Always Delightful: A Romantic Comedy (Always Series Book 1) Read online

  ALWAYS DELIGHTFUL

  A Romantic Comedy

  Shayne McClendon

  Always Delightful by Shayne McClendon

  Copyright © 2012-2017 Shayne McClendon

  Published by Always the Good Girl LLC

  www.alwaysthegoodgirl.com

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  For all you women (and men) who don’t fit the mold.

  Much love,

  Shayne

  Table of Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  About Shayne Mcclendon

  Also By Shayne Mcclendon

  Chapter One

  I have a nice Greek mother. Mom’s only wish in life was to have good children who could get along in public and avoid shaming the Andreadis family name.

  Her wish wasn’t granted. Not even close.

  She has one daughter who’s gorgeous on the outside but is pretty much scorched earth on the inside.

  In my senior year of college, I was home for a visit and a date stood me up. I dressed up, took particular care with my makeup, and even shaved my legs.

  A waste of fucking time.

  Feeling sorry for myself, I threw on pajamas and parked myself on the couch to watch a documentary about famine.

  Ava interrupted to ask me if I stole her eyeliner.

  Without looking at her, I replied, “No, bitch.”

  Stepping in front of the television, she pressed her point. “I spent thirty bucks on that eyeliner…”

  “I care about your irresponsible spending habits, why?”

  Ava has this thing she does where she puts her arms straight at her sides and screams with her mouth closed when she’s mad.

  Shit always made me laugh.

  “My belongings matter, Petra! My life is just as important as those starving kids from whatever country! Stop laughing at me!” Storming away, she screamed, “Mom!”

  My little sister. Spoiled and petulant. Convinced since birth that the universe revolves around her and we’re all subjects breathless to do her bidding.

  Then there’s me.

  “Koukla, you are a whole different kettle of fish,” my grandmother always says. It’s quickly followed by, “When are you going to get married? You’re not getting any younger.”

  “I know, Yiayia. I know.”

  She doesn’t like that I own my own business, hates when I curse, and thinks I’m still a virgin.

  To be fair, she isn’t happy with a lot of my mother’s decisions either. We don’t fit the Old Country mold for women.

  I’ve been known, once or twice, to drop atom bombs of sarcasm on certain situations.

  I’m honest. I tell the truth no matter how much you don’t want to hear it or how mean you think I am.

  If you don’t want me to give it to you real, it’s best if you don’t choose me as a sounding board.

  You’ll only get one warning if you come at me with the phrase, “What do you think?”

  I’m more than happy to tell you. In detail. With graphics and charts and a few reference materials to back up my point of view.

  I can take it as good as I give it.

  Over the years, I’ve lost a ton of friends for telling them real shit without the honey drizzle. The ones who stuck around are awesome and the ones who didn’t I should have realized sooner were more trouble than they were worth.

  If you’re not under the age of seven, over the age of seventy, or recovering from a medical procedure, don’t expect me to hold your hand literally or metaphorically.

  Let’s keep it tight and keep it moving, people. Life’s too short.

  I mentioned my sister is gorgeous on the outside. Ava got the few skinny genes we have in our curvy family and good for her. God knows she uses that gift like a blunt instrument to get her way in every area of her life.

  On the flip-side, society is bursting with a lot more ladies who look like me. Strangely, we’re still overlooked.

  Women who happen to be the perfect size look at me and think, “Hmm, she has such a pretty face. If she lost weight, she’d be dazzling. I should talk to her about this latest diet (pill, exercise, etcetera) that totally works.”

  If you’re one of those, know we won’t be friends.

  Pretty but chubby (they’re mutually exclusive, yo) women are on every corner. We outnumber the pretty and skinny women (which is so the same thing) like three to one.

  I’m five-six and a size sixteen. I sometimes require an eighteen or a twenty if the cut doesn’t account for my boob and ass abundance. That’s my reality and has been since high school.

  Before you ask…I’m healthy, oh concerned citizen.

  I don’t smoke and keep alcohol to a minimum. Meaning I need a minimum of one glass of wine a day but will occasionally down a whole bottle on a Friday night while binge-watching House of Cards.

  Apparently, all us fatties look alike. I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard, “You look so much like my sister, aunt, cousin, first grade teacher…”

  Think about that for a moment. Creepy, right?

  Moving on.

  If you see my plus-size face eating a burger as I race from one meeting to the next or sipping on the milkshake my assistant grabbed when she picked up the print order, don’t assume that’s all I eat.

  I don’t care to discuss my food choices with you so don’t take it as your cue to talk to me about joining a gym or how I need to ditch carbs to control my weight.

  Seriously. You don’t know me.

  I eat healthy more often than not but I run my own business and I’m busy as fuck. Unless I’m with my mom, food isn’t my top priority. I’m on deadlines and it’s none of your business.

