World's Worst Boyfriend: A Romantic Comedy Adventure (Fake It Book 3)

by Carina Taylor

  “I can’t believe she stayed with you so long. Four months. Is that a record for you?” He chuckled as he walked down the hall.

  “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” I ground out as I turned up the volume to listen to Sullivan’s phone conversation.

  Turns out, he was ordering dinner, not organizing another multi-million-dollar heist.

  I turned on my personal phone, checking for messages. There were no more from Saidy. I really hoped she hadn’t thrown our hats away. I’d bought us each a matching pair every time I came across one.

  Sappy? Yes. Would I admit to someone like West that I loved the idea of matching hats? Never.

  But the fact that she was going to get rid of them meant she was trying to purge me from her life. I wasn’t ready for that yet. I didn’t think I’d ever be ready.

  I needed to go talk to her. Grovel. Beg. And hope she gave me a chance to explain myself when this was all over.

  The drive to Saidy’s house went by too fast. I didn’t have nearly enough time to formulate my “why we belong together” speech. I guess I’d have to wing it.

  After I parked along the curb, I pulled her garbage can in from the road, setting it next to the garage where she liked to keep it. It was my weekly routine, and it would have felt wrong to ignore it, even if this night didn’t go as planned.

  Taking the necessary deep breath, I walked up the path to the front door.

  I knocked. There was no answer. I rang the doorbell.

  Still no answer.

  Her car was in the driveway, but that didn’t always mean she was home. Her mom or her friend Zoe could have picked her up and taken her somewhere.

  It didn’t matter. I’d sit here on the curb until she got home.

  A loud crash sounded from the garage. Was it a possible break-in? I sprinted around to the back of the garage and reached a hand into my waistband, resting against my pistol while I slowly pushed the man door open.

  I let out a sigh of relief when there was no intruder. I pulled my hand away from the gun I carried whenever I was on duty. I’d been lucky that Saidy had never caught on to the fact that I packed heat regularly.

  Saidy was there inside the garage, standing on a ladder reaching for a box tucked into the rafters. At the base of the ladder was the source of the crash: a broken light bulb.

  I watched as she climbed up to stand on the very top of the ladder. I held my breath, scared to surprise her and cause her to fall off her precarious perch.

  She pulled the large box out and balanced it on her shoulder as she nimbly climbed down the ladder as though she usually carried boxes bigger than herself on a regular basis.

  “You scared me,” I finally said.

  Saidy shrieked and spun around to face me. “What are you doing? You know I hate getting scared!”

  “Well, we’re even. Because I just watched you teeter on the top of that ladder like you were about to crack your head on this concrete.” I tried to keep my tone level; I really did. But by the angry furrow in her forehead, I don’t think I’d succeeded.

  “I made it, didn’t I?”

  “What’s all this broken glass?” I pointed to the tiny shards covering the floor.

  “I knocked one of my spare light bulbs down. I’ll sweep it up. It’s not a big deal. I don’t know what you’re freaking out about.” She shrugged as she set the box onto her worktable and grabbed a broom.

  “I’m freaking out because I don’t want to see you hurt! If you’d fallen, no one would have known you were in here.”

  “I don’t see how it’s any of your business,” she replied saucily as she swept the broken glass into a pile. I was glad she was wearing close-toed shoes on this rare occasion.

  I took a step toward her, her eyes widened, and I opened my mouth, ready to deliver a lecture on safety.

  My work phone chimed loudly, interrupting the moment. It was my special chime that sounded like a short foghorn blast. I saved it specifically for one person.

  Need you to send some files secure. —Sullivan

  He always added his name to a text. As though no one had ever heard of caller ID.

  Now. —Sullivan

  Technically, Sullivan paid me enough to keep on retainer. He thought I had a small start-up and was still struggling to pull in some customers. He thought that in my spare time, when I wasn’t working for him, I was doing a multitude of other IT tasks for any customer I could drum up.

  He offered to pay me twice my normal fee to do some ‘extra’ tasks for him. Which meant he was wanting me to keep my mouth shut about anything I might see in my role as his computer expert.

  He’d been considerate of the fact that I had a small business, and originally hadn’t demanded much of my time. But the more I proved that I could keep my mouth shut, the more Sullivan needed me.

  Lately, however, Sullivan hadn’t been as lenient with my time. He needed more security. More routine checks. More secure servers. He wanted everything he did to be secure—even things like paying for a cup of coffee he didn’t want traced back to him. That’s how paranoia set in on someone who was about to pull off the score of their lifetime. His paranoia was working in our favor, however. He was getting sloppy. Tipping his hand in ways he never had before this.

  He’d asked me to help set up a secure server for some business transactions, and unfortunately wanted me there anytime he needed to make said transaction.

  I shoved the phone back into my pocket.

  “Duty calls,” Saidy mocked as she swept the last of the glass into the dustpan.

  “Saidy,” I growled.

  She pretended to tap her invisible watch on her wrist. “Time for you to go to work.”

  “I’ll be back when I have more time.” Would it take me any extra time to grab the bags right now? No. But I needed an excuse to stop by and see her again.

