Scot on the Rocks Read Online Free PDF

still feeling like fugitives, we kissed again.
    One heavenly month later, Douglas begged me to move in with him. Seriously. It was, like, embarrassing. I really couldn’t say no. I mean, the guy was deeply, madly, passionately in love with me! You would have done the same thing. But, don’t worry about me, because I did it all very much by the rules. Literally. I was reading that book called
The Rules
at the time. It’s all about snagging a man and then getting said man to marry you. Quickly. Okay, so even on its truncated deadlines, that book didn’t suggest even having sex with a man within the first month of dating, much less moving in with him, but those girls never met Douglas. And if my grandmother asks you, we may have been living together, but we most certainly were not having sex. You know what, if my grandmother asks you, don’t even tell her that we were living together. That’s just easier. And anyway, I don’t think that Grandma even realized it at the time. Even when Douglas picked up the telephone, he had such a thick accent that she usually hung up thinking it was the wrong number. But I digress.
    The whole thing seemed to be in the bag. By the time I got Trip’s wedding invite, I’d be blissfully engaged (or even married!) to my handsome Scottish boyfriend. Piece of cake, right?

5

     
    N o! That’s not right! It was definitely
not
a piece of cake! By the time Trip’s wedding came around, not only was I
so not
engaged, but Douglas and I had also broken up, leaving me both boyfriend-less and homeless! And he proposed to another woman! Who, as you might have caught earlier, had a stupid, stupid name!
    Aren’t you even paying attention?!
    Luckily for me, my best friend Vanessa
was
paying attention. Post-breakup, she was my rock. She was even kind enough to let me stay with her and her husband Marcus. After I showed up on her doorstep crying hysterically, begging to come in, that is.
    Even in my time of need, though, I was really a pleasure to be around. In fact, I think that in their heart of hearts, they actually enjoyed having me there. Marcus was always working late and was never at home, so I kept Vanessa company on the nights that we, ourselves, didn’t have to work late.
    I was also very helpful in the kitchen. I even made dinner once or twice. Well, not so much made dinner as stood in front of the fridge staring blankly into its vast coldness. But it’s really the thought that counts with those things.
    “Did the governor call?” Vanessa asked me on one such evening, as she walked into the apartment. She took off her three-inch stiletto heels, which she wore every day despite the fact that she was five foot eight.
    “No,” I told her, marveling at the fact that I have such impressive friends, they were actually sitting around waiting for the governor to call. Yes, my friends were out waiting for heads of state to call, while I was standing in front of the refrigerator in my bathrobe, eating raw cookie dough straight from the package as if it were a hot dog, or some other food product that might be acceptable to eat while clutching said food product in one’s fist.
    Oh, please. As if you never did that, too.
    I guess that’s the way life is when you are the sole offspring of glamorous parents like Vanessa’s — her father, originally from the West Indies, is a world-renowned heart surgeon, and her mother, a former model, now owns a gallery in Tribeca that specializes in African-American art. She grew up in a palatial house in New Jersey that was in the same cul-de-sac as a hip-hop mogul and his child bride. The only famous person in my family is my mother’s cousin Ernie, who once placed second in the Ben’s Kosher Deli matzo-ball eating competition.
    “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, sliding her long legs under her body as she sat down at the kitchen counter.
    “Me? No. I’m absolutely fine. Why on earth would I want to talk about it?” I asked.
    “When I come home