminatory bunkers from the movie Deep Impact, perhaps? Do I actually have to discover the meaning of life to get the password?

  I honestly don’t know. But I believe, in order for you to truly understand my frustration, I need to show you the final straw in my never-ending cycle of dating jerks. The moment that made me say “Sayonara, Jerks!” and write those fuckers off for good.

  It’s going to feel like some serious Romeo and Juliet kind of shit, but I can tell you, a Shakespearean love story it is not.

  Keep listening. You’ll see.

  * * *

  When I zig, love zags.

  When I stand up, love sits down.

  And when I fall, that little bitch puts a boot in my ribs, lest I get comfortable while prone for even a second.

  Love and I are not on the same page. Not even in the same book.

  But as much as I’ve gone through on my journey to stumble upon some glass slippers and Prince Charming, it’s taken me a little longer to link all the trouble together…to link it, quite frankly, to me.

  So let’s go back a few months, to May 30th…to the exact point in time when I started to realize just how big of a problem I have with love.

  A big, fat fuck—

  [audible gasp]

  Whoops.

  [laughs]

  Am I allowed to curse in these things?

  [muffled response from producer]

  Okay, well, I’m not sure of the actual rules, so I’ll just go ahead and apologize in advance. There’s no way in hell I’m going to get through this story, my story, without dropping some f-bombs. I suggest you consider your listening carefully if you’re particularly sensitive to language.

  I mean, I don’t plan to be an absolute heathen, but really, you’ll see, an expletive or two will be highly necessary for the telling of this tale.

  [deep breath]

  Okay, so where was I?

  [distinct pause]

  Oh yeah, May 30th. That’s right.

  I’d driven to JFK airport that day with a heavy heart and a head filled with doubt and uncertainty.

  Goodbyes have never been my strong suit, but goodbyes amidst horns honking, airport security yelling, and the stench of sweat and gas fumes are markedly worse.

  Sure, in the movies, the swoony goodbye on the sidewalk of a bustling airport is a picture-perfect representation of how two people can seem like the only people in the world, even among a crowd. But JFK, on its best day, will never be the best setting for real-life romance.

  Sounds of luggage wheels scraping across the concrete. Spit, dirt, and grime on the sidewalk…it’s not exactly a regulation bed of roses, guys.

  Summer hadn’t even officially started, yet it felt like we were right in the middle of it. A record-long heat wave by May’s standards appeared to be running full steam ahead, without any sort of reprieve in sight.

  It was one of those days where if I’d managed to keep my makeup from melting off my face, it would’ve been a God-ordained miracle.

  Spoiler alert: I didn’t. But the need for a quality setting spray is absolute peanuts compared to the way I would need
Jesus to keep me from committing one of the cardinal sins when the rest of the shit with Tiago played out.

  [laughs]

  Yeah, you’ll see.

  Anyway, the early summer sun was glaring—real, steal your vision and make spots dance The Nutcracker behind your eyes kind of shit—so by the time I stopped squinting and made it outside, I was just in time to see Tiago lifting his suitcase out of my car.

  My heart clenched at the sight of it all.

  As I’ve established, I hate goodbyes. But this goodbye…well, it felt way too permanent. For the first time ever, I was ending a relationship on good terms, and for all intents and purposes, before I was ready.

  This was it. Most likely, the last time I’d see him. Sure, we’d only been dating for six or so months, but I’d really grown to enjoy, and even anticipate, his companionship.

  And now, I’d be back to square one.

  Back on the dreaded dating scene.

  He wheeled his cracked, dark leather suitcase a few feet from my white Honda Civic and lifted it up onto the sidewalk, and when his dark, nearly black, brown eyes met mine, I had the urge to cry.

  “So, I guess this is it?” he asked, and I hated the way that Brazilian accent of his caressed my skin.

  It had the power to make my knees weak and my heart race and my damn panties disappear into thin air. Combine it with those endless eyes and that sexy smile, and I was a goner. A woman with a complete lust-induced brain malfunction.

  “Yeah.” I shrugged and glanced down at my feet when my voice clogged with discomfort. “I guess this is it.”

  “I’m going to miss you, Luciana Wright,” he whispered, and my full name rolled off his tongue like he actually loved saying it.

  “I’m going to miss you too,” I whispered back. “Call me when you make it to Brazil, okay?”

  He smiled. I swooned. It was a regular romantic drama playing out before hundreds of New Yorkers’ eyes. “You don’t even have to ask. Yours will be the first call I make, gatinha.”