  She didn’t look pleased with that, so I hurried away to go deal with a moody criminal broker.

  Chapter Eight

  Saidy

  Mom: I’m going shopping tonight after work. Are you free?

  Saidy: Yes!

  Mom: I’ll pick you up at 5:30. We’ll grab some dinner together.

  I finished taping up the last edge of a mantel after I read my mom’s text. It would be easy to contract out the painting part of interior design. But when there were intricate pieces to work around, or special designs, I preferred to do it myself. Today I was painting a stenciled pattern above the fireplace mantel in a new build. It was so much simpler to do these types of things before someone moved in. I had a wide-open space to turn into exactly what they wanted.

  This house might go down in history as my favorite to work on. They hired me to do all of the design. And I mean ALL of it. I was even given a budget to furnish the place, and while I was out shopping with my mom tonight, I could be picking up the pieces the owners and I had decided on.

  My one-person company, Bespoke Perez Design, was all about creating a unique design experience for my clients. If I couldn’t find a unique thing to fit their needs, then I would alter it, resurface it, or build it custom for them. It was why I loved my job. Everything had my own personal touch on it, and my clients could tell. They weren’t going to go to their neighbor’s house for dinner and sit on the same chair they had at home. They knew their home design would be special and completely unique just for them.

  Setting the tape back into my work crate, I took the laser level and lined it up on the wall, finding the perfect height for the stencil.

  I taped the stencil in place and picked up my paint brush from the paint tray.

  Thirty minutes later, and I’d finished the first coat. I left the stencil on the wall so that I could do the second layer first thing in the morning.

  I carefully stashed all of my paint brushes in the wet bags to keep them pliable for the morning.

  With a final check to make sure my stencil wouldn’t slip overnight, I walked out the front door, locking it with the key the owners
had given me. I double-checked the lock once more, just to be sure.

  The fifteen-minute drive home was enough to spend listening to a few minutes of the Bee Best podcast. Zoe texted me, asking if I was free to go out for a drink tonight. I voice texted her back telling her no, that I already had plans. She texted back saying that I had better not have plans with my lame boyfriend.

  Ha.

  Little did she know that there was no lame boyfriend anymore. I didn’t feel like telling her that just yet. She would gloat. And then she would tell me how she had told me from week one that it was a doomed relationship. And I would have no other option than to listen to her gloating, because she was right, wasn’t she? We hadn’t lasted like I thought we would.

  I parked my car, then checked my mail. A notice in the mailbox about a missed package caught my attention. It told me they would attempt delivery another time. Darn that mailman. Was it so hard to walk up the three feet (okay, maybe fifteen) to my front door and leave the package there?

  Now I’d have to make a special trip to the post office.

  Opening my front door and walking inside, I realized I had a little time left before Mom would get there to pick me up. Which meant I could get something done while I waited. I knew we’d be getting dinner together while we were out, so I didn’t need to waste time scrounging up some random meal to eat like I usually did.

  I really needed to start ordering one of those meal kit deliveries. It would be so much better for my health and save so much time.

  I walked into the laundry room and stared at the bag holding Fletcher’s clothes. Could I have folded them even though we weren’t dating anymore?

  Sure. Yes. That probably would have been the kind, mature thing to do. And then I could return them.

  Was that what I proceeded to do?

  No, it wasn’t.

  I opened the cupboard above my washer and pulled down a pair of scissors.

  I opened the mesh bag and looked at the top layer of clothes. There was a white, stained t-shirt I recognized as one he wore fairly regularly. It didn’t matter that it was stained. He’d told me there was still life left in it since it was still holding together.

  With a growl, I lifted it from the bag, took the scissors and snipped it in half.

  I reached into the bag again and pulled out his collared shirt. The one he was wearing on the night he’d stood me up at the Italian restaurant.

  I took several big clips into the sleeves.

  He’d seemed extra imposing the other day when he showed up in my garage. His body language had been tense. As though he were actually worried I would get hurt. As if I would take him back based on that. His demands that I not stand on the top of a ladder anymore…didn’t he remember what I did for a living? Probably not, actually. He was so wrapped up in his start-up that he didn’t pay attention to the world around him. Much less me.

  I would feel guilty about destroying someone else’s property, except I knew he wouldn’t miss these things. He probably wouldn’t even remember that they were here. I was only going to throw them in the trash anyway—even a thrift store wouldn’t accept such trashy hand-offs.

  My frustration and anger at Fletcher faded away with each snip I added to the shirts.

  Finally satisfied with my homemade tasseled t-shirts, I tucked them back into the bag, and put my scissors away.

  My days as a professional launderer had started out innocently enough. I’d noticed how busy he was with his start-up and switched out his laundry for him while I was waiting at his house to go on a dinner date. (Back when he didn’t stand me up on a dinner date.) It slowly evolved into doing his laundry for him a couple times when I knew he was busy, and pretty soon it had turned into a more regular thing. Actually, now that I thought back on it, there was a direct correlation between how much he ignored me, and how much laundry he brought me. The less time he spent with me, the more laundry he brought for me.

  The Bee Best podcast was right: I was an enabler. I’d allowed him to walk all over me.

