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

a new podcast my friend Zoe had demanded I start listening to. She swore that it would revolutionize my life—I wasn’t sure I agreed at first since it was her friend that ran it, but I’d been hooked on it for the last few weeks. I was finally caught up to date. It was called Bee Best and it was all about self-improvement. Something everyone could use a little of. I took a deep breath, focusing on the podcast and determined to not let my anger at Fletcher ruin a perfectly horrible, greasy pizza.

I folded my legs under me and wrapped up in a fuzzy blanket while I listened to the podcast host interview a relationship specialist on today’s episode. I listened in righteous fury as they talked about the many ways boyfriends and husbands neglected their wives and girlfriends.

My word. If this wasn’t the icing on the proverbial cake of how my night is going.

“Choose yourself. Always choose you. Make everyone around you choose you. You can’t be the best version of you if you’re constantly bending over backward to please your significant other. You need to be treated like the queen that you are.” The guest being interviewed spoke with conviction. The guest was speaking directly to me, it seemed.

Bee hummed in agreement. “That’s right. Which leads us to another point. How many of you are currently second best?”

“Oh, Bee. I’m sure so many women are choosing second place. Or even worse, third or fourth place! Letting your significant other put their work, hobbies, friendships, whatever they put ahead of you, means you’re not important to them.”

“It’s so sad, but true. Which is why we are hosting a little contest. We need our listeners to participate. We want to hear how your relationships really are. Tell us exactly what your boyfriend is like. What kind of gifts does he buy, how does he prioritize your time together, where does he take you on dates? We’ll rate how he treats you, and based on the outcome, we’ll announce the winner—or, more aptly, the loser—on the next podcast, and even spotlight your story in our monthly magazine.” She added with a little laugh, “Anonymously, of course.”

Bee and the guest laughed gleefully together before Bee continued, “We want to know, who the World’s Worst Boyfriend is. Are you dating him? Or is your best friend dating him? Be sure to sign up at the link on our website. If you are deemed the winner of having the World’s Worst Boyfriend, we’ll send you a sympathy five-hundred-dollar gift card, our monthly magazine, and our relationship guide, Me First. And of course, a trophy to remind you to choose yourself. We are rooting for you, girl.”

They went on with instructions on how to enter the contest and reminded the listeners about what they’d get if they were awarded the title of having the World’s Worst Boyfriend.

Five-hundred-dollar gift card. That’s pretty tempting.

I set my mug down and opened their website up on my phone.

I really shouldn’t do it. I shouldn’t enter Fletcher into a World’s Worst Boyfriend contest.

It was petty.

Uncalled for.

And yet it called to me.

Spoke to me in ways that nothing else had lately.

But I shouldn’t. He was my boyfriend, after all.

On the other hand, it could be therapeutic and keep me from harboring any anger toward him. It was like an emotional outlet, if you will. It’s not as if anyone would know it was him, right? Or know it was me since it was anonymous.

I clicked ‘Enter’ and stared at the form.

No one needed to know.

Chapter Two

Saidy

A week had passed, and Fletcher was doing everything in his power to make up for hurting my feelings. He had sent me a sweet apology bouquet and even stopped by the house to fix my wobbly entry table. He cancelled a work meeting to bring me lunch during a weekday.

I still couldn’t believe I’d entered him into the World’s Worst Boyfriend contest. I was so glad he would never find out, because the guilt was slowly eating away at my conscience…well, at least it was until I discovered he’d also dropped off his dirty laundry at my house earlier that day when he’d brought me a box of donuts before work.

He told me he’d grab it when he picked me up before driving to my parents’ for dinner.

I guess I’m also his personal laundromat attendant too.

Today was my grandma’s eighty-first birthday. Fletcher was supposed to get off work and then meet me at my house. We were going to drive to my parents’ house together. They lived on the outskirts of town, so it took about thirty minutes to get there. Obviously, it didn’t make sense to drive separately.

I begrudgingly did Fletcher’s filthy laundry that smelled like it had made a few rounds through a middle school gym. How did he get his clothes so gross sitting at a desk all day? Was running an IT company startup really that stressful? That sweat inducing?

Fletcher texted me at five twenty, ten minutes before the time we were supposed to leave.

Fletcher: Running late with work stuff. I’ll meet you there, if that’s okay, sweetie? Can you bring my clean clothes with you too?

Saidy: OK. See you there. Don’t forget about it.

It wouldn’t surprise me if he did forget about it. I slammed the dryer door shut on his wet clothes. I debated letting them sit there and grow some mildew, but I didn’t want to have to clean out my own dryer—and I refused to be that petty.

Why, oh, why was he not keeping his word on our plans lately? It was like he was starting to lose interest in me. And if he was, he needed to let me go instead of sabotaging all of our plans.

I swallowed the lump in my throat at that thought.

Maybe he was never into me as much as I was into him. Maybe it had been love at first sight on my part, but not his.

Or