Hot For His Girl Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Books by Rachel Blaufeld

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Epilogue

  Vérité Excerpt

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright Notice

  Stand Alone Titles

  Break Point

  To See You

  Heart Stronger

  Love at Center Court Series

  Vérité

  Dolce

  The Electric Tunnel Series

  Electrified

  Smoldered

  Tinged

  Crossroads Series

  Redemption Lane

  Absolution Road

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  Andonia “Andi” Schwartz is the kind of gal you love to hate. Snarky, skinny, and jaded, Andi’s goodness lies hidden beneath her sharp edges. But it’s there . . . this independent single mom has it going on.

  Reid Fellows is a lovable dude. Bespectacled tenure-track statistics professor by day, shirtless blogger by night, he’s a catch on paper and easy on the eyes.

  Andi wields her power and unruly commentary from behind her laptop as the anonymous proprietor of The UnAffectionate Blogger. Reid’s blog, Grill and Groom, began on a dare. Now, he regularly shows his abs of steel while grilling.

  He may love this gig more than his day job. She needs her page views and advertisers to support her daughter. Until the two meet and spin a web online and IRL . . . in real life.

  What happens when two bloggers fall for each other?

  A new blog is born.

  For Christy and Fabiola.

  This book is about finding your tribe.

  And you’re mine.

  Thanks for believing in me, supporting me, and sharing this journey with me.

  In and out of the bathtub . . . #soapythighs.

  xoxoxo

  Dear Mommy on Au Naturel Street,

  I applaud your commitment to the environment, and yet I certainly appreciate your unhappiness with having to wash and dry five bazillion cloth diapers per week. Especially with your latest birth (at home) of twin boys.

  Here’s the thing, though . . . have you considered being done with having babies? Then you wouldn’t have to do any more of this washing/drying crap you keep blogging about. Yeah, it sounds brash, but you’ve been natural-mommy blogging for a long time. Perhaps it’s time to throw in the towel—or the cloth diaper.

  I get your blog is your REAL baby, your full-time job, and provides a sizable side income to your husband’s bike-rental biz. But—and it’s a very BIG but—don’t you think having babies to support your blog is a bit ridic?

  There, I said it. It’s only a guess on my part, but in the name of sisterhood, I feel the need to put it out there. You’re a talented writer. You could support yourself with a different topic or focus.

  I’m sure even your kindhearted husband would agree. He certainly didn’t look so happy in your latest fall picture montage with the whole gang jumping on the bed in matching plaid hemp pajamas.

  Poor Daddy Au Naturel wants to drink his Scotch, light up a hard-earned cigar (when no one is looking), and get laid without procreating. Grant the man a wish, would ya? At the very least, give him a little tug and pull. Wink, wink.

  And while you’re at it, let the man dress how he wants, trim or not trim his beard the way he wants, and stop posting poo pictures. I don’t want to see your kids’ poo or hear about your husband’s either.

  Like I said, you’re a very talented woman, Mommy Au Naturel, so close your legs and dry up your breasts and write something meaty, something with wit and depth like I know you can.

  Maybe a paleo blog? Seeing as you’re so earthy and trendy, especially after babies number five and six with the homemade baby food and cloth diapers.

  Either that or all the nappy-wappy companies gave up on sending you free samples.

  Put your brain to work and your womb to rest. Cook some healthy food and take some digital pictures. Share some recipes and delight in what you may find.

  Affectionately yours,

  The UnAffectionate Blogger

  Disclaimer: Wuvables Brand Diapers is a proud sponsor of this website, but opinions expressed in the above post are 100% mine and were not influenced in any way by Wuvables or any other sponsor of this site.

  365 Comments

  Yes, ma’am, you guessed it, that’s me, The UnAffectionate Blogger.

  They call me UAB for short. Not me personally, but that’s how they refer to my website . . . they, being the readers of the web. I guess they mean me since I’m the only one who writes for UAB. Except they don’t know that tiny tidbit. They think we’re a team of information deep-divers going after all the bullshit bloggers out there.

  It’s usually in good fun, and for the most part, everyone gets a good laugh. I think.

  Before you go jumping off the deep end, I know, I know . . . it feels like I’m not very nice, perhaps even a bit harsh, but this blog is how I support my daughter and myself. Don’t hate me—I know you want to, but for the sake of this story, try not to.

  Single and desperate mom here. I don’t feel like getting into it right now, but something happened, and it still pains me to discuss it. I wasn’t born this way. It came on slowly, like a bad cold in the summer. It starts with a scratchy throat you blame on allergies, then itchy/watery eyes and random sneezes. A week later, you have a fever and try to push through, until the rash comes. See what I mean?

  Bear with me and leave your Judgy McJudgy pants at the door.

