Come back to me, p.1
Love, Hate, and Terrible Dates: A Romantic Comedy (The Manhattan Svenssons Book 4), page 1
Love, Hate, and Terrible Dates
A Romantic Comedy
Alina Jacobs
Contents
Other books by Alina Jacobs
Synopsis
1. Libby
2. Carl
3. Libby
4. Carl
5. Libby
6. Carl
7. Libby
8. Carl
9. Libby
10. Carl
11. Libby
12. Libby
13. Carl
14. Libby
15. Carl
16. Libby
17. Carl
18. Libby
19. Carl
20. Libby
21. Carl
22. Libby
23. Carl
24. Libby
25. Carl
26. Libby
27. Libby
28. Carl
29. Libby
30. Carl
31. Libby
32. Carl
33. Libby
34. Carl
35. Libby
36. Carl
37. Libby
38. Carl
39. Libby
40. Libby
41. Carl
42. Libby
43. Carl
44. Carl
45. Libby
46. Carl
47. Libby
48. Libby
49. Carl
50. Libby
51. Carl
52. Libby
53. Libby
54. Libby
55. Carl
56. Libby
57. Carl
58. Libby
59. Carl
60. Libby
61. Carl
62. Libby
63. Libby
64. Carl
65. Libby
66. Carl
67. Libby
68. Carl
69. Libby
70. Carl
71. Libby
Sneak Peak
Synopsis
1. Libby
Read LOVE & DATES
Family Tree
Acknowledgments
About the Author
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright ©2022 by Adair Lakes, LLC.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Created with Vellum
Other books by Alina Jacobs
Check out other books about characters mentioned in this one on my website:
http://alinajacobs.com/books.html
Synopsis
I’m twenty-three years old. I can’t be some billionaire’s ward.
Even if he is hot.
It’s a bad day when your boyfriend leaves you for someone with boobs and a butt faker than her Instagram pictures.
It’s an even worse day when a hot guy in a suit shows up in your bedroom and tells you that you’re his ward.
And it’s a complete disaster when your ex sues you and threatens to take your dog.
I have no alternatives—I have to throw myself to Carl Svensson’s mercy like a wretched Victorian romance heroine in order to save my dog.
I wish all I had to do was lounge around a haunted mansion in a pretty dress. Instead, Carl is forcing me to run outside in the morning, clean my apartment, and finally do something about my credit card debt. Yes, I am side-eyeing all of this.
Carl’s in for a shock of his own, though. I’m a free-spirited, art-loving girl with tattoos, multicolored hair, and piercings. Everywhere. *Wink emoji!*
An uptight, suit-wearing investment banker is not going to change me. But it’s a battle of wills that will determine whether he makes me a respectable person or not.
Carl is going down!
But not down on me…except for that one time…
This is a stand-alone, full-length, laugh-out-loud romantic comedy, complete with your new book bestie, a hot guy with a bad attitude and a heart of gold, and a happily ever after better than a glass of wine at eleven a.m.! Get your smelling salts ready, because this book is STEAMY!
To my Roomba that refuses to work and has completely given up on 2022 and is going to try again next year.
1
Libby
Was eleven a.m. too early to start drinking?
My corgi rolled over and grunted as I climbed out of bed and headed to the kitchen. I pulled out a box of leftover pizza and a bottle of wine. Then I climbed back into bed to continue my three-day wallowing session.
I scrolled through Instagram. Pictures of my old life taunted me—cool parties, gallery openings, and a boyfriend. The screen paused on a picture of my now-ex. He was a budding social media influencer. His hobbies included lifting weights and sleeping around with Instagrammers who had Brazilian butt lifts and breast implants.
We were supposed to be the next social media power couple. Instead, I had just been used.
“After all I did for him!” I yelled at my phone screen. Not only had I propped up Trenton’s ego—I had also pimped him out to my followers. Granted, I didn’t have all that many of them, but I’d had more than my ex.
I took a swig of wine and navigated to his Instagram profile against my better judgment. “Ugh, he’s still with her.” I took an angry bite of pizza.
Trenton’s smug face stared up at me from his latest Instagram post. He was with that home-wrecker. My ex had promised me that she was just a fellow fitness influencer. Right. She was doing a lot more than lifting weights when I had walked into his gym to surprise him last week.
I chugged the rest of the bottle of wine.
The heartbreak was still raw. I had thought Trenton and I were forever. We had talked about getting married in the city sculpture garden.
