Chronicles of a Serial Dater - Book 7: A New Adult Romantic Comedy
Read Chronicles of a Serial Dater - Book 7: A New Adult Romantic Comedy Online
Authors: Adele Huxley,Savan Robbins
This book is work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. This book contains explicit material and is intended for readers 18 years or older.
The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademarked owners of any wordmarks mentioned in the following fiction.
Copyright ©
2016 by Adele Huxley
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.
All requests should be forwarded to:
[email protected]
Chronicles of a Serial Dater
is a series of 7 short stories that follow Talia through the murky world of dating. These books were originally published once a week through the summer, just like episodes of a TV show! Since all the books are out now, you’re free to binge away!
Bonus online content adds to the interactive fun! You can find Talia’s blog on my website, AdeleHuxley.com. Be on the lookout for any chapter ending with this image:
Tapping it should take you to the corresponding section in the blog, but beware! Looking too far ahead might mean spoilers for the next books!!
Believe it for not, all the dates, conversations, and horror stories in this series are real. Readers just like you were kind enough to share their funniest and worst dates for our entertainment. At least something good came out of them! So if you’re reading these and at any point think, “Come on now, this is too ridiculous,” just remember…
The truth is always stranger than fiction, and nothing is stranger than online dating.
“Talia. What are you doing here?”
Standing face-to-face, his gorgeous green eyes intent and questioning… I was having second thoughts about coming over and saying hello, professionally or otherwise. My mouth worked wordlessly and his expression morphed from surprise to concern.
He dipped his head to whisper privately. “Are you okay?”
I shook him away and spoke in a louder-than-normal voice. “I’m great! Crazy to run into you like this.”
Clint reeled back, still unsure of the situation. Hell, I didn’t know what was happening and I was the one causing it all! But I did my best to pretend I was perfectly in control.
Have you ever seen the movie
Men in Black?
You know in the beginning when it’s revealed the old guy with the cat is actually just a shell for a teeny, tiny alien inside? There’s a moment just before I hit the level of ridiculously drunk when I feel like that. A small alien in my brain still clings to sobriety and normal behavior, frantically trying to steer my clumsy body and mouth through social interactions without tipping off exactly how inebriated I’d become. It lasts about ten minutes before the poor little guy in my brain drowns in vodka or beer.
I was staring at Clint a little too long, so to seem more normal, I thrust my hand out to his date. “Name’s Talia. Talia McGinley.”
As she hesitantly reached for my hand, I realized I was still looking into Clint’s eyes.
Shit, look at her, you idiot! Not him!
“Hi!” I said cheerfully, as if I’d just found her again.
“Hello…”
Clint graciously took my elbow and tried to steer me from the thick of the crowd. “Let’s get you some water.”
“But I haven’t gotten your date’s name yet,” I protested. I spun away from his touch and extended my hand to her again, which she now looked at as if it were leprous.
“Okay,” he said as he collected me by the arm again. “I’ll be right back,” he said to his date over my head.
“
We’ll
be right back,” I added.
And then I learned something about myself in that moment, a handy tip for controlling a drunk Talia. Be a hot Englishman and touch the small of my back, preferably while I’m wearing a slinky, thin dress. I could probably be steered off a cliff that way.
I tried to appear cool as Clint guided me to the side of the room, but inside I was desperately trying to hold on to the last slivers of sobriety. I knew this wasn’t going well, but maybe if I held it together long enough, I could pass it off as another one of those “Talia moments.” It’d make for a good laugh on Monday.
“Who is she?” I demanded, sounding like a jealous wife.
His eyes went wide, coupled with a single arched brow. “Monica? She’s my agent. I think you’ve spoken through email once or twice.”
“Oh.” I sounded more disappointed than happy for some reason. I’d gotten myself all cranked up expecting… expecting what, exactly? To confront him? To demand an explanation?
“What are you doing here?”
Without looking, I pointed to the portrait on the wall above our heads. “My roommate’s girlfriend.”
Clint gazed up. “She has nice breasts.”
“What? No. Well, maybe…” I corrected as I peered up as well. “She’s the photographer, but maybe they’re… wait. I’m sorry. This isn’t at all how I wanted this to go.” The little alien in my brain was drowning. I was aware of my slurred speech but couldn’t control it. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
“And how did you want it to go?” he asked. It was the alcohol, I’m sure it was, but I could’ve sworn I heard a deeper meaning to that.
The thoughts that flew through my booze-soaked brain are too raunchy to share. All I could manage was, “Better.”
“You’ve had a lot to drink,” Clint said, stating the embarrassingly obvious. He sounded cooler than normal, but I just chalked it up as a reaction to my behavior.
“I’m fine. I’m totally fine.” As if to prove the point, I plucked a flute of champagne off a tray as a server strolled past. “Cheers,” I said in a terrible English accent. He watched with a mixture of humor and shock when I tipped the whole glass down my throat as if I was doing shots at the bar.
“Well, then,” he said.
I tried to look cool, but all the bubbles went up the back of my nose making my eyes water. I coughed and sputtered an apology. “This is totally not how I wanted this to go down. I’m a professional.” Except that last word came out more like a whine than a declaration.
Clint leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. I hoped the amusement on his face wasn’t at my expense. “Are you here with a date?”
“No, not tonight,” I replied. I wanted to shock him.
Yeah, that’s right. I see other people, too.
I also wanted to see what his reaction would be if I jumped into his arms, wrapped my legs around his waist, and kissed him.
“That’s too bad.”
I waved my hand dismissively, temporarily distracted by the weird trails my fingers left in my vision. “It’s fine. I’ve got plenty of dates. I’m having the time of my life, you know.”
“Oh, I know. They’re abundant and of low value,” Clint said, almost under his breath.
Even in my ridiculous state, that specific phrase ripped through me like a shock wave. “They’re what?” I slurred. “What did you say?”
He looked toward the crowd as if he wanted to be anywhere but standing next to me. “It’s nothing. So, are you here with a friend then? Anette?”
“Yes! Her… is around here somewhere,” I replied squinting into the room. My eyes locked with the pretty brunette, Monica. She was looking a bit more concerned about our conversation than an agent should. The green-eyed monster crept up again. “Are you sure there isn’t anything going on between you and Tits McGee over there?”
Clint cut off a short bark of laughter and covered it with a cough. “Tits Mc… No, I can assure you there’s nothing going on between us.”
I closed my eyes at this point, mostly in an effort to get the room to stop swaying. “Good.”
I didn’t notice Clint lean in closer. When he spoke, his breath tickled my ear, voice low and husky. “Why is that good?”
I panicked. Just before the tiny alien succumbed to alcohol poisoning, he sent out a final mayday.
Stay professional!
“Oh, just because you…” I cleared my throat and leaned away. “You’re horrible with women.”
Clint gave me the slow blink. You know, the one that says ‘I can’t believe you actually did or said that.’
“You said it yourself,” I tried to deflect, as if that made it any better.
The last little good humor he had left in his expression drained away. “That’s right. That’s me. The hopeless romantic.” He looked away again and I felt my mood shift like a landslide.
I wanted to apologize. I wanted to slap him. I wanted to demand what he was doing out with another woman when we’d…