  Gatinha. Tiago’s Portuguese term of endearment for me meant kitty or kitten—or something revolving around cats. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what it stood for—in fact, I’m still not—but it sounded good leaving his lips, and that was all the moony, pathetic version of me cared about.

  “Have a safe flight, okay?”

  “I will,” he said and stepped forward until our chests were mere inches from one another. “Lucky,” he whispered, and his mint-scented breath brushed across my cheeks. “Before I go, I need to do one last thing.”

  I quirked a brow, but he didn’t give me time to ask.

  Within the blink of an eye, he wrapped his arms around me, pulled me tight to his chest, and leaned down to place his lips against mine.

  A little moan left my throat when he slipped his tongue inside my mouth and kissed me in the way only Tiago could.

  Good God, the man could kiss.

  In fact, I often wonder if it was his sexual prowess that attracted me to him the most. I’ll probably never really know, but thinking back on the kissing as a measure of research is always worth it either way.

  It’s worth reiterating. The kissing was good.

  [pauses on a sigh]

  So, he kissed me until my knees felt wobbly and my arms and legs turned to pliant, jelly goo. And when he pulled away, a despondent sigh got caught in my lungs.

  “Yeah.” He nipped at my swollen lips. “I’m going to miss this.”

  I was completely and utterly kiss-drunk, but I managed to whisper back, “Me too.”

  One more soft, tender press to my mouth and he pulled away for good.

  “Goodbye, Luciana,” he said and stepped up onto the sidewalk platform of JFK’s departure entrance.

  “Bye, Tiago.”

  He wrapped his knuckles around the handle of his suitcase, and after one last, fleeting glance in my direction, he was gone, through the automatic entrance doors and into the terminal.

  I know. At this point, you’re probably feeling confusion.

  A sexy Brazilian photographer with dark brown eyes and cute terms of endearment and mastery-level kissing, and yet…we were saying goodbye forever?

  How did it all go wrong?

  Well, if I were you, I’d hold back on your Tiago-love because there’s still a hell of a lot more to this story.

  And it starts with a girl-date to Yankee Stadium.

  Start reading The Day I Stopped Falling for Jerks today!

  First of all, THANK YOU for reading. That goes for anyone who’s bought a copy, read an ARC, helped us beta, edited, or found time in their busy schedule to help us out in any way.

  Thank you for supporting us, for talking about our books, and for just being so unbelievably loving and supportive of our characters. You’ve made this our MOST favorite adventure thus far.

  THANK YOU to Basil and Banana.

  THANK YOU to our amazing readers.

  THANK YOU to all of you awesome and supportive bloggers.

  THANK YOU to our editor, Lisa.

  THANK YOU to our agent, Amy.

  THANK YOU to Jenn and Sarah and Brooke and everyone else at Social Butterfly PR.

  THANK YOU to our Camp Love Yourself Members.

  THANK YOU to Kristina and our Thatchlings.

  And last, but certainly not least, THANK YOU to our family.

  Max: Another short and sweet acknowledgment?

  Monroe: Yep. You bet ya. We’ve got a baby to deliver and our next big project to—

  Max: We’ve got a baby to deliver?

  Monroe: Metaphorically, yes.

  Max: And what about physically?

  Monroe: Well, all I can say is good luck, friend.

  Max: [laughs] Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence.

  Monroe: [grins] You’re going to be great. Your epidural is going to make you feel zero pain, and your baby is going to be beautiful.

  Max: [nods] I like where this is headed. Keep going…

  Monroe: Like, legit, right after the delivery, you’ll be sitting there in your hospital bed looking like Kim Kardashian’s Glam Squad just did your hair and makeup. And your baby is just going to be smiling up at you. It’s going to be some Hallmark Moment kind of shit.

  Max: [rubs belly] That’s way better.

  Monroe: [laughs] I figured you’d like that.

  Max: So, now what do we do?

  Monroe: Well…we finish up writing that one book with that one guy who is…you know…

  Max: Oh yes…I know… [grins]

  Monroe: And then we go on maternity leave.

  Max: You mean, I go on maternity leave.

  Monroe: Yeah, that’s what I said.

  Max: You said we.

  Monroe: Nooooo… [smiles] Pretty sure I said you. Anyway, enough chitchat, we’ve got other priorities to focus on.

  Max: Like what?

  Monroe: Lunch.

  Max: Now that is something my baby and I can get behind!

  Thank you to everyone we love and adore!

  Our readers, our bloggers, our fellow authors, our entire team, just everyone!

  We love you tons and tons and tons!

  Thank you for letting us do what we love every single day.

  XOXO,

  Max Monroe