I Am Woman (Laughable Love Book 1) Read online

  I Am

  Woman

  A Romantic Comedy

  SARAH COLE

  Copyright © 2017 Sarah Cole

  All rights reserved. No parts of this publication or any portion thereof may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any matter whatsoever without express written permission of the author. The only exception is the use of brief quotations for a review and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to provide authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Except for the original material written by the author, all songs, and song titles within this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.

  Cover Design: Sarah Cole

  Cover Image: Shutterstock

  Interior Design and Formatting: Sarah Cole

  Copy Editing: Sarah Cole

  ISBN: 1545450641

  ISBN-13: 978-154545064

  chapter 1

  Lesson #1: Always Check the toilet seat-even if you live alone.

  Verity:

  “Ahhhhhh! Stupid men!” I scream into my dark and empty bathroom as I pull myself from the icy depths of the white porcelain throne… or my toilet. But calling it a throne just sounds better. You feel me? I’m going to kill Tanner. My next-door neighbor, Tanner McKenzie, is without a doubt one of the biggest douchebags I know, and I’m not just saying that because he used my spare key and left my toilet lid up… again. He tends to do that since the plumbing in his unit is perpetually busted. Maybe it’s because he keeps pouring bacon grease down his kitchen drain, maybe it’s because he tried to flush a condom again, maybe it’s from his daily one night stands’ hair extensions clogging his shower drain… the world will never know. So, instead of calling the landlord, he just uses my spare key and my bathroom. How I didn’t hear him, I do not know, but it must have been how engrossed I was in that dream. If a Hemsworth brother wants to feed me spaghetti, then who am I to tell him it’s just a little weird?

  I grab my fluffy pink hand towel and wipe the toilet water from my tushy and the backs of my legs, and peel off my pajama bottoms that are now soaked. As I silently pray to any and every god that he flushed, I bang on the wall like a wild woman.

  “Tanner! You’re dead meat buddy!” I shout in frustration.

  He bangs back with a laugh, no doubt having heard my banshee scream only moments ago. “Sorry, Verity… nature called!”

  Oh, why yes, we can speak through our walls because they are paper thin. That my friends, is how I know about the parade of women that traipse through apartment 3B like it’s a BOGO sale at Nordstrom.

  “At least put the seat down, man. I nearly drowned!” I whine, but I mean, come on! I keep moving my key, and he keeps finding it. The least he could do is put the seat down.

  “Ver, you’d drown in a bowl of soup. Should we go get you some water wings?!” He shouts back, and I’m just done with this conversation, so I land one loud slap to the wall letting him know I’m pissed. He just laughs… typical. He is the sole reason I am thankful I grew up as an only child.

  I turn on the shower and finish my business, all the while praying this is not how the rest of my day goes.

  ***

  I finally find my way into the office, and by office, I mean a trendy estrogen factory with glass windows, white furniture and a crap ton of pink, makeup, and clothing set up in perfect little work stations. I work for Trend women’s magazine. We cover everything from latest fashion trends, celebrity gossip, beauty tips and fitness, to sex advice and politics. We really are a one stop shop. I am a beauty editor here, but given some recent cutbacks, I am now the proud owner of the Between the Sheets column. Which in and of itself should be hysterical considering I haven’t had a boyfriend, let alone any between the sheets action in like two years. Well, unless you count my – you know what? Never mind.

  “Hey, Tally!” I say cheerfully to my best friend and co-worker.

  She grumbles a response as she takes a sip of coffee, barely looking up from her screen. She’s got that wake up and make shit happen type of vibe that I can respect, dressed in all black with bright red lips. She looks every bit like the serious fashion editor she is.

  “That bad?” I ask, glancing over her shoulder at her screen as I flop down at my desk next to her.

  “Definitely not good.” She sighs in her British accent. Is it fair that I hate her a little bit for the perfection that is that accent? It’s like it makes her automatically a hundred times more attractive to the opposite sex. Not that she isn’t gorgeous already with her shiny black hair and sparkling green eyes, but really? Did she have to get the accent too? I want an accent.

  “Why? What’s going on?” I ask.

  She glances up from her screen where she’s checking her emails, “Why are you talking like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like an Irishman and a Russian had a confused child.” She smirks.

  “Oh. Doesn’t sound British?”

  “Not in the least. Stick with what you know.” She smiles, and it just makes me want to pinch her cheeks and smile back at her. She’d totally cut my hand off if I touched her fully made up face.

  “But really, what’s going on?”

  “Quarterly evaluations, and on top of that, Alex heard from Leah that it’s Ashley’s time of the month.” She hisses at me and I feel my eyes widen in horror. Quarterly evaluations…nooooo!

  Ashley Maxwell is my bitch of a boss. I say that in the most respectful of ways. Honestly. Ashley Maxell summed up in one word. Feminazi. Or I could say terrifying. Let’s use two words. Terrifying Feminazi. She is the epitome of everything it means to be a strong, independent, and confident woman – yet, she tends to scare the skirts off of all of her female employees. Micromanaging, process and results driven slave driver. There’s no subtlety, no finesse. Nope, it’s balls or rather vaginas to the wall with that one.

