Chapter One
The Nigerian Prince
FOR ONCE, Ididn’t want to bethatbasic bitch. You know the one. Everyone knows the one. The woman who comes home for the holidays single, angry, and somehow even more scorned than she was the year before. The woman who despite all her best efforts can’t seem to land a solid man. Or any man if we’re being honest. Last year, Aunt Wendy had me seriously contemplating trying out lesbianism. Maybe I was actually bi-sexual? Probably not, but at least that would give me something to hold on a silver platter next to the stuffing.Look, see, this is why I’ve been unsuccessfully dating since age twenty! I wasn’t doing it right!
I did the unthinkable. I posted an ad to a seedy, dark web, dating site that my friend’s, cousin’s, best friend used to find a mail-order bride. This isn’t my proudest moment. No, it’s more out of desperation that I’m trying to find a boyfriend, wait, that’s too strong of a word,a date, to take home for Christmas. It’s November, so I figure I’m allotting plenty of time to meet and get to know someone before I have to pretend to love him in front of Grandma, my parents, all twelve of my cousins and their children.
My roommate, Shay, has her chin on my shoulder as we stare blankly at my computer screen. It’s filled with replies to my ad. “I don’t know why you didn’t use Match, or one of the more reputable sites. This is scary, Lizzy.”
“More reputable sites charge money. This was free. People, as a general rule, are lazy. They don’t want to sort through…” Squinting, I scroll through my inbox trying to estimate how many responses I have to sort. “One hundred fifty emails. Most people want immediate results.” I clear my throat. “I have time and tenacity on my side. I may be a lot of things, but I’m not lazy.”
“You have time because you got canned. Did you tell these guys you’re a jobless, homeless, pariah, living with her best friend?”
“You act like I won’t find another job soon. I will.” This is the real reason I can’t go home for Christmas empty-handed. I’m actually not certain I’ll be able to find a job. I’m a social media guru for luxury hotels. Those chains are less likely to hire people from outside. My options are slim if I want to stick with my current specialty. “My feelers are out and I have a lead on a job. Your couch won’t be my home for long.” I click open one who claims he’s a prince from Africa with a dick pic attached. “I’m not a pariah, either, you’re blessed to be my best friend.” I toss my hair.
“What happens when Prince Dickpic steals you off to another country, leaving me best friend-less? Imagine what ole’ Grandma Betty will say then.”Lizzy’s bad taste in men was always going to be the death of her.
“It’s going to be so easy to weed out the trash. Especially if you take half,” I say, turning to meet her eyes. “Go get your laptop.”
She groans. “Fine, only because I want to compare dick sizes in relation to where they live and make a line chart.”
“You’re so weird, but I don’t care if it means you’re going to help me.”
She sits next to me at the dining room table where I have my computer set up and starts cursing as she logs in and tackles the bottom half of the list. She’s right though. They are mostly dicks and in locations nowhere near me. “Like, could you have been more specific if you were going to put out an ad to the entire universe? Maybe limit it to the state you live in?”
“What if an actual prince answers my ad? Who am I to deny him the pleasure of dating me?”
Shay groans again. “I still don’t know why you didn’t just go to the bar and pay some dude to be nice to you at Christmas at your family’s house.”
“I’ve exhausted the bars here. This is more than a Christmas Hail Mary. A last-ditch effort to find someone to placate them for a while until I can find someone who wants the same things I do. The last man I thought wanted the same things as me, didn’t. Like, he didn’t in a big nasty way.”
“Wow, this guy has a huge cock,” Shay says, attention waning. “And when you say a man who wants the same things you do; do you mean a house of your own and a job?”
“You’re such a bitch. How big is this dick?” I ask.
She spins the computer to face me.
“Wow. Do you think a dick pic should immediately make a prospect null and void, or should I respond to that one and see if he can send a full body shot, too?”
We both laugh, and Shay deletes the message with an exaggerated click. “You’re looking for more than a big dick. Or at least that’s what I’ve gotten from your antics. Aunt Wendy won’t be impressed with length and girth. Full package is needed.”
I sigh and delete the next fifteen because of the filth in the room behind the dick pic. This was a foolish idea, but not my most foolish. I’ve tricked my way into jobs by pretending to have qualifications I don’t. It’s not sketchy when you realize I always perform well and can figure out exactly what I need to do. Getting my foot in the door has to be scrappy sometimes. That’s the way of the world.
I swallow hard and rub my fingers against my clammy palms. “I might change my bio a bit,” I say.
“You can’t lie in this situation. This isn’t a job you’ll figure out.”
“This is literally a job,” I counter. “Who cares what I say to hook someone decent. Once they meet me, they’ll never be able to turn me away.”
“Says the single, almost thirty-year-old woman who has more ex drama than a prince asking for your account number. Did you ever think that maybe it is you? The reason why your relationships don’t work?”
Even as she’s speaking, I fluff my bio and repost. I don’t care what she says. “Guys don’t want to commit. If I say I’m looking for a good time instead of commitment, I might get different responses from… higher quality individuals.”
“It’s your funeral.” Shay perches her chin on her fist and continues deleting.
More responses roll in almost immediately, and the task of sorting through them gets more daunting by the minute. Lizzy Maeson is no quitter. Shay is though. She abandoned me to go to bed after wishing me happy cock hunting. A fair assessment as most of these men still aren’t sending me photos of their faces.
I’m about to pause for the night when I open an email titled:An Invitation. Unlike the others, which have sexual innuendos or justhiin the subject line. His photo loads slowly because Shay’s internet is shit, and it’s a high-quality image. It’s not his dick, but after I see his face, I wish it was. “Hello Luca,” I say, raising my brows. He’s wearing a tux. I gulp when my mouth starts watering. His cell phone is aimed at an expensive-looking mirror and covering half of his perfect tan face. A smirk plays on the half of his lips I can see. His eyes are chocolate brown and the man leaks sex appeal through my computer screen. Taking a break from trying to undress him with my eyes, I read his message.