I screenshotted the image and opened up a new post on my phone. Bad enough to get cheated on, but did he have to do it with someone shilling oat milk lattes? Guess his promises of “I’ll love you forever” are as fake as his abs and as fake as her butt.
“Screw you,” I slurred to my ex’s picture in my Instagram post as the likes started trickling in. “And screw the rest of the men in my life. Including my godfather.”
2
Carl
It was supposed to be easy money. My mother’s great-uncle was the godfather to some poor indigent girl, and all I had to do was take her under my protection. In exchange, I would be given control of a prime piece of real estate in one of the hottest areas in Manhattan.
Done.
My brothers and I were already taking care of my younger half sisters. Libby would have fit right in with them.
Except that Libby was not a little girl like the feeble, elderly lawyer had made her sound. No, she was a grown woman—a fully grown woman—with tattoos, piercings, bright-green hair… and tits.
“She is your ward.”
I rubbed my jaw as I studied her Instagram feed. Along with random pictures of corgi-themed art, it was filled with pictures of her corgi and pictures of her with her corgi and pictures of her wearing clothes made out of trash that I supposed were meant to be some sort of corgi costume but really just made her look deranged.
I had gone to business school. I was not an artist. And I certainly didn’t waste my life on social media like Libby apparently did.
Scrolling through her feed, it was clear the woman was unhinged. There was a whole set of posts from yesterday about cheaters.
“Aww, did Carl find a girlfriend?”
“Go away, Liam,” I said as my brother pushed his way into my office.
Our older brother, Walker, was close behind him.
“Are you finally trying to make yourself more attractive to women?” Walker snickered.
Older brothers were the worst.
“I am already attractive to them.”
“Yeah, that bot that you were chatting with last night sure seemed real excited,” Liam said with a laugh, trying to grab my phone.
“Get out of my office,” I snapped at him.
“It’s adorable when he tries to act like Greg.” Walker elbowed Liam. “You need to try a little harder, little bro. You don’t quite have that ball-shriveling tone down.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I still have the photos of you from the weekend when everyone thought you were kidnapped but you were just tied up in a hotel room by some crazy woman who wanted her credit card bills paid off.” I lowered my voice to a soft snarl. “So if you don’t want those all over Reddit, I suggest you back the fuck off.”
“Jeez, man,” Walker complained. “Never mind. I take it back. You’re just as much of an asshole as Greg.”
“And to think we came over to help you shop for your new ward.” Liam shook his head.
I scowled.
“Come on, Libby can’t be as bad as Kiki,” Liam said, moving my papers aside so that he could sit on my desk. “She was trying to do a reenactment of the Salem Witch Trials and almost burned down my kitchen.”
I ran a hand over the back of my neck. “Libby is a twenty-three-year-old woman.”
My brothers were silent for
“Dude,” Walker said, shaking his head. “See, this is why none of us wanted to get mixed up in Mom’s family drama. It’s not worth it for a hunk of junk.”
“It’s prime real estate and a historic building. When I turn it into luxury apartments, it will be an asset in our portfolio. The best part is I won’t have to pay a cent to buy the building. Mom’s great-uncle’s estate will simply hand it to me. You’ll see,” I told them, standing up. “This is going to be one of Svensson Investment’s most profitable deals.”
But first, I needed to inform Libby that she was now my ward and things were going to start changing in her life.
3
Libby
“It is three in the afternoon. Why in God’s name are you still in bed?” I pushed myself up from the nest of blankets and clean clothes left over from doing laundry last week and peered around blearily.
Was I hallucinating from my post-breakup wallow, or was there a man in my apartment?
He made a noise of disgust and opened up my curtains, which were just old sheets that I had tacked up over the large windows in the bedroom.
“Oh my god, there’s a man in my room.”
He was young. Wearing a suit. Hot.
No. Not hot. I didn’t go for guys like him. Ever. I was an alternative, artsy girl who read tarot cards and made collages. I dated men with tattoos who made their own kombucha, not corporate finance types. Gross.
Oh my god, is he from the student loan company? The panic started to burn away the hangover. I hadn’t made a student loan payment in a year. Was I going to be arrested?
“Intruder! Stranger danger!” I grabbed a pillow and threw it at the man.
I was an artist, not a sportswoman, and the pillow landed harmlessly at his feet. The commotion roused Doug, my corgi, and he snorted then hauled himself out of the nest of blankets, took one look at the man standing in the middle of my messy bedroom, and hurtled off the bed at him.