  I’m living the American dream—working at home in my yoga pants, my hair in a messy bun, while raising a kid on my own. I don’t have to shower and rush out the door every weekday, doing my makeup in the car, potentially causing a five-car pileup on the freeway. I care for my child, try to shower every day, and single-handedly fool millions of readers into thinking my thoughts matter.

  Think of me as the TMZ of bloggers. You probably live for TMZ, scouring its site daily, looking for any mention of your favorite celeb. Maybe they’re finally getting divorced and they’re going to want you? You never know.

  Well, I uncover all the nastiness of the interwebs, and will call out bloggers on their bullshit or when they’re acting beyond ridiculous. I’ll have you know . . . that’s most
of the freaking time.

  I should know. I used to be one of those nice little mommy bloggers, full of themselves and their free shit until the moment I don’t care to discuss.

  Really, no one wanted to read about poor little me, the single mom happy to receive freebies in exchange for honest reviews or my lean, mean meals of bargain gross tuna and mac-n-cheese.

  So I changed it up because they do want to read my snarky and sarcastic sense of humor. And guess what? Companies pay primo bucks to advertise on my site, and I never have to accept products in exchange for compensation.

  I get paid in cold hard cash.

  Why? Because I write with heart and wit and soul.

  If anyone wants me to talk about their product, they’d damn well better be ready to pay me—and in turn, be ready to accept a review full of honesty and dignity.

  Disclaimer: I’m not actually this bitchy IRL.

  I had to find an internet persona since I have Gabby to think of, and she deserves a good life. Sue me, I found a more lucrative way to make money from home. Thanks to my blog, I can be both mom and dad, and never have to blow-dry my hair. This setup is especially useful when Gabby is sick.

  First and foremost, she doesn’t have to feel the emptiness of her dad going for coffee and never, ever coming back. Must have been one hell of a cup of joe.

  By the way, that’s not the incident I don’t care to speak of. I’m over my husband walking out. I love a good cuppa as much as the next person.

  No more justifying on my part. I do what I do, and I do it well. Better than anyone else.

  Shaking your head? Just ask any of the million-plus unique visitors per month who flock to my site.

  Yep, you read that right.

  Million plus.

  Okay, gotta roll. I need to scour the internet for more material.

  “Hi, Andi,” my neighbor Leona calls to me as I finish my afternoon run.

  With her gray-streaked hair perfectly blown out and her red lipstick evenly applied, she’s the envy of every young woman in the neighborhood. We can’t all look that put together at our age, let alone her unspoken age. Her leopard jogging suit tight and snug around her voluptuous curves, Leona is a regular Mrs. Robinson plus a few years. She may be a nebby pain in the ass . . . but she has the best heart.

  Bottom line, she loves my daughter. Therefore, I try to adore her.

  “How are you, sweetie?” She waggles her fingers with freshly painted nails at me.

  Every weekday between two and three o’clock, I run. Like the mailman, I go out rain or shine, snow or ice. I may be a hermit, but I don’t want to die an early death because of it. Blogger butt is a real thing, people, and I’m not going to suffer from it—if there’s anything I can do about it.

  I slow my pace to a walk and wave hello. “Hey, Lee. What’s shaking?”

  “Oh, you know, my butt at aerobics.”

  Did I mention Leona is a daily aerobicizer? A lifelong member of the Richards Simmons fan club, she counts her Weight Watchers points and dons her leotards as if it’s a religion.

  When I smile at her joke, she calls from her porch, “How’s business? They still taking good care of you? You haven’t asked me to babysit in a while. I miss Gabby.”

  “All’s good. I haven’t been doing too much other than working and hanging with Gabbs. We’re hermitting.”

  “That’s not a real thing.” She scowls at me, her laugh lines deepening. “I keep telling you, Andi, sitting at home and transcribing medical records is no way to survive as a young, single mom. I know it’s good money, but you need a life. A life-life.”

  As a side note, no one knows what I really do for a living except for my twin sister, Odelia. She’s a good girl with shiny, perfectly straightened brown hair and doe eyes, living the good life as a sweet and sensitive housewife in Ohio. She just happens to make her manicure money doing the billing for me.

  My neighbors and local friends don’t have a clue. After all, this is Pittsburgh—a small tight-knit community masquerading as a big city, where everyone knows your name. I don’t need my cover blown.

  “You should be in a job where you meet people,” Leona says, continuing her lecture. “An office with a desk and a lunch break. Maybe be a secretary or whatever they call it nowadays? Administrative assistant? What about a physician’s assistant? You could go back to school and ace it with how much you probably know from transcribing.”

  “I’m happy, Lee. I take care of Gabby and myself this way. Let it go.” I try hard not to laugh out loud, waving at Leona before I turn and jog toward the bus stop to meet Gabby.

  “How about nursing?” she calls after me. “You like to take care of people, don’t you?”

  Not really. Only my daughter and me.

  I take off before the convo heads in a direction I prefer to avoid, like me wasting my life away.

