Exes and O's (The Influencer, #2)
Amy Lea
To all the “crazy” ex-girlfriends
Got a long list of ex-lovers
They’ll tell you I’m insane.
—TAYLOR SWIFT, “BLANK SPACE”
author’s note
Dear Reader, Thank you so much for choosing my romantic comedy Exes and O’s as your next read. While this story is generally light and humorous, I would be remiss if I did not include the following content warnings: emotionally abusive ex, on-page gaslighting, portrayal of child with illness, mentions of deaths of loved ones, and deliberate use of the word crazy throughout.
Note: this last one is vehemently condemned by me and the main characters. Please take care while reading.
With love,
Amy Lea
? chapter one
YOU KNOW YOUR day is going swimmingly when you’ve been projectile vomited on and someone stole your Greek yogurt from the staff room refrigerator. And it’s only seven in the morning.
Eager to leave the memory of my hellish night shift behind, I’m in formation at the edge of the platform, stance wide, pointy elbows out, among hundreds of tired morning commuters primed to battle for a rare open seat on the subway.
I’ve learned a thing or two about navigating a crowd from witnessing five-foot-tall Grandma Flo barrel her way through the grocery store, whacking innocents with her faux-crocodile purse with no apologies.
Boston subway commuters may not be as ferocious as grocery store grannies, but they’ll trample you for an open seat all the same. I have a grotesque scar on my left shin to prove it.
Thankfully, no blood is drawn in today’s war. In a rare turn of events, I have my choice of three seats: one beside a man three-too-many edibles deep, passionately air drumming; another next to a woman with bubble-gum-pink hair open-mouth smiling; and one across from an adorable elderly couple bundled in matching red parkas thick enough for a perilous Arctic expedition.
I nab the seat across from the elderly couple and set my purse at my feet, eager to avoid all reality with my trusty worn paperback. This book has all my vices: a ball-busting heroine with a sharp tongue and a kind-eyed yet emotionally constipated ex-boyfriend.
A few paragraphs into a juicy yacht scene, my phone dings with a text. It’s from my sister.
CRYSTAL: Hope you had a good shift. We’ll meet you at the apartment soon. Just loaded all your boxes in the car! Cheers to new beginnings.
Crystal is two years younger than me, though everyone assumes she’s the older one because I’ve been overstaying my welcome in her one-bedroom condo for the past eight months.
“New beginnings,” I mutter to no one in particular, trying to psych myself up for a morning of manual labor.
I’ve only recently peeled myself from rock bottom after my happily ever after plot twisted into a Nicholas Sparks tragedy. Truthfully, the prospect of more change triggers my gag reflex, but I’m trying to stay optimistic. Moving out means I’ll be free to read on the couch for six straight hours without anyone throwing shade, and Crystal gets privacy with her new fiancé, Scott—who I’m swapping apartments with.
The subway veers around a sharp curve with an earsplitting squeal, causing the entire length of my thigh to press against a complete stranger’s. The luxury of public transit. When I brave a glance at my cozy neighbor, a pair of hooded, azure eyes ensnares mine from behind tortoiseshell-framed glasses. The striking sky-blue shade of his eyes offsets a full head of lusciously thick ginger hair.
As a lifelong connoisseur of romance novels, I’m keenly aware that eye contact lasting longer than three seconds is ripe with romantic potential.
“Good book?” His voice is thick, almost sleepy.
Stunned, I scrutinize his face for any sign of sarcasm. That’s the thing about reading romance. Book covers depicting unfairly attractive, half-nude models embracing in a passionate lip-lock are perennial targets of mocking and snobbery. Welcome to the patriarchy.
Sweat pools into the underwire of my bra when he smiles, revealing teeth so white, they appear artificial under seizure-inducing subway lighting. His question takes me off guard, and he can tell, because he bashfully follows it up with, “I read a little romantic suspense, if you’re wondering.”
My toes curl inside my nursing shoes. Has fate gifted me an emotionally adept, romance-reading Prince Harry look-alike? Because I’m eternally void of all chill, I spew questions at rapid-fire speed. “You read romance? Who have you read? Which titles?”
I refrain from sudden movements as he tilts his head, dithering. “Okay, you got me. I lied. I just wanted an excuse to talk to you. I do read, though,” he adds, his gaze falling to my purse at my feet.
“What’s your genre of choice? And please don’t say poetry,” I beg. For the record, I hold no ill will toward poetry, but I was ghosted in college by a dude who did slam poetry and the wound still cuts deep.
“Horror. I have a sick addiction to it, actually,” he admits, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
The seams of my proverbial corset threaten to burst with suppressed delight. I’m not a horror reader, but men south of sixty who regularly read fiction are an endangered species that must be protected at all costs.