“You're going to end up marrying a doctor,” Laura teased, knowing Josie hated the idea. A nurse, she worked hard at the hospital, but the MDs were the bane of her existence.
“No way! I want children with common sense and no God complex!”
“Too bad. They'll be your children. Missed the boat already.”
“That's what I mean. I need a father for my children who is nothing like me so those poor kids have a chance. But no doctors!”
“You're cursing yourself.”
“Give me a good plumber any day. Or a truck driver.”
“Truck driver?”
“My uncle Mike is a long-haul truck driver. He's gone all week. The only way some man is going to put up with me long-term is if he's gone 5 out of 7 days a week.”
“You have a point.”
“What about you, Laura? What kind of guys are in your future?”
“Guys? As in plural?”
“Hey. Maybe you're like Lays.”
“Lays?”
“The potato chips? Betcha can't eat just one.”
“You are a sick, sick woman.”
“And you picked me for your best friend, so what does that say about you?”
“I'm reassessing.”
“You're stuck with me forever. I know all your secrets.”
“The only major secrets I have involve binge eating, Josie.”
“Fair enough. You are pretty boring, aren't you?”
Laura stared at the screen. Boring.
Josie was right. She was.
“Let's unboring you.”
Then Josie, with a flourish, pressed the “Submit” button. “Thank you for joining—your profile is now live!” the screen read.
And now Laura waited to see if dreams really do come true...
Because you never know.
:)
You can learn what happens when someone (or two someones...) respond to Laura’s online dating ad by continuing and reading the New York Times bestselling series, Her Billionaires, with more than 600,000 words, in the entire series.
Keep flipping to read an excerpt from the New York Times and USA Today bestseller Her Billionaires, the first book in the series:
Excerpt: Her Billionaires
“Hot, luscious piece of ass who can suck a golf ball through forty feet of garden hose seeks rippling-ab’d firefighter who has a tongue that thrums like a hummingbird and enjoys painting my toenails and eating Ben & Jerry’s out of the carton while watching Orange is the New Black.”
Laura Michaels stared at the online dating site’s registration screen and frowned. That’s what she really wanted to write. Here was the truth:
“Needy, insecure, overweight twenty-nine-year-old financial analyst with three cats, a corporate job with pension and no debt seeks Mr. Impossible for way more than friendship and lots of ice cream. I’m desperate for some physical affection and oral sex with a guy who doesn’t view it as a favor, and then expects to be praised like he cleaned my toilet. One night stands are better than nothing as long as you brush your teeth. Call me!”
Her best friend, Josie Mendham, punched her in the bicep.
“You can’t say either of those!”
Josie was Laura’s opposite. Where Laura was 5’6”, Josie was barely tall enough to ride roller coasters. Remove the 1 from Laura’s size and you still had to subtract a few to get Josie’s size 2. Where Laura had long, curly blonde hair and bright green eyes, Josie was chocolate all around.
“Mutt and Jeff” her mom had called them, and they’d been besties forever.
Which meant Josie knew Laura too well. “You are going to do this, damn it,” she said, wagging a finger in front of Laura’s face. “No trying to be perfect. Perfect is the enemy of good enough.”
“I haven’t even found Mr. Good Enough!”
“That’s because hundreds of Mr. Good Enoughs have walked past you, Laura, and you’re blind to them.”
Josie nudged Laura aside and started typing, her long nails burning up the keyboard. How did she do that? Typing on the pads of her fingers seemed impossible, but Josie did it, keeping her manicure intact, little replicas of the famous grey necktie from Fifty Shades of Grey on each nail.
The two had been out at a club the night before and Josie had slept over, waking up chipper and springing this online dating thing on Laura before she’d even had her first cup of coffee. As the machine gurgled and burbled, Laura willed it to hurry. Weighing out her entire dating future in a half-zombie state was not good.
Laura knew she had to lie, but how much was acceptable? Could she shave off a few sizes, or would she need to hack off an imaginary arm and leg to make herself seem “fit” and “athletic”? The drop-down box with its built in descriptors seemed like judgmental torment. No choices were there for “zaftig” or “juicy” or “full figure.”
Being a size eighteen with F-cup breasts wasn’t a crime, she knew. In real life, she was fashionable and flowing, plump and pleasing, and could arm wrestle most guys into submission, but reducing her accomplishments, personality and, yes, body into a vocabulary designed by some Internet start-up team of nineteen-year-old dropouts from Stanford and Carnegie Mellon made her irrationally angry.
No—rationally angry.
Seeing little choice, she pointed to the boxes on the screen and told Josie, “Pick the word ‘fit.’ I can deadlift 105 pounds. Which is,” she said as she eyed Josie, “more than you weigh.”
Josie pointedly ignored her, biting her lower lip and deep in concentration. “Voila!” she shouted, her hands spread wide in a grandiose gesture. “There’s your ad.”
She announced:
“Luscious, curvy financial analyst seeks friendship and more. Financially independent and self-assured, I’m a fit woman who wants a man (or, more than one! YOLO!) for stimulating conversation...er, yeah. Conversation. Message me (or massage me!).”
“I can’t write that!” Laura groaned. “It makes me look like I want an orgy!” She squinted at the screen. “And what the hell is ‘YOLO’?”
“Who doesn’t want an orgy?” Josie wiggled her eyebrows lasciviously and stuck out her tongue, waggling it in a very bad imitation of oral sex. “And YOLO stands for ‘you only live once.’”
“Cut it out. You’re turning me on. It’s been that long since I got some, and the last guy used his tongue like he was a Roto-Rooter man. Like that.”
She pointed at Josie’s tongue and bent over, laughing.
“Maybe we're too picky, Laura,” Josie mused as they calmed down. She wasn't the type to get somber like this, so Laura found herself suddenly concerned.
“Too picky? Wanting a nice guy who is good in bed and doesn't treat us like we're an object to push down so they can feel bigger is 'too picky'?” Her cat, Frumpy, walked by just then, nuzzling her ankle. “If that makes me too picky, I'll just be a cat lady.”
“You're right. I guess – maybe we need to imagine the perfect guy and manifest him.”