  I picked up the bag and carried it to the front door. I set it next to my outgoing box. It was the box where I put everything that needed to leave my house: items I’d borrowed, things I needed to return, library books, thrift store donations, etc. Well, this bag didn’t qualify for any of that: it was headed straight for my garbage can.

  The doorbell ringing made me jump guiltily. Mom was already here.

  Before I pulled the door open, I peeked through the peephole, just to be sure. It was a habit Fletcher had drilled into me not long after we started dating.

  Squinting one eye, I pressed the other against the door. My contacts finally focused enough for me to see the face on the other side.

  That was not my mother.

  Fletcher stood outside; a baseball cap pulled low. Sometimes I wondered if I would recognize him without a hat.

  I almost opened the door before I remembered what was sitting on my entryway table.

  “Oh no,” I gasped as I turned around to scoop up my World’s Worst Boyfriend trophy. I glanced around, wondering where to hide it. Finally, I shoved it under the cushion of the papasan chair that Fletcher hated. He would never sit there. Well, obviously he wouldn’t since we’d broken up. He was only here to pick up his bags of things that were no longer welcome in my house.

  The doorbell rang again. I spun around and spied the Bee Best Relationship guide still sitting there.

  “I can hear you in there, Saidy,” his muffled voice came through the door. “I just came to pick up my stuff, not to lecture you on ladder safety again.”

  Did he have the hearing of a bat, or did I sound like an elephant running around? I grabbed the relationship guide and stuffed it under my sweater before I tucked the front into my waistband.

  I flipped the locks and flung the door open.

  Anything I was about to say was stuck in my throat when I saw him. His eyes were red-rimmed, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in a couple days. His long sleeves were rolled up, revealing a long scratch on his forearm.

  “Erm…” I pointed at the scratch.

  “Oh, an accident mounting a modem.” He hurried and pushed the sleeve down. “I came to get my bag of clothes I left here. And the hats.”

  I swung the door open wide and motioned for him to come inside. Shutting the door behind him, I pointed to the outgoing box before I remembered exactly what had happened to his bag of clothes.

  He picked up the damp laundry bag. A stray cuff stuck out of the top. When he tried to pull it out, the entire cuff pulled off the shirt. He looked at me with raised eyebrows.

  I studied the doorframe above his head. “Dryer malfunction?”

  “Sure.” Shaking his head, he turned back to the outgoing box and picked up the bag with all of our SF hats. “Thanks for not cutting these up.”

  I nodded. Could anything get more awkward than the ceremonial giving back stuff after a breakup? I’d never been overly serious with any boyfriends before Fletcher. This was a different break-up dynamic than I was used to. Too many shared histories. Too many shared dreams. And now we were going our separate ways. No matter that this was the right choice, it still hurt.

  The heaviness in the air slowed time as he turned to face the door.

  “I’ll go then,” he said quietly. Shifting both bags to one hand, he opened the front door. He stopped before he stepped outside. “Saidy, I hope you know you can call me. For anything.”

  I cleared my throat and bit back the retort about him never answering his phone. “I appreciate that. Maybe we can be friends at least.”

  With a jerky nod, he closed the door after himself.

  A honk in the driveway pulled my attention away briefly from the relationship guide. Yes, the one I’d sat down and immediately started reading after Fletcher left.

  Another honk pulled me from a riveting article about him buying you the perfect gift and how much you could tell about him from that.

  The honking was definitely my mother.<
br />
  She always was a honker. Drove Dad crazy anytime he let her drive.

  I set the magazine on the coffee table, then gathered my purse, keys, and new gift card before I headed outside and locked the door.

  My mom’s white suburban was so big that it still stuck out halfway in the street with her parked behind my car.

  This was exactly why we liked to take her car when we went shopping together. We could fit so much more in it.

  I opened the passenger door and climbed in.

  Mom leaned over and gave me a hug and a kiss. “Hi, sweetie, how are you?”

  “I’m okay.”

  Mom nodded but didn’t comment. She knew something was off. Moms always knew.

  “Shopping first, then dinner?” she asked as she backed out of the driveway without checking for traffic. Probably the main reason she used her horn so much.

  “That sounds great. I’ve got money to spend!” I pulled out my gift card and the work credit card, showing them to her. My budget shoppers wanted me to renovate their kitchen with a five-hundred dollar spend limit. Comical. But I was up for the challenge.

  “Does this mean you’re shopping for the new design job you got?”

  I’d informed Mom about my complete home job the minute I landed it. Usually, clients wanted one room decorated. Sometimes the whole main living space. But every once in a while, I’d find a client who wanted me to decorate their entire house. Those were my favorite jobs.

  “Yes—and a small kitchen reno. I can’t wait. I know exactly what I’m looking for. It’s going to be so much fun.”

  Mom practically bounced up and down in her seat. “There’s a new boutique in old town. They have some really cute furniture pieces. We should go there first because they usually close early in the evening.”

  “Perfect!”

  We spent the next hour wandering around the little boutique. We found the perfect entryway shelf and a coffee table, along with bedding sets for all the bedrooms.