“Untrained dog,” the man said, elegantly stepping back away from Doug’s clumsy attempts to cosplay a German shepherd. “Lives in filth. Sleeps all day. I can see why your godfather was concerned.”
“My what? He’s dead. That’s not any of your business,” I snapped. “It’s not filthy. I have a system of organization.”
His lip curled. He pointed to a pile in the corner. “That is not organization. That is trash.”
“That is art,” I countered, crossing my arms.
Cold gray eyes met mine. He adjusted his cuffs—French, of course—and walked toward me, placing his custom Italian leather shoes carefully so as not to step on the clutter on my floor that I was totally going to clean today.
“Also, how dare you come into my apartment?”
“My apartment,” the man corrected. He stopped in front of me.
I swallowed. He was tall. Like, really tall.
“No,” I croaked. “This is mine. I live here.”
“Yes, in a building that is soon to be under my management.”
“You can’t have this building. It belonged to my godfather…”
The man smirked. “Yes. Past tense.”
“That rat bastard! Seems like this week, I’m getting screwed by all the men in my life.”
Doug barked.
“Not you, baby!” I cooed to the corgi as he yapped at the handsome blond man’s heels.
“Your godfather was only looking after your best interests,” the man said in an annoyingly self-important tone. “He found your life situation very concerning. In his last will and testament, he left you to me as my ward.”
“I’m sorry—this is the twenty-first century, sir, not Victorian England. I am not your ward. I don’t need a guardian. I am a grown woman.” Was I drunk? Because it felt like I was still drunk.
“On the contrary, you are in desperate need of guidance.”
“Get out,” I demanded, pointing to the door. “Or I’m calling the police.”
He didn’t need to know that the police tended to steer clear of this particular building. No, not because it was a high-crime area; it was just that all the elderly women that had set up shop in this dilapidated apartment building had a habit of painting au naturel and got very excited when a police officer showed up in uniform.
“The will states—”
“I don’t care what the will states,” I said bitterly. “My godfather didn’t leave me squat. If he thinks I’m going to play along with his posthumous sexist bullshit, he can keep right on spinning in his grave. Evict me, I don’t care. I’ll move to an art commune in Vermont. Doug, make him leave.”
The corgi did his best to herd the blond man to the door. The man was not intimidated by the corgi.
Should have gotten a German shepherd or a mastiff.
“Fine. I’ll do it myself.”
I grabbed my mug of wine from the nightstand and hauled myself out of bed, stuck my feet in my fuzzy corgi slippers, and promptly tripped over some trash on the floor, arms flailing.
“Oof!”
Two strong arms caught me before I could face-plant on the floor.
“Your life is a disaster,” my nonguardian said, setting me upright. He turned on his heel.
“I don’t come into your house and harass you,” I insisted, hurrying after him.
Then I crashed into his very firm back.
“Ow!” I rubbed my nose.
“Blessed be!” Gardenia, my elderly roommate, greeted me. “Your Instagram account has been looking a bit basic, so I got you a little something to jazz it up.” She gestured grandly to the pink-and-white sculpture of a vagina that had caused the blond man to freeze in the living room.
“And who might you be, handsome?” Gardenia asked, switching gears.
“Carl Svensson,” he said, looking up to the ceiling to avoid looking at Gardenia’s very bare chest.
“Don’t mind me,” she said, grabbing his hand, “Just freshening up my henna tattoos. I’m attending a big recommitment ceremony in a few days. It’s going to be bangin’!”
“I just need to talk to Libby,” Carl said, still staring at the ceiling.
Gardenia nodded sagely. “Is he your new nude model?”
“What? No! I don’t do that!” I said, flailing my hands.
“Might do you some good. You need to spice up your Insta account.” Gardenia waved a finger at me.
“People like the pictures of Doug eating watermelon,” I protested, trying very hard not to think of Carl nude in my living room.
He’s not hot. Not at all. So just get it together. I took a gulp of wine.
The corgi padded around in a circle and sniffed the giant plaster vagina.
“This is going to be a cute post and feature a two-hundred-thousand-dollar sculpture and be sex positive,” Gardenia said, snapping a picture.
I inhaled the wine I was sipping. “You’re trying to sell that thing for how much?”
Carl swore under his breath.
“What man doesn’t want a vagina big enough he can stick his head in?” Gardenia demanded.
