Pumpkin Spice and Not So Nice Read Online Becky Monson

Categories Genre: Romance Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 71889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)

If I were ever to write a memoir, it would be titled, Jenna Peterson’s Guide to Dating Emotionally Unavailable Men. I’m like a professional at it. I’m so good, I can take any dysfunctional man and turn him into Prince Charming, just in time for him to dump me and then go on to marry the next woman he dates. I’m about ready to give up on loving real men and focus on lusting over fictional men in the Turkish dramas I can’t stop devouring.
But then . . . I find a mysterious fifty-dollar bill with a handwritten note on it that was donated to my family’s pumpkin patch by accident. And wouldn’t you know it, the mystery man it belongs to is emotionally unavailable, albeit freakishly attractive. I keep telling myself to walk away, but there’s something about Aidan St. Claire that makes me want to unravel all his secrets. All I know is he sure can heat up the cozy fall nights. I can’t help but think that maybe this time I’ll get to keep Prince Charming for myself.



Jenna Peterson’s Guide to Dating Emotionally Unavailable Men:

When dating an emotionally unavailable man, get ready for disappointment. Because there’s going to be a lot of it.

Well, I guess that settles it. I’m cursed.

There’s no other explanation for it.

Along with their parents

Cameron Wade Jacobsen


Kaytlynn Elizabeth Bristow

Are pleased to announce . . .

Another wedding invitation for another ex-boyfriend’s nuptials. There have been four over the last year. Matthew, Brian, Garrett, and now Cam. This one from Cam has peonies on it—my favorite flower. And it’s in Cabo. I’ve always dreamed of a destination wedding. It’s like pouring salt in a wound and then squeezing some lemon juice on it for good measure.

Why am I cursed? Because for each and every one of those invites, I was the last person the grooms dated before they met their one true love, or . . . whatever. I don’t even know if I buy into that “one true love” crap. How can there be only one person out there for you? What if you never run into that person? What if they die before you meet them? Can there be a second-best true love? Or third best, even?

Anyway, the point is, for all those men, I was not their one true love. I was the one before the true love, which makes me a pre-love. The rehearsal love. The before true love. Not that any of them ever said the word love. I’ve never had those three words, in that order, said to me. Unless you count old Frank at the deli counter I frequent. He says it all the time.

I shouldn’t have opened the invite. I knew what it was when I hurriedly grabbed the small stack of letters from my mailbox this morning and scanned through it on the way to my car to drive to my family’s farm, where I should have been fifteen minutes ago.

It was third in the stack. The clean white linen envelope with my address done up in handwritten calligraphy. I instantly felt that all-too-familiar feeling of dread circling around at the bottom of my belly. Even though I’d seen the Instagram posts. I’d seen the progression of Cam and Kaytlynn’s relationship. I’d seen the over-the-top proposal. I knew the wedding was coming.

As with the three previous invites, I hadn’t expected to be invited. I guess by now I should expect it, but I was once again surprised.

So, I did what I had to do: I tossed it and the rest of the mail into my purse and pushed this all off on Later Today Jenna. She could deal with it.

Except now here we are, later today. And Later Today Jenna doesn’t want to deal with any of this.

“Whatcha got there?” Josie, my best friend and cousin, asks as she enters the small orange building near the entrance to the farm, where I spend most of my weekends during the months of September and October selling tickets to the largest pumpkin patch in the state of Nevada and chatting up the residents of Carson City, where our family farm has been for decades.

I’m in my normal weekend attire: an orange T-shirt with Peterson’s Pumpkin Patch in white letters on the front and a pair of jeans I don’t mind getting dirty. The orange beret with the little green stem that comes out the top is sitting on the counter by the computer. It’s part of the uniform, but I try to take it off as much as possible.

I reach up to touch my grandma’s gold band, which I wear on a chain around my neck, and then let out a breath. “Oh, you know,” I say, waving the stationery around in the air. “Just another wedding invite.”