  Do I make faces at your disgusting kale smoothie or judge when you make the choice to go gluten-free? No. I do not.

  Stay in your lane and I’ll stay in mine.

  Besides, my body appears to like things exactly the way they are. My boobs and ass enter and exit rooms separate from the rest of me. They look good, I’m not gonna lie. I can rock a wrap dress better than any skinny girl out there.

  I was born with them and could have been Mae West’s body double back in the day if they gave me a blonde wig.

  I’m used to them now so try not to stare.

  My assistant eats about eight thousand calories a day and thinks McDonald’s is a food group.

  Her idea of exercise is doing a fist pump after leveling up in Call of Duty or having to reach over really far to grab her cell phone. She’s a twig without trying.

  I’m plump, also without trying.

  She wishes for my tits and I wish I could wear skinny jeans and not look like an upside-down traffic cone.

  The Stones were so right. You can’t always get what you want.

  I digress.

  Admittedly, I wander off topic sometimes. I’ll try to keep my shit together long
enough to tell you how I pretended to be someone I’m not, for someone I dislike (for many more reasons now than at the time of the eyeliner fiasco), on a day that shall go down in infamy.

  My mother wished for good Greek daughters.

  Between the gossip, the drama, the yelling (the preferred form of communication in our house), and competitiveness, we gave her fits all our lives.

  Through it all, we managed to pretend we cared about each other in front of company.

  Until the day my sister announced she was getting married.

  Chapter Two

  December 2014 – Coral Gables, Florida

  For reasons that shall become clear, I was pissed.

  I responded from my seat at the dining table, “Bravo, whore. Don’t send me an invite.”

  “As if I would, you hateful cow! You’re just jealous!”

  I stood up. Ava backed up.

  She might be twenty-six and fit but I was twenty-nine and fully capable of kicking her ass. Both of us knew that.

  Our dear mother stepped between us. “You two listen to me. You can duke it out like white trash when I’m dead. Until then, you’ll fake civility.” She shook her head. “Every single one of my sisters brought normal children into the world…”

  I interrupted, “Mom, normal? What about that lurky kid of Aunt Jackie’s?” No way was that man playing with a full deck.

  Piercing me with a glare that should have terrified me and probably would have if she wasn’t five-two, she hissed, “I have girls. Daughters are supposed to be a mother’s joy. You owe me this experience.”

  “You expect me to go to her wedding after what…”

  “Petra, I expect you to be her maid of honor.”

  I was stunned.

  Ava lost her mind instantly. “You can’t make me put her in my bridal party, Mom! She’s horrid!”

  Pointing her finger in Ava’s face, Mom barked, “You’re the horrid one! After what you pulled…Christos! You won’t shame this family, Ava. You hit your quota for the next decade. You’ll do right by me in this one thing and we’ll pretend to the world we’re not insane.”

  “Mom!”

  “Not one more word, Ava. You’ll have the wedding I pay for and you’ll smile at your sister in your bridal party.”

  “Daddy would want me to be happy. You can’t ask me to put up with Petra on my special day.”

  Folding her hands in front of her, Mom cleared her throat.

  Smarter than my sister by about three dozen IQ points, I stepped back and braced myself.

  Ava never saw the hurricane coming.

  “You bring up your father to me, Ava? You dare to guilt me over a man who left us for his masseuse? Who hasn’t seen you or your sister in seventeen years?” Mom sucked her teeth. “It took me half that time to track the bastard down for a divorce.”

  “You don’t understand…”

  “No. It’s you who doesn’t understand. When you overspend six months of every year, it’s my money that helps you. When you tell me you wish to marry this anóito, this fool of a man, I know already you expect outrageous luxury.”

  “Just make her attend and I’ll pose for a photo.”

  Mom reached up to stroke my sister’s face. “You will do as I bid, you will play happy family, or so help me god, I’ll cut you off without a cent. Petra, I’ll stop making you yogurt.”

  Bomb dropped, our mother walked calmly from the room.

  Being cut off meant horrific things for Ava. Mom supplied her cold hard cash on the regular.

  For me, it meant putting a few scratches on the awesome relationship I had with my mom…and no more homemade yogurt. I glanced at the bowl I made myself the minute I arrived at her house.

  Store-bought just didn’t compare.

  I wasn’t stupid. Our mother didn’t make threats. She made promises with ice water in her veins if you pissed her off. Her true wrath was no joke.

  Sighing heavily, I realized I’d have no choice but to suck it up and pretend to like Ava’s skank ass to the world at large for one awful day.

  “I’ll be in your wedding party, bitch.”

  “See if you can’t drop some pounds by then or the dresses I picked will be ruined, heifer.”

  She started to walk around me and I stepped in her way.

  “Ever talk to me like that again and I’ll hit you where it hurts. Your designer clothes, bags, makeup collection, and shoe rack. I’ll douse everything you own in bleach and burn your pathetic life to the ground.”

