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Back Adult Assembly Required
Chapters (58)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise for Abbi Waxman and her novels
  3. Berkley Titles by Abbi Waxman
  4. Dedication
  5. Epigraph
  6. Summer
  7. ONE
  8. TWO
  9. THREE
  10. FOUR
  11. FIVE
  12. SIX
  13. SEVEN
  14. EIGHT
  15. NINE
  16. TEN
  17. ELEVEN
  18. TWELVE
  19. THIRTEEN
  20. FOURTEEN
  21. FIFTEEN
  22. SIXTEEN
  23. SEVENTEEN
  24. EIGHTEEN
  25. NINETEEN
  26. TWENTY
  27. TWENTY-ONE
  28. TWENTY-TWO
  29. TWENTY-THREE
  30. TWENTY-FOUR
  31. TWENTY-FIVE
  32. TWENTY-SIX
  33. TWENTY-SEVEN
  34. TWENTY-EIGHT
  35. TWENTY-NINE
  36. THIRTY
  37. THIRTY-ONE
  38. THIRTY-TWO
  39. THIRTY-THREE
  40. THIRTY-FOUR
  41. THIRTY-FIVE
  42. THIRTY-SIX
  43. THIRTY-SEVEN
  44. Fall
  45. THIRTY-EIGHT
  46. THIRTY-NINE
  47. FORTY
  48. FORTY-ONE
  49. FORTY-TWO
  50. FORTY-THREE
  51. FORTY-FOUR
  52. FORTY-FIVE
  53. EPILOGUE
  54. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  55. Readers Guide
  56. Questions for Discussion
  57. About the Author
  58. What’s next onyour reading list?

Huh. Laura turned away and listened to the sounds of the man coming in, talking to the dogs, and heading into the room down the hall from hers.

The door closed.

Laura stood and considered. You didn’t need to be Sherlock to work out he must be Bob the gardener guy. Identification wasn’t the issue. The issue was that he was absolutely, in every single way, her type.

It was really the face that was the problem. No one that good looking could possibly be available / interested / not a douchebag. Wide cheekbones, dark hair and eyes, a ridiculous dimple on his chin. No. Not happening. Been there, done that. The fact that he spoke to the dogs was anomalous. He couldn’t look like that and be a nice guy.

She looked in the mirror and reminded herself she wasn’t interested in romance. You’ve had quite enough of that, she told herself, you’re here to focus on your studies, your life, and your independence. The last thing you need is some guy swanning around and telling you what to do. Plus, she thought, regarding herself critically in the mirror, he’s out of your league. Laura wasn’t pretty, as she was reminded every time she went online. She tried not to care about this and was sometimes successful. She knew she wasn’t hideous—it wasn’t like children screamed at the sight of her—but she was well informed about the ways in which she could be improved upon.

She read numerous articles on how to dress better and apply makeup more skillfully (or at all), and had a vast Pinterest board of girls who had the same coloring as she did but somehow managed to make it pop. It was easy to see where she and they diverged: They were waifish, she was muscular. They braided their hair in interesting ways, she had a ponytail. They had symmetrical faces, she had one eye 2 percent larger than the other and a nose that was eleven degrees from perpendicular. (She knew these last two facts thanks to a helpful app that allowed you to map your face in excruciating detail—sponsored by a plastic surgery company.) She’d also discovered her waist was too low and her measurements a little bottom heavy to be ideal. She was glad to know these things, though she couldn’t do anything about them except be painfully aware and self-conscious. She’d purchased a variety of clothes designed to make the most of her “good bits,” but always ended up back in leggings and T-shirts, feeling colorless, uninspiring, and comfortable.