  My computer chimes loudly with the familiar calendar appointment alert. The first meeting? Really? I haven’t even had coffee yet – nothing good comes of an un-caffeinated Verity Peterson. Fact – You can check it if you want to. I stand slowly, smoothing my dress in place, and patting down my blonde hair. I quickly check my lipstick and teeth in the mirrored disco ball that hangs from the planter and grab my notebook to meet my fate.

  As I walk down the aisle towards the frosted glass of the senior editor offices, I swear to god, someone hums a funeral march. Not funny. I square my shoulders and begin to compile a list of my personal belongings I will need to remember to grab on my way out. You know, just in case.

  I knock on Ashley’s door a second before letting myself in like I typically do. I stop dead in my tracks as I see our college aged mail boy, Trent, tucking in his shirt as Ashley drops a ruler loudly on her desk and scrambles to pull her skirt in place.

  “Oh shit!” I accidently say out loud as my hands clamp over my mouth and my notebook falls to the floor. I can feel my cheeks heating in embarrassment.

  Well, I’ll be damned… the office gossip is true. Ashley does have some sort of cougarish fifty shades shit going on with the one and only straight dude in the office. Guess it isn’t her time of the month… or is it? Gross. Embarrassed, I avert my eyes and turn towards the door, my hand outstretched to grip the handle readying myself for the sweet taste of freedom.

  “Come in, Verity. There’s nothing to see here.” Ashley says, commanding me like I’m a border collie. And apparently, I am trained just like one, as I do a complete one eighty and s
tride head down towards the guest chairs in front of her desk.

  Trent must get the message that play time (gag) is over, and he closes the door quietly behind him.

  “Look at me, Verity.” She says, calmly.

  I peek sheepishly through my lashes.

  “Go pick up your notebook.” She commands and I do another about face and head back to the door to pick up my abandoned cheetah print idea pad.

  When I finally settle myself into the chair she says, “That never happened.”

  “What are you talking about?” I feign innocence.

  “Good girl.”

  “Now, I’m not going to waste your time and talk about goals that we all know don’t ever get finished. We all know what a SMART goal is. Instead, let’s talk about assignments. Hmm?” she says.

  “Sounds like a plan.” I say, forcing the same smile I do when the dentist tells me to smile so he can check my bite.

  “I will say, excellent job on the Between the Sheets column. It seems that reader feedback has been extremely positive. Last month’s piece on unusual sexual fetishes and Yiffing did extremely well. I’m quite impressed.”

  I have to contain the snort of laughter that I’m fighting.

  She arches a perfectly groomed eyebrow at me, “Something funny, Verity?”

  “Not at all.” Lie. Everything about that is funny. One, the fact that my boss just used the term, Yiffing. Two, the fact that that article was a joke… I mean literally. I tried to write a shit piece to be reassigned to something I actually have experience in – like perfectly organizing a closet or scoring designer clothes for over fifty percent off. But I wanted that article to tank, but it did the opposite and is now biting me in my plump, junk food loving ass. I honest to Bob, just searched weird fetishes on the internet thinking that people would find it distasteful. But hey… freaks between the sheets.

  “We need another one of those for next month’s issue. Think crazy and sexy. That will be due by the Friday after next.”

  “The next column assignment is for Budget Beauty and I liked the ideas you pitched in our last team meeting about date night looks on a budget. Use your company card, and get everything you need from a drugstore. Make sure you take plenty of pictures of the process so we can photograph it in here later and replicate it. It might also be helpful if you went out with one of the looks you created and can let us know how it fared on an actual date… create the mood. You know?”

  I nod, biting the inside of my cheek. That will be easier said than done. The only dates I have been on recently are with Tally and the other girls from the office, or with my beautiful Restoration Hardware cloud couch and a tub of Ben & Jerry’s. And even those dates are gone now, since we are all on a “cleanse diet.” We’re trying to compare results for an upcoming feature. These women dole out threats about cheating that would rival a trigger-happy country with a nuclear weapon surplus.

  “I can certainly do that.” I say, jotting it down in my notebook. “Anything else?” I ask, my pen poised and at the ready.

  “Well I know it’s about four months off, but some of the senior editors have nominated you to write the February Love feature for the Valentine’s Day issue. This should give you plenty of time to come up with something juicy. It can be sappy or controversial, but you know we like something with a little bit of heat and conflict to it.” she smiles her blinding white smile and I grit my teeth in what I hope looks like a smile as I nod.

  “You got it.” I force out, nearly choking on my fake enthusiasm.

  “Ok, well, I will follow up intermittently to check progress on that. Now, performance? Acceptable. Last month, you really surprised me with your originality and outside the box thinking. That is what I’m looking for, Verity. We need more of that!”

  I hear her office door open and Ashley looks up quickly casting a death glare, “Not now, Bridgette! At least wait until Verity is finished!” she snaps, and I flinch at her sharp words.

  “Ok, sorry about that. Now is there anything you’d like to discuss?” she asks, but her look says, I dare you to say something. I can think of about ten things I want to talk about like possibly getting a more serious beauty piece, or discussing a raise.

