Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 67831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
“You realize you are a rich East Coast yuppie, right?” I ask, grabbing one of my three plates from the open shelves above the counter. As a confirmed bachelor, I don’t need more than that, especially when I eat takeout most of the time. “You live larger than ninety percent of the cats in this city, which happens to be solidly on the East Coast. Your organic food costs two-hundred dollars a month.”
Satan’s eyes narrow to slits. Well, if that’s too much for you to spend on your best friend, who happens to be allergic to preservatives, by all means feed me the bargain shit. I’ll happily go back to vomiting on your bedspread after every meal. Truly, it would be my pleasure.
“I’m sure it would.” I slide my half sandwich from the toaster oven onto my plate, hissing as the melted cheese burns my fingertips. “But I’d be in pretty bad shape if you were my best friend, buddy.”
Exactly, dumbass, Satan says, racing forward to bat claws at my calf before rampaging into the living room with a hiss and a yowl.
“Ow!” I shout. “Why are you such a dick?”
Thankfully, however, my winter suit pants are thick enough to act as a protective barrier against Greg’s satanic side. As I take the four steps to my dining table, where I have a clear view of my cat galloping over the couch and leaping onto his giant cat play structure by the window, I add, “One of these days I’m going to get sick of your shit and put you up for adoption.”
On no! Not the chance to be adopted by a person who isn’t a disappointment to the human race, what would I do? Satan lands atop of the structure with a wicked laugh and settles onto one platform to watch the birds roosting in the tree outside my brownstone, silhouetted in the early sunset light.
“That was legitimately hurtful,” I mutter, tucking into my still dry sandwich. All the toaster oven accomplished was to glue the cheese even more firmly to the carboard bread.
I could, of course, go to a restaurant or order better takeout. I’m not a billionaire, but I do very well for myself, especially for a guy who’s trafficked in jokes his entire adult life. My apartment is paid off, I have a healthy savings account, a retirement account, and an adorable little vacation home in Maine. I have more than enough extra cash floating around to eat out every night if I wanted to. I used to love exploring my Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood, trying every new café as soon as it opened. But since I started producing the reality show, my taste for being out and about in the world has dulled.
You can only spend so much time around people behaving badly before you lose your taste for being around humans more than absolutely necessary.
Maybe that’s why I can’t shake the feeling that the other shoe’s about to drop and Caroline isn’t as fabulous as she seems.
Candy, not Caroline. She said people from her hometown call her Candy. Remember?
This time, the voice in my head isn’t Satan’s depraved cat telepathy. It’s my intuition, underlining pertinent information, helping my weary synapses fire. Before I’ve swallowed my next bite of stale sandwich, the pieces start to slide into place, sending my stomach into freefall.
Vivian had a cousin named Candy—Candy Cane to be specific. I remember we laughed about it during our first holiday together, how cruel it was for her aunt and uncle to give her cousin a name like that, especially when they lived in a Christmas-themed town.
Could that town be Reindeer Corners?
I don’t think that’s the name Vivian mentioned when she talked about her hometown—I thought it was Jingle Bell Ville or something equally horrible—but I could be wrong. After all, what are the chances there are two Candy Canes in the tiniest state in the nation?
Snagging my laptop from the other side of the table and flipping it open, I type Caroline’s full name into the search along with Vivian’s. In just seconds, I have proof that Caroline is indeed Vivian’s cousin…in the form of a wedding announcement in the local paper. Caroline was one of Viv’s bridesmaids.
And now she’s my newest reality show contestant.
And likely plotting my downfall as I scroll through search results…
My mind races, my dread intensifying as I connect the dots.
Caroline had a strong reaction to my name, meaning she almost certainly knows I’m the man her cousin used to date. And I know Vivian well enough to guess that the story she told her family about our breakup probably isn’t anything close to the truth. Vivian insists on being the victim, even when she’s clearly in the wrong, though that wasn’t a character trait I understood until we were over.