The Girl Who Read The Dating Manual

rule one: don't act surprised when he shows up on your doorstep

     “But, Jimmy, I love you,” Milla whispered, stepping forward and cupping that clean-shaven jaw that looked strong enough to chop wood. “And, if this is wrong, then I don’t want to be right.”

            I snorted and shoved a handful of popcorn into my mouth as I stared at the fuzzy TV screen, wondering what Jimmy’s answer would be. Would he finally accept Milla for her betrayal by joining the rival company and acting as a honeypot or a spy? Or would he give up and leave them both broken hearted?

            For as long as I could remember, I’d always loved soap operas—no matter how weird they were. The wackier, the better.

            Maybe because it was so surreal. When everything in life seemed unbelievable and out of hand, I could just retreat into TV land and enjoy some light comedy. Maybe because it was easier to deal with than real life. Plus, it gave me a sense of peace, knowing that these kinds of things could never happen in real life. People just didn’t marry their ex-husband’s grandfather’s brother-in-law’s son’s personal trainer.

            I seemed to be in the minority, though, but it was a guilty pleasure I just couldn’t shake. Even when others scoffed at it, I found it addictive. Some people retreated into poker and videogames, but I preferred trashy TV with no real purpose. It just made problems that much easier.

            The show dissolved into an infomercial advertising thigh enhancers, and a knock at the door sounded, breaking me out of my TV stupor. I frowned and stared at the wooden door of the apartment, wondering if I’d ordered pizza and magically forgotten about it. It was almost six-thirty on a Tuesday night, and, despite the fact it was summer (though England seemed a little slow on the uptake, considering it was still snowing lightly outside), not many people swung by.

            I put down the bowl of popcorn and dusted off my jeans, before moving through the clean white apartment and towards the door. “Coming!” I called, quickly adjusting the fruit bowl on the counter and then throwing open the door.

            I froze, and it seemed almost like the whole world skidded to a halt as I was faced with three people I hadn’t seen since I’d left America eighteen months ago to pursue my cooking dreams on the other side of the world in England.

            Ava Donoghue, my best friend of three years, held out her arms and wiggled her fingers in a parody of jazz hands. “Surprise!”

            She looked completely different to when I’d last seen her, her face older and more mature, and her long raven locks had been cut so that they fell in effortless waves to her chest. Her eyes were wide and green, but she seemed tanner and slighter than I remembered.

            But that wasn’t all that gave me pause—God, I wished it were. But, no. Standing behind her were two people that caught me so off-guard I felt like passing out.

            Jamie looked older than I’d last seen him, his hair also shorter so that it only curled slightly at the nape of his neck, and he’d buffed up considerably since I’d last seen him, seeming taller and muscular. Still, he had that large puppy-dog smile plastered on his face, which I’d always attributed to him.