The Upside to Being Single Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  The Upside to Being Single

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen – Jacob

  Chapter Fourteen – Mellie

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty – Jacob

  Chapter Twenty-One – Mellie

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  The End

  About the Author

  Books by Emma Hart

  The Upside to Being Single

  Emma Hart

  Copyright © by Emma Hart 2018

  First Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Cover Design and Formatting by Emma Hart

  The Upside to Being Single

  Emma Hart

  Chapter One

  Upside #1: You can buy the toilet paper you like.

  “There are penises everywhere!” The woman in her late sixties who’d been the bane of my existence since she’d checked in three days ago covered the eyes of her seven-year-old granddaughter.

  Obviously, she was ignoring the fact boobs were also everywhere and hadn’t bothered to cover the eyes of the twelve-year-old boy who was currently looking around the small lobby like a kid seeing Disney World for the first time.

  I really didn’t have the time nor the patience for this lady’s fifteen-thousandth complaint.

  More to the point: she’d brought her grandkids to Mardi Gras.

  Mardi.

  Freaking.

  Gras.

  What was she expecting? Sunshine and rainbows and kittens? I mean, sure, there were probably a few of those around the parades—who the hell knew?—but that wasn’t the point.

  I was born and raised in New Orleans, and Mardi Gras was the last place I would take my kids for a vacation.

  Honestly, I was tired. I was fed up. I’d fought endless complaints from fussy customers. I’d been in a fight with the liquor company. I’d called an ambulance because someone had a panic attack and couldn’t breathe, and to top it off, it was day one of freaking shark week.

  That’s right. Not only did I have to deal with a woman who didn’t research her week’s break for her grandkids, I was basically pissing blood as I tried to keep my temper.

  Have you ever tried to keep your temper on your period?

  Don’t.

  Just… Don’t do that to yourself.

  I wasn’t one for stellar advice, but that? Gold. Pure gold. Trust me.

  I took a deep breath before I addressed her. “Ma’am, it’s Mardi Gras. Unfortunately, we aren’t responsible for what happens during the festival.”

  “Could you not ask them—Johnny! Stop staring at those women!” She finally grabbed hold of the pre-teen and pulled him against her.

  He spun his head as far as it would go until she gave him a quick clip around the back of the head.

  I didn’t want to judge but…you brought him here, lady.

  Finally having the pre-teen under control, she returned her attention to me.

  Oh, goodie.

  “The website didn’t state we’d be visiting the city during a time of such debauchery.”

  Cute. She thought this was Buckingham Palace or something.

  I plastered my reassuring customer-service look on my face. Wide, pitying eyes. A sympathetic curl of my lips… A heavy lean on my deep, Southern accent. “Ma’am, I’m real sorry y’all aren’t having the trip y’all imagined, but it’s not the hotel’s job to do more than inform potential guests of events ahead of time. I’m sure you appreciate that we can’t control Mardi Gras or what people do while here, and we do advise in the Frequently Asked Question section of the website that guests visiting with children avoid Mardi Gras unless traveling here is absolutely necessary.”

  She sniffed, tilting her chin upward. “I’d like to speak to the manager, please.”

  “You already are, ma’am.”

  “You’re the manager?”

  “Yes.”

  If it was possible, her expression darkened. “I’d like to inform you that we’ll be checking out later today.”

  “Awww,” said the pre-teen boy.

  “But, Grandma, we have three more sleeps. You said so!” The little girl tugged on her arm.

  She gently removed the little girl’s hand from her arm and shushed her softly, then turned back to me. “I trust we’ll be able to receive a refund.”

  “Actually…”

  “I don’t like how you’re beginning that sentence, Miss…”

  “Rogers,” I said. I schooled my expression once more into something…well, something that didn’t show her my annoyance. “I’ll need your full name to check your booking on the system.”

  “Mrs. Catherine Reynolds.”

  I typed her name into the system, and her booking came up instantly. After I clicked on it, I scanned over it. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Reynolds. A refund isn’t possible.”

  “Isn’t possible? Why not?”

  “You booked on our super-saver rate, and even if you hadn’t, reservations must be canceled forty-eight hours before arrival, per the terms on the website.”

  “I’m not canceling a reservation; I’m leaving early. I’d like a refund for the three nights I won’t be here.”

  What part of “a refund wasn’t possible” was she not understanding?

  “Unfortunately, the chance of us being able to fill your room is very slim. Our terms state refunds for early check-outs are only applicable in limited instances. Leaving because you aren’t happy with the city isn’t one of those.”

  Whoops. That came out a little bitchy.

  “I’m very sorry,” I continued. “You are welcome to leave, but we’re unable to refund you for the remainder of your stay.”

  She pursed her lips. “I will be complaining to your boss about this as soon as I’m home.”

  She could have fun with that. I didn’t even know the name of my new boss. Nobody had bothered to tell me yet, and I doubt I’d know until he showed up in two days.

