Not So Vanilla Pete

Not So Vanilla Pete A FAKE FIANCÉ ROMANTIC COMEDY T.M JENSON ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON KINDLE VELLA A big thanks to all the birds out there who generously sprinkled me with good luck, without which I would have never stumbled upon my very own Vanilla Pete! You feathered friends sure know how to wingman (or wingwoman) like pros. I owe you all a birdseed buffet! Contents 1. Penny 2. Pete 3. Penelope 4. Pete 5. Penny 6. Pete 7. Penny 8. Pete 9. Penny 10. Pete 11. Penny 12. Pete 13. Penny 14. Pete 15. Penny 16. Pete 17. Penny 18. Pete 19. Penny 20. Pete 21. Penny 22. Pete 23. Penny 24. Pete 25. Penny 26. Pete 27. Penny 28. Pete 29. Penny 30. Pete 31. Penny 32. Pete 33. Penny 34. Pete 35. Penny 36. Pete 37. Penny 38. Pete 39. Penny 40. Pete 41. Penny 42. Pete 43. Penny 44. Pete 45. Penny 46. Pete 47. Penny 48. Pete 49. Penny 50. Pete 51. Penny 52. Pete 53. Penny 54. Pete Afterword About the Author CHAPTER 1 Penny I knew that 2022 was going to be my year. How did I know this, you ask? Calm down. I was going to tell you. In the first three months of this year, I got pooped on by a bird, not just once, but three times. They say getting pooped on by birds is good luck, you know? I had high hopes that this year I would progress in checking the expected “adulting” boxes for someone my age. Career. Marriage. Buying a house. Kids. I was twenty-eight years old and didn’t have any of it yet. Like, I haven’t even checked one of those boxes. My free-spirited ass had pissed away most of my twenties, fluttering from city to city, chasing new ideas that never seemed to pan out. I checked the mail, grabbing a fist full of bills and junk mail before climbing up the stairs to my postage-stamp-sized Portland apartment. I tucked the mail under my arm to free a hand as I rummaged through my purse for my keys. The lock was sticky and required some finesse, followed by a full-throttle gusto to open the door. Today wasn’t any different, but as I put my back into pushing the door open, my mail slipped from the snug hold of my arm, causing it to fall just as the door opened. Meep, my bitchy, freeloading black cat met me at the door to lodge his usual complaints that always followed my absence. Meanwhile, I picked through the junk mail, separating the bills, and a postcard caught my eye. Crescent Valley High School Reunion. Shit. How in the hell had ten years passed already? Fuck 2022, I thought. I take back everything I said about you. 2022 was going to be a horrible year. You’re probably thinking, quit being a drama queen and skip the reunion. Well, that wouldn’t make a very captivating story, would it? Besides, not going is not an option. I had the typical high school experience that most people have. I had a best friend, my first love, my first heartbreak, and my first betrayal by that backstabbing BITCH, BLAIR TATE. You know the type. She was one of those blonde, boyfriend-stealing, perky-titted, early bloomers. When she saw something she liked, she didn’t worry about who it belonged to; she just took it. As you may suspect, I fell victim to her thievery when she stole Silas Williamson from me. Over ten years later, you would think it would be water under the bridge, but I have only one thing to say about that. I hope that smug blonde bimbo enjoys my sloppy seconds. Yes, present tense. Blair didn’t just steal and toss him aside when she was done with him, she married him, and now they have two perfect children living in the ideal house. How do I know this? You know precisely how I know; because you’ve done it too. Sometimes, when I feel pathetic and incredibly sorry for myself, I creep them on Facebook. I know, I know, I’m not proud of it. So now that I’ve divulged too much information about my extracurriculars, I think you have a pretty good idea of why I can’t skip the reunion. I won’t give my arch nemesis the satisfaction. Please stick with me. You’ll see what I mean. She’s so extra that you’ll want to punch her in the face for me. The reunion was exactly three months away, so I had exactly that much time to get a life that was worth bragging about. I have big dreams of being a published author, but since you can’t pay the bills with rejection letters, I’m stuck working weekends…wait for it, dressing up as a mermaid for children’s birthday parties. I can just see how bitchy Blair would get off on that one. It would give her enough ammo to last a lifetime. The triple knock at the door startled me from my thoughts. I opened the door to find my bestie and roommate Lizzy with an arm full of groceries in one hand and a bottle of two-buck chuck, the only wine that our broke asses could afford. “Thank God.” I pulled her inside our apartment and followed her to the kitchen. “Let me get my wine. I can tell by the look on your face that you have some tea to spill.” We settled into my cozy couch, and I brought her up to speed. Of course, my hatred for Blair was not news to her, and as a girl after my own heart, we launched a plan. “A dilemma of this size requires my most powerful tool! A list,” she declared. I rolled my eyes. As someone who spends much of her time putting pen to paper, I’ve yet to see it solve any of my problems. She shook her head at me as she grabbed a little notepad from her bag.