Cross the Line (Boston Love Story #2) Read Free Page A

has, since the day I hit puberty.
    In a few days, I’ll be twenty-four, which means I’ve been in love with Nate for more than a decade. And not once in all that time has he shown me so much as a flicker of reciprocal interest. Hell, he doesn’t even check out my boobs — which are now very real, thank you very much — if I walk around in a bikini when he comes to visit Parker in Nantucket. And it’s not like there’s nothing to look at — I’m a generous C-cup, for god’s sake. (Frankly, I think the universe realized it owed me, after the pool-stuffing incident, and bequeathed me with a really stellar set of ta-tas to even the score.)
    But, it was with a heavy heart and some seriously neglected lady parts that, two months ago, I decided to toss in the towel for good. I’m not usually a quitter, but it seemed there was no choice other than to lock my heart away in an impenetrable steel box inside my chest and move on — to new men, who actually noticed I was alive and worthy of love. Or, at the very least, a little below-the-belt action. After all, a girl can only wait so long.  
    So, I did something seemingly harmless.
    I accepted a date to a stuffy dinner gala with a wealthy, eligible bachelor named Brett from one of Boston’s most prominent families. With dark hair and ice blue eyes, he looked a tad like Ian Somerhalder, which was about his only redeeming quality because most of the time, he gave off seriously creepy vibes. Not that it mattered — I wasn’t interested in him. I just thought, after years listening to Lila barrage me with advice about The Top 10 Successful Ways to Make a Man Jealous and 12 Irrefutable Strategies to Forget That Rat Bastard , I should finally give it a go. One last-ditch attempt to catch Nate’s attention, before my ovaries dried up from lack of use. I figured it couldn’t hurt, right?
    I just never in my wildest dreams imagined it would actually work …

Chapter Two
     
    Wait, that’s what that song is about?
                                                                                                     
    Phoebe West, after listening a little closer to
    the lyrics of Madonna’s “Like A Prayer.”
                                                                                                     
     
    Two months earlier…
     
    I set my clutch purse down on the counter with a heavy sigh.
    It’s been a weird night, to say the least.
    That’s not much of a surprise, though. Blind dates are probably always weird, even when they aren’t at boring business galas full of somnolent speeches and really gross arugula salads, with only a semi-lecherous date to keep you company. 
    Not that I’d know. My dating experience is limited to watching ten-year-old reruns of FRIENDS on Netflix, while Boo — the only man in my life with whom I don’t share DNA — snores gently by my side. (Don’t get too excited. Boo is a pure white mini Pomeranian with so much sass, he could intimidate a Great Dane.)
    He doesn’t even lift his head from the gray sectional cushion where he’s sprawled when I cross through the low-lit kitchen into the adjacent living room. The space is dark, but I easily make out the outline of his tiny furry chest, rising and falling with each snore. There’s a puddle of doggie drool forming on the $300 chenille throw beneath his slackened jowls, growing larger with each rattling exhale.
    For such a small dog, he makes quite the racket.
    I brush the bangs out of my hazel eyes and run fingers through my dark brown hair, hoping it might soothe my headache as I plant one high-heeled foot on the edge of the coffee table and begin to undo the straps of my Louboutin.
    I seriously can’t believe I wasted shoes this hot on a night this lame. Not to mention this dress. The long, flowing white