  “I’m very sorry you had a bad experience with us, Mrs. Reynolds.”

  “Not sorry enough to offer me a refund. Come on, kids.” She sniffed and walked off once again, and I muttered under my breath when she’d disappeared.

  Somebody really needed to make a PSA about Mardi Gras. Maybe I’d put a pop-up screen on the website warning people it’s not exactly kid-friendly.

  Ugh…

  “I’m here! Sorry! I got caught by the damn barricades going up.” Lillie slid up to me in reception with a sheepish smile. “Are you mad?”

  “Did you bring me food?”

  She raised a brown paper bag and a Starbucks mug. “One berry refresher doohickey and a cream cheese and salmon bagel from that place you like.”

  I took both from her. “That almost soothes the sting from my encounter with Mrs. Reynolds.”

  She winced, tucking loose strands of her rave
n hair behind her ear. “Ouch. What was it this time?”

  I glanced at the bustling lobby. “Well, the good news is that she’s leaving early.”

  “That means there’s bad news.”

  I nodded. “She’ll be complaining to the new owner before he even steps foot in the hotel.”

  “Oh, good,” she drawled, taking over the space on reception. “Is she going to come down here with her saggy guns blazing, or will she go quietly?”

  “Judging by the way she had to usher her kids out, she might go quietly, but they sure as hell won’t.”

  “Oh God. Have I told you how much I hate you for leaving me to deal with this?”

  “No, but I’d advise against it. I’m still in charge.” I grinned backing toward the staff area. “And no refunds, Lil. I mean it. Under no circumstances to her.”

  She gave me a mock-salute and stood to mock-attention. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Call me that again, and you’re fired.”

  “I love you so much.”

  I nodded toward the young couple walking in the direction of the reception desk. “Do your job, you little suck up.”

  She laughed.

  I left, drink and lunch in hand.

  Today was for the birds.

  ***

  Peyton peered at me over the rim of her cocktail glass. “That bad?”

  I nodded. “She came back down and complained to Lillie for an hour. An hour.”

  Chloe screwed up her face. “Why didn’t she just call the cops? They’ve dealt with unruly customers for you before.”

  “Drunk customers,” I corrected her. “Not sixty-whatever grandmas with their grandkids in tow.”

  “Imagine complaining about the number of penises,” Peyton mused, tucking her dark-brown hair behind her ear. “Was she a nun?”

  I drained the rest of my drink and shrugged. “Whatever she was, she was an idiot. She hadn’t done a second of research. Was she expecting Mickey fucking Mouse to pop out mid-parade?”

  “Maybe. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Chloe snorted, clapping her hand over her mouth. It didn’t work. Her cocktail spurted out of her nose anyway.

  Peyton and I both burst out laughing as she wiped her mouth.

  “Screw you both,” Chloe said. “I was just thinking about that time in senior year when we did the Homecoming Parade and Danny Johnson jumped out dressed as Mickey.”

  Peyton wrinkled up her face. “That was humiliating.”

  “Only because he kissed you…Still wearing the Mickey head.”

  “Do you have to remind me of that all the time? We weren’t even dating.”

  “No,” I said, “but you were texting him while you were dating Callum Deveraux.”

  “Look here.” Peyton gripped her glass with one hand and held up her forefinger on the other. “That was not what happened, and you know it.”

  “Peyt,” Chloe began. “That’s exactly what happened.”

  She twirled her hair around her finger. “I mean, not exactly. I was kinda broken up with Callum.”

  “We’re not doing the “on a break” thing.” I waggled my finger at her. “It didn’t work for Ross, and it won’t work for you.”

  “I’m not Rachel! We were on a break. Do I need to call my phone company and get the damn text message record?”

  “Do they keep them this long?”

  “I don’t know, but I’d try it to prove you assholes wrong.” She downed the last of her cocktail and slammed the glass on the table. A tiny bit of moisture lingered on her chin from the icy glass, and she reached to wipe it away with her hand. “When did this turn into a slamming Peyton session?”

  Chloe paused. “I don’t know, but it’s fun.”

  “I hate you.” Peyton pouted, but there was laughter in her eyes. “Are y’all ready to leave?”

  Chloe finished her drink and nodded, waving to get the attention of our server. Getting it, she signaled for the check and turned back to us. “Ready?” she asked, her dark eyes glancing over both of us.

  We nodded, and the server brought the check in record-fast time. We all laid down the cash for our dinner—we’d learned long ago that charging three cards takes forever, especially during Mardi Gras. Grabbing our things, I gave a final, if tipsy, sweep of the table with my eyes and followed my best friends to the stairs and through the downstairs level of the restaurant.

  The humid spring air hit us with a shudder. It didn’t matter that we’d lived here our whole lives—the shock of stepping from a cool, air-conditioned place into the sticky-aired street would never change.

