CHAPTER ONE
HAPPY FRIGGING NEW YEAR
“Yo! Mac. Hottie at three o’clock,”my best friend says as she approaches me.
Looking to my right, I scan the crowd. “I don’t see any hotties.”
“No, I saidthreeo’clock,” Lauren clarified, annoyed. “Don’t make me point. It’s bad manners.”
“I know. I looked at three o’clock and saw only Father Time.” Seriously, there’s a guy dressed up as Father Time. Ah, New Year’s Eve in Chicago. It brings out the crazies.
“No, dork,mythree o’clock.”
“That would be mynineo’clock, not my three o’clock.”
“Crap, girl, just look to the right.”
“Wait, my right or your right?” Lauren can be so confusing.
“Jesus, now he’s gone. You missed him. He was your dream man.”
“Ooh, you mean he looked like Jason Momoa?” I look frantically around the room.
“What? No. Jason Momoa is your dream man?”
“Uh… yeah. AfterGame of Thrones, he’severyone’sdream man. Ooh, did you know he’s the newAquaman? He was perfect for that part. The man is a god.”
“Well, this guy was hot, and he was actuallyhere,” Lauren says, rolling her eyes. Even at the best of times, the girl barely puts up with me. She continues, “He’s got blond hair, and he had that faux-hawk fade haircut that’s so in right now. Plus, he had on nerd glasses.”
“Holy shite. I love me some faux-hawk. Add the nerd spectacles, and I can feel it in my pantaloons,giiirrrl. Gimme. Where is he?”
Lauren giggles. “God, you’re such a dork. Spectacles? Pantaloons? Where do you come up with that stuff?”
“I read a lot of Regency-era romances.”
“You mean Regency erotica. You’re a pervert,” she deadpans.
I let out a surprised giggle.Lauren, Lauren, Lauren. “It’s not erotica. It’sromance. Sure, there are some naughty little debutantes types in the books and even some wicked rakes, but it’s all in good fun.”
“Whatevs. I’m going back to Blake. He’ll be lost without me.”
I snort, rather unattractively, I’m sure. But the truth is, she’s right. Blake is her husband of almost a year, and he would literally be lost without her. I’m not sure the man can choose his own clothes, to be honest. I think she chooses his outfit for the next day and sets it all out before they go to bed. It works for them, and I guess there’s nothing wrong with it. He adores her and she him, no matter how creepy their love seems to me.
Now that I’m on my own again, I decide to move around the ballroom with eyes peeled for the mysterious “hottie at three o’clock.” While I do, I do my best to put this into perspective. Even if I find him, Mr. Hottie would not be interested in me. There’s nothing extraordinary about MacKenzie Blue Parker. I’m just your average woman with an average face and a larger-than-average ass, but whodoeshave an interesting middle name.
“Thank you, Mom,” I say softly, looking up toward heaven. I’m not sure why she used a color for my middle name. When I asked Pops about it, he just said she was whimsical. I love that he used that word to describe my mom. I don’t remember a lot about her, but I do remember that she was pretty and lots of fun.
I squeeze through the throng, turning my body this way and that, saying “excuse me,” “pardon me,” and “oh, I’m sorry my ass knocked your drink out of your hand.” After all that, I’m grumpy, my feet hurt, my head hurts, and I’m still hungry even after nibbling on the delightful spread they’ve got here. I’m trying to look on the bright side butugh, New Year’s Eve sucks.
Are you wondering why my feelings about such an optimistic holiday have taken a nose dive? Personal history. Yep, personal history tells me New Year’s Eve is a night filled with loneliness, sore feet, and worst of all, shattered expectations. I’m referring specifically to the promised kiss at midnight that never seems to happen—at least not for me.Why did I let Lauren talk me into coming to this fancy-schmancy party tonight?Oh, I remember. It’s because I’m a sucker for my best friend’s charms. I’m a grown-ass woman. You’d think I could turn her down, but Lauren Jacobs-Warner practically guaranteed that I’d have the time of my life tonightandI’d get a kiss at midnight.
I don’t know why I let her do this to me time and time again. Yeah, my dress is fabulous. I actually feel sort of pretty in it. Pretty but pained. I’ve been thrust into fashion purgatory with four-inch heels and a too-tight Spanx undergarment. Ugh. I seriously think the people that invented Spanx are sadists—not to mention strange. I mean, who says “undergarment”? No offense, Spanx Incorporated, or whatever you call your business.
To be honest, I’d rather be home watching Netflix and eating junk food. That’s my usual activity on holidays like this one, but my best friend sweet-talked me into this. I told her I didn’t have the appropriate clothes for this part. I even modeled my bestoutfit, a pair of black leggings and sparkly top. But that wouldn’t do for my friend, the little socialite. So she gave me a dress, an old one of hers that she “didn’t really like.” I don’t believe her for a second. I mean,how could she notlovethis dress? This dress isAh. Maze. Ing.
Imagine a dress that Audrey Hepburn might wear inBreakfast at Tiffany’s. It’s black with a delicate lace overlay. Beneath the lace overlay is a satin dress with a sweetheart bodice. The lace top has a boat neck that is open to my shoulder. Simply put, it’s spectacular. Itchy, but spectacular. Oh, and it’s got pockets. It’s perfection. It has three-quarter sleeves and a flirty skirt that’s lined with tulle so that it flares out at the waist and stops right above my knee in a 1950s style. It’s a flattering silhouette, because it hides my larger-than-average rump. The truth is, that’s the only reason this dress fits me, because Lauren’s got a perfect bod. She’s five-feet-eight with an hourglass figure in perfect proportion. I’d be jealous if I didn’t adore her. But I do, so I’m not.
To ensure I’d attend this little shindig, Lauren even provided me with a date—her cousin, Frederick. He’s not really my type, though. Not that I have a type. I haven’t even had an actual boyfriend, per se, so maybetypeis the wrong word. I have book boyfriends, sure. Television and movie boyfriends, of course, but nothing in the flesh. Yeah, sotypeis the wrong word. Perhaps I should just say he’s not my dream man. He’s short, only an inch or two taller than my five-feet-five-inches. He’s also a tad doughy. I know that’s not at all nice to say since I’m a bit doughy myself. But he’s got a paunch on him like a sixty-year-old man, and he’s only in his thirties. He’s a little too young to have the dad bod, if you ask me.