  The bus rolls to a stop just as I make it to the corner.

  “Hey there, baby girl.” I smother Gabby with kisses on top of her crazy curls.

  “Hi, Mom.” She shrugs me off.

  “You’re always gonna be my baby.” I snatch her up and swing her around. “How was school?”

  We stroll back to the house, Gabby loud and proud in her hot-pink leggings and silver-sequined backpack, the one I bought for her.

  It may not seem like much, but it is. Everything she has, I bought and paid for on my own. Not a cent of child support ever made it my way. I found divorce papers in the mail one morning, giving me full custody, and I signed before my coffee cooled.

  “Billy Straits called Lizzie Jenkins ugly and told her that’s why her mom isn’t letting her go trick-or-treating. I got up in his face and told him to shut it.”

  That’s my Gabby, seven going on thirty-five, ruler of social justice on the playground, and her own judge and jury to boot.

  “Lizzie’s mom has to work the night shift, and her dad can’t afford to miss work, and her grandma is too old to walk around with her and the baby, so Lizzie has to stay at home and pass out candy with her. Maybe . . . she can come with us?”

  Who didn’t know that was coming?

  Halloween will be a late work night for me. Blog posts and Facebook and Instagram will be clogged with photos of kids decked out to the nines, posing for the cameras. What most people don’t know is those kiddos are hustling for their mommy bloggers without getting paid to do it. Some are—like my girl, Lila. I don’t touch her mom’s blog with a ten-foot pole. I love the shit out of that one, not a negative thought in the universe when it comes to her.

  See? I’m not the tin man. I have a sensitive side.

  Which is why there’s no way I’m going to leave Lizzie Jenkins out to dry.

  “Sure, baby. Maybe she’ll come home after school with you and eat an early dinner with us, and then we’ll go out.”

  We don’t get trick-or-treaters at the upper floor of the duplex where Gabby and I live. Leona hands out “big bars,” and the kids always run away happy as pigs in shit, ignoring the long trek up the stairs to our entrance.

  “Great. Text her mom when we get home and tell her. ’Kay, Mom?”

  “Absolutely.”

  We hike up the stairs to the side entrance of our place, the one I bought all on my own without the help of Charles, or Mr. Coffee, as I like to think of my ex. Gabby grabs a granola bar, and I do as I’ve been told and text Lizzie’s mom.

  Then we’re left to our nightly routine. I jump in the shower, and Gabby gets in right after me, scrubbing the school grime off. It may seem backwards, but this is the way we fit it all in, allowing me to work after Gabby goes to sleep. After showers, we do homework, eat dinner, and on most nights, take an evening walk before stories and bedtime. Rinse and repeat.

  “You’re the best mom.” Gabby snuggles close after I settle on her bed to read with her. Her small finger winds through a strand of my long brown hair and twirls it. She’s been doing that as long as I can remember, and a small shudder runs through me at the thought of los
ing this precious time with her.

  I don’t need a man. I need Gabby.

  I kiss the top of her head, smooth back her blond curls, and breathe in her innocence. As long as she stays this way, I’ll do what I have to do.

  Hip, hip, hooray! Dollars for Daddy and Mean Budget Mom are shacking up. That’s right, folks! After both peddling the lean life of being a single parent while saving for college and trips to the happiest place on earth, they’re tying the knot. Together.

  In a combined blog post shared on both of their sites last night, they described the slow-burn love affair that began at a promo event for car insurance:

  Over glowing green martinis at the Car Insurance Expo, we shared light conversation about our kids and our mutual love of the blogging world. We took a complimentary Uber to a nearby restaurant where we continued the evening. It was the most adorable sports bar called Mickey Moore’s. Daniel (Dollars for Daddy) writes about Mickey’s frequently, so they picked up the tab in exchange for a few Instagram posts. We were both equally gleeful over this because we are old-school budgeteers—it was a match made in heaven.

  The two plan to have a big wedding and are entertaining sponsors as we speak. They were undecided as to whether they would opt for a destination wedding or a local affair. I’m guessing whatever sponsor coughs up the biggest deal will get to host the happily budgeted vows. They both plan to keep up their individual blogging, but they said to stay tuned for a big surprise!

  I’m guessing Baby on a Budget will be born.

  I’m saying mazel tov in advance and raising a glass to Daniel and Marie Claire.

  Affectionately yours,

  The UnAffectionate Blogger

  Snarky Momma commented:

  Hey, I could do a destination wedding on a budget if it was all paid for. Hahahaha!

  Pesky Blogger commented:

  Maybe they’ll get a charter plane thrown in to shuttle their guests (who are no doubt on a budget) to the destination.

  My ass on the couch and slipper socks on my feet, I’m doing what I normally do—write a post, take a break, check on emails and comments from the day before, write another post, look for more fodder, schedule an evening post—when the phone rings. It’s a glamorous life, yada, yada.