  “Let’s get a drink.” Peyton grabbed both of our arms and drug us toward the nearest cocktail store on the corner of the street.

  “No,” I groaned. “I have to work tomorrow.”

  “Since when did that stop you?” Her taunt was accompanied by a wide grin and a twinkle in her eyes.

  “I have to work tomorrow, too,” Chloe said hesitantly.

  That stopped Peyt in her tracks. “You own a dating website. You can literally work while you take a shit in the morning.”

  “She has a point,” I admitted, “I, however, have to deal with people who complain about the size of the complimentary shampoo bottles in their bathrooms.”

  “People complain about that?” Peyton asked. “Really? I’m just glad to get the free shampoo.”

  “And she’ll never let you book a room at her hotel,” Chloe said for me. “One drink, Peyton, and not one the length of my torso.”

  Peyt grinned and clapped her hands together.

  Our first mistake was letting her into the cocktail bar by herself.

  Our second mistake was not being able to look through the window.

  Our third mistake? Taking the torso-length, plastic cocktail glasses shaped like palm trees and letting her shout “no backsies!” like a fucking twelve-year-old.

  There was a reason Peyton Austin owned the only hook-up website in Louisiana. She was the girl-next-door—the party chick with a bookish streak. A complete and utter enigma.

  She understood everyone…

  Except her best friends who said no.

  One day. One day, we would get her so drunk, she’d learn her lesson.

  Today was not that day.

  I sipped the frozen mango margarita. I couldn’t be mad. She’d gotten my favorite cocktail, after all, and it looked like Chloe was having the same issue with her drink.

  The sip, swallow, sigh gave it all away.

  Nothing good would come of this.

  Chapter Two

  Upside #2: You don’t have to wear a pretty bra to impress anyone. Or any bra at all.

  I was right.

  Three huge, frozen cocktails later, and we were wandering down the middle of Bourbon Street. Which was how I knew Chloe was drunk—she avoided this place as much as humanly possible.

  Peyton was going to be in big trouble tomorrow.

  Never mind them, though. They could work on their phones in bed. I was the only one who had to actually people. So why was I also a little past tipsy?

  I was weak. And Peyton was a pusher.

  No excuses.

  Chloe sighed happily, clutching her huge cup with the remnants of her cocktail in it. “I feel old.”

  “Old? We’re twenty-seven. We’re not old.” I snorted.

  “I know, but look at all these twenty-one-year-olds.”

  We all paused as one of said twenty-one-year-olds flashed her boobs and promptly tripped over a drain covering.

  “I sure as hell can’t wear stripper shoes like that anymore,” Peyton agreed. “What are they? Six inches?”

  “Bigger than the cock of the guy pulling her up,” I noted, watching as she brushed him off and flashed a grin at the guy who threw beads down at her.

  “We should flash for beads. We haven’t done that in a long time.” Chloe grinned, clutching her straw between her teeth.

  I raised an eyebrow. “Have we ever done that?”

&
nbsp; Both of my best friends nodded.

  I paused. “Uh, just me, then?”

  “You’ve never flashed anyone for beads?” Peyton stopped in the middle of the street and stared at me.

  “It’s hardly shocking,” I said. “Most other adult humans haven’t either. And why would I? I can buy some on the corner.”

  Chloe shook her head, sipping. “Nope.” She pointed the stupid cup at me. “Before you go home tonight, you’re flashing someone.”

  “I’m not!”

  Peyt grabbed me, her eyes sparkling under the bright lights. “You are. I dare you to.”

  Fuck it. She had me there. There was one thing I’d never been able to back down from, and that was a dare. I had no choice. I had to do it.

  Couldn’t I just do it here, in the middle of the street, next to the group of drunken pirates trying to pull a couple of chicks dressed like fairies?

  I asked.

  “No.” Peyton shook her head decisively.

  Chloe shook hers, too, but stopped and put her hand on her head. Our taxi home would be detouring past her house first then…

  “Why not?”

  “Because if you’re going to flash, you need to get something for it.”

  “That’s one step closer to prostitution than I’d like to take.” I chewed the inside of my lip. I knew she owned a hook-up website, but geez…

  “The guys on balconies don’t buy beads to decorate their houses with. They buy them so idiots like us flash them. Ready? See them up there? Let me show you how easy it is.” Chloe—who was one hundred percent hammered at this point—shoved her cup at me and walked a few feet through the crowds to where a guy was smoking on the balcony.

  She got his attention with a wave and motioned around her neck.

  He grinned.

  God, he looked about twelve.

  Without a care in the world, Chloe grabbed the bottom of her shirt and pulled it up.

  Of course, she didn’t care.

  She was wearing a bra.

  Me? I was not. I had expected a nice, quiet dinner, not a potential audition to become a stripper.

  Oy vey… what was I doing?

  “I’m not wearing a bra,” I blurted to Peyton while Chloe caught… “Is that a paper airplane?”