World's Worst Boyfriend: A Romantic Comedy Adventure (Fake It Book 3) Carina Taylor (the first e reader TXT) 📖

real rhythm. Just repetitive, muted thumps. The sound was separate from the soft Italian operatic voice floating softly through the room.

Yet, I began tapping my foot in time with the disjointed sound since it was obvious I had nothing better to do.

The door at the front entrance opened and a middle-aged couple walked in.

Ugh. Not who I was waiting for.

The waitress rushed forward to greet them and usher them to their seats, holding two menus in her hands.

Quiet laughter filtered my way.

I tapped my foot faster, no longer able to keep up with the staccato beats. They needed to play a new mix. Find themselves a DJ who didn’t mix an Italian operetta with an off-beat rap song.

The door opened again; this time it was a young woman followed by her boyfriend.

Of course, it was.

I blew out a loud breath, then scrunched my lips together, wishing I could conjure a person—a specific person named Fletcher Williams—into the room. I reached for my phone, only then realizing that the thumping beat was coming from my fingertips beating their prints into the oak table.

I jabbed at my phone screen, checking for apologetic texts and finding none, as I hit the call button again—it was the fourth time I’d tried in twenty minutes.

“Hello, you’ve reached Fletch. Please leave your name and number and he might get back to you someday.”

Hearing my own voice speaking back to me on his voicemail only served to irritate me further. Setting up my boyfriend Fletcher’s voicemail had been a joke between us, since he rarely listened to his voicemails anyway. Now it didn’t seem so funny. This was the third time in two weeks that he had stood me up.

He’d had excuses the last two times. Car trouble and had forgotten his phone. (Unfortunately, that last excuse was completely believable. He was always forgetting his personal phone.)

But just because those were legitimate reasons, didn’t mean he couldn’t have found a way around either of them.

Problem One: Car trouble.

Two little phone calls could have had him on his way to me in minutes. First call should have been to the tow truck, the second call should have been to a taxi so that he didn’t miss our date.

Problem Two: He forgot his phone.

While this was completely in line with Fletcher’s life patterns, it didn’t excuse the fact that he actually forgot our date and still could have borrowed someone’s phone to call me. Forgetting his phone and forgetting our date were two different things, but he couldn’t seem to separate the two of them.

I tapped my fingers against the tabletop again.

One hour. I’d sat at that table for one whole hour.

With a frustrated sigh, I waved the waiter over and handed him my credit card. Might as well pay for the Italian soda and pile of bread I’d eaten. I’d been craving the seafood scampi, but there was something too pitiful about sitting in an Italian restaurant surrounded by couples on first dates and anniversary dinners, only to eat by yourself. I’d go home and microwave a pizza and eat by myself there.

This dinner had been Fletcher’s idea, even. I think that was what frustrated me the most.

Over the last month, he had routinely become more neglectful. Not answering calls, bringing over dirty laundry for me to wash, forgetting events he said yes to. My irritation with him had become blatantly obvious in my curt replies, because he told me he wanted to make up for his behavior by taking me out to a nice dinner. (See: his idea.)

And here I was doing the walk of shame away from my empty table. Again.

I kept my head down, letting my long, dark hair shield my burning face, as I walked out of the restaurant. No need to catch a glimpse of any pitying looks.

The crisp evening air was like a slap in the face as I walked down the sidewalk alone to my car.

Hitting the unlock button on my key fob made my car beep cheerily from where it sat under a streetlamp. Even it seemed happy. My car hadn’t done anything to me, but I slammed the door anyway after I climbed in.

When I made it back to my small, craftsman-style house in an older neighborhood, I discovered Fletcher’s car parked in the center of my driveway. In my spot. I parked in front of the house out on the street. My nostrils flared as I stepped out of my car into the street. I swear to you, this is the stuff Lifetime movies are made of—you know, where the woman goes off the deep end and hides the body.

All I know is that his appendix better have burst and he’s in surgery for him to get out of this. It was the only acceptable excuse when he stood me up for the third time and didn’t answer his phone.

I unlocked my front door and stepped inside—then gasped.

Fletcher lay prone on the couch.

My heart dropped to my toes. He was really hurt.

This was my fault.

I’d brought this on him by that appendix and woman murderer thing. All of my reasons for hoping that he’d missed our date for a legitimate reason had come true.

Here I’d been upset and angry at him, all while he was succumbing to his injuries on my couch.

I covered my mouth to stifle a scream, readying myself for immediate action. I needed to call 9-1-1. I stretched my numb fingers, ready to dial the number.

But just then, a loud snore erupted from the area of the couch.

My silent screaming stopped. My angry screaming was about to commence.

Present time

“Saidy?” he said around a yawn, as though he didn’t know why I was mad at him.

I marched past him and down the hall to my master bedroom. He was right behind me.

I slammed the door and locked it. It should have felt childish, but thanks to his lack of concern it didn’t.

“Saidy? I thought we had dinner plans?” His sleepy words were broken up