  “You’re fucking crazy, Petra.”

  “No. I’m the only person who doesn’t stand for your utter bullshit. Grow up or don’t. Don’t talk to me like one of your servile friends.”

  I stepped back and after a strained moment, she walked to the room she still occupied in our childhood home.

  Mom leaned against the doorframe and chuckled when Ava’s door slammed. “You’re a little crazy, honey.”

  “All part of my charm, Mom.” Hands on my hips, I said, “You realize this isn’t going to go down the way you hope it will.”

  She winked. “Just don’t make any public scenes.” Turning, she said over her shoulder, “Ignore your sister, get your aunts to help with details, and avoid her idiot fiancé. You’ll end up in jail if you don’t.”

  My mom knows me so well.

  Chapter Three

  April 2015

  The months leading up to the wedding were everything I expected. Ava was every bride-to-be stereotype from day one.

  Her wedding was in June at the Cruz Mansion. I swore she chose the place because I once mentioned it was where I’d marry one day.

  Something she took from me that actually mattered.

  Through it all, I gritted my teeth. How I stopped myself from murdering my little sister, I honestly don’t know. She asked for it every time I was near her.

  Unless my mother called me personally for something we needed to accomplish as a family, I avoided Ava like a flaming case of crabs.

  Her friends were skinny girls from the suburbs who acted just like her. As lead Mean Girl, they fell over themselves to impress my sister. It was all so weird.

  The expense of everything blew my fucking mind. Wasting so much money on one day was pure jack-assery, in my opinion.

  Especially when it wasn’t her money.

  Mom paid the bills, pushing back when she felt things were over the top even for her youngest child, and generally conducted herself with more class than I thought was warranted.

  Ava was lucky Mom was loaded.

  As the oldest of her siblings, Leda Katerina Andreadis inherited the operation of several businesses when my pappoús died.

  Though her father groomed her from age ten to take over for him, the rest of the family was shocked he didn’t choose one of the male relations.

  The reason was simple. She was smarter than all of them.

  She never let him down. Her management of scrap metal facilities, real estate, restaurants, and shipping paid for our lives, our educations, and kept Mom sharp as a tack.

  Since my little sister never balked at begging for money she didn’t earn, I made sure I never did.

  Anything I wanted or needed, I bought myself.

  When I graduated college at twenty-two, Mom was my first web design and internet marketing client. She handed out my cards like personalized invites to a swank gala and before long, I had more work than I could handle.

  My mother was my biggest fan and a steady source of encouragement and thinking outside the box.

  The day after the bridal party’s first dress fitting, Mom arrived at my condo. She wore a stunning cream silk blouse and dove gray pants, heels, and had her black hair twisted into an elegant chignon.

  “I’m taking you to lunch.” I started to reply and she shook her head. “I know you’re working but it’s Sunday. Have lunch with your mother.”

  I grinned. “You’ve really got that guilt thing down.”

  “I do.” She picked imaginary lint
from her sleeve. “I’ll wait for you in the car.”

  Half an hour later, we sat across from each other at one of her favorite restaurants and I waited to hear what she wanted to talk about.

  “I’m sorry, Petra.”

  I sipped my glass of wine. “Hmm. The dress fitting, you mean? As if we didn’t know she had something shitty planned.” I shrugged. “Soon enough, all this will be over and I’ll have plenty of reasons to laugh at her.”

  “I love her…but I don’t like her at all.” Hearing the admission from my mother sent me into a fit of the giggles. “Stop laughing. It isn’t funny. It’s a terrible thing for a parent to say.”

  “It’s honest. Don’t beat yourself up. I haven’t liked her since she turned eleven.”

  “I’m proud of you for taking the high road.”

  The snort I issued made her smile. “Not sure about the high road, Mom. I get my digs in every chance I get.”

  “Do you know why I insisted you be her maid of honor?” I shook my head. “She can stand next to you and own it.”

  Eyes wide, I murmured, “Mom…payback?”

  “Everyone in our family knows what she did, Petra. Why make it easy for her?” Her expression contorted into one of disgust. “That she’s insisting on marrying that idiot is another dig.”

  With complete respect, I said, “You’re diabolical.”

  “Naturally, darling. Where do you think you get it?”

  We clinked our glasses and spent two hours talking foolishness and eating way too much.

  Her driver parked in front of my building and I grinned at him from the backseat. “Thanks for delivering the lush safely.”

  Demetrius chuckled. “Always a pleasure to see you, Petra.”

  The year my mom finally secured her divorce from my deadbeat father, she built a charming pool house behind the Spanish-style mini-mansion where we grew up. The house was built in 1920 and she designed the new addition to match.

  When it was finished, she hired Demetrius as her driver and assistant. He was several years older, handsome, and Greek.

  Mom moved him in and immediately attained a calm that escaped her for more than a decade.