  Instead of rocking the boat, I decide to keep my mouth shut for now and shake my head no.

  “Alright then. Go ahead and send Bridgette in. She’s probably out there trying to figure out how to squeeze a promotion out of me.” Ashley waves me off with a manicured hand.

  I leave her office, and meet Bridgette just outside the door. She looks like she just participated in one of those all you can eat challenges you do to get your meal free.

  “Good luck, Gigi.” I say, but she just looks like she might throw up.

  “Psst. Don’t ask for a promotion…not a good day for that.” I say before heading back to my seat.

  chapter 2

  Lesson #2: delivery is always extra -especially when there’s hush money involved.

  verity:

  I drop my keys on the counter and slide out of my heels, letting the cool wood soothe my poor, helpless feet. Sweet baby Jesus, this is literally the best thing that has happened to me all day. After my quarterly meeting with Ashley this morning, the day only went downhill from there. The coffee maker at work broke, my latest blog post for my style blog somehow managed to get deleted, then my lunch was some sort of cucumber salad with no dressing – so basically just cucumber and a water with lemon. I’m pretty sure my stomach has turned to the dark side and is going full Hannibal Lector on my other organs at this point, but anyways, what’s worse is the office memo that was sent out right after lunch.

  Tomorrow the office is closing early due to a Women’s March happening Saturday morning. Office closing early? YAY! Women’s March for women’s rights? Girl power! I’m all for it. I’ll march with you, sisters. However brilliant the idea may be, I could strangle my co-workers over it. Our boss, Ashley, you know, the terrifying Feminazi? She is an extreme feminist, and of course will be at said march with bells on. So, my co-workers came up with a brilliant plan to get on Ashley’s good side – if there is one that is. We’re attending as a group on Saturday morning, and of course the Feminazi was all for the idea.

  I hobble my way into the kitchen and open my fridge to my new truth, or at least my truth for the next four days of this stupid cleanse diet. Everything in there is healthy. Now, I consider myself a pretty health conscious person and try to exercise control – you know things like only eating half the donut in one sitting, only two glasses of wine with dinner instead of the bottle, and I make sure to eat a salad with my meal when I really want that double cheesy mac and cheese. But now, staring into my sad refrigerator that is void of all snack packs, take out containers and anything resembling an edible protein, I realize one thing. I need food.

  I give that big container of baby kale a death glare before slamming the door a little too harshly and causing the glass condiments to rattle together. I really need to clean those out. Before I have time to cry from starvation, I spy the pizza coupons affixed to the fridge with my favorite hello kitty magnet, and my brain automatically goes into survival mode. No, Verity. You aren’t a cheater. Pizza isn’t an option! I scold myself silently- or maybe not so silently. I don’t know because I live alone. After a moment of crazy think, I seriously start to reconsider that pizza and my iron will begins to bend. Does it count if no one sees you eat it? I summon my will power and force myself from the kitchen and into my bedroom to change into comfy clothes.

  I grab my favorite Victoria’s Secret sweats and a t-shirt from high school book club that is now riddled with holes and threadbare, but I still can’t force myself to sever this abnormal emotional attachment I have to it. I flip on the bathroom light and see that my toilet seat is lifted… again. I swear to everything, Tanner is just screwing with me now. How many times a day does he pee? It must be a side effect of an STD. I gag at the thought and grab the Lysol. I roll my eyes and shimmy out of my tight pencil skirt a
nd panties, spray the toilet and surrounding area generously and just as I’m getting ready to get down to my girly business, my eyes fall upon disaster, blood and destruction. Perfect! The telltale signs that I will indeed spend the next five to seven days as a ‘she beast’ are present, and I make up my mind. I’m getting that damn pizza.

  The door buzzer sounds, and I buzz the pizza delivery boy up. A few moments later, I hear a knock on my door, and I open it to see a young, college aged boy wearing tighter jeans than I wear.

  “What took you so long?” I growl, and his eyes go wide at my harshness, but honestly, I’m kidding… kinda.

  “I- I was under the estimated delivery time, ma’am.” he squeaks.

  “You just got ma’amed so hard. No doubt wearing that get up.” Tanner torments as he walks by to get to his door.

  I look down at my ratty appearance, and he does have a point. I have this bad habit of going from hot to homeless in record time – almost like it is a personal mission of mine to make myself as unappealing as possible as soon as I get home.

  “Eat me, Tanner.”

  “No thanks. I’ve got dinner plans with a smokin’ little brunette already.” He says licking his lips suggestively.

  “You’re a disgusting pig, Tanner McKenzie.” I retort, and the poor pizza boy is still standing there like a lost puppy, caught in the middle of our verbal war.

  “That will be twenty, ninety seven with the tax ma’am.” Pizza boy says.

  “Stop calling me ma’am. Twenty, ninety seven? But I had a coupon!” I whine, and I hear Tanner laughing and mocking the word, ma’am under his breath as he closes his door.

  “Delivery is extra.” Pizza boy says, shifting restlessly on his feet.

  I rummage through my purse on the entry table and hand the kid a twenty and a ten as I snatch the box from his grip.