A Novel Idea Read Online Free
Author: Aimee Friedman
The covers alone make me blush: women spilling out of their gowns, bare-chested guys with flowing hair, candles, canopy beds, ruffles. So not me. Of course, I hadn’t told a soul—except for Audre—about my habit; it would kind of ruin my reputation as Literary Girl among my friends.
Not to mention my whole I-hate-romance stance.
But when I’m alone in my room, I love to indulge. The sweet, simple story lines are just yummy and comforting—like eating pistachio ice cream in a hot, bubbly bath. And, yeah, the sex scenes aren’t bad either. Jane Austen is awesome, but nobody ever gets it on in her books. I tried to tell myself that when—or if —I finally got a boyfriend, I’d magically get over my secret addiction.
Until then, there was really no point in resisting.
I reached under my bed and pulled out an old reliable: Dangerous Embraces , by my favorite romance author, Irene O’Dell. She is—according to the photo inside the book—a glamorous old lady dripping in diamonds and wrapped in fur. I don’t know how Irene does it, but she comes out with a brilliant new book every two months. Dangerous Embraces was a tale of forbidden desire between a milkmaid named Elsabetha and a count named Antonio. I sat cross-legged on my shag rug and was devouring the first line— Elsabetha, a striking green-eyed beauty, had never known true love —when my cell phone rang. It was Scott.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he said, around a mouthful of what had to be Veggie Booty—he lives on the stuff.
“Ha,” I snorted in response, glancing across my room to the full-length mirror. Explain to me how gangly limbs, fair skin, nearly-black eyes, and even darker hair add up to gorgeous. But ever since I met Scott in freshman-year algebra, he’s acted as my professional confidence booster. It’s probably because he has so much self-esteem, he feels the need to spread some of it around. He’s always telling me and Audre that he doesn’t understand how such sexy mamas as ourselves could possibly be single.
Really, it’s too bad that he’s gay.
“Are you holding up okay?” I asked him, leaning against my bed and peeking into Dangerous Embraces .
Scott’s boyfriend, Chad (whom Audre and I secretly nicknamed “Cheekbones” because, honestly, those were his only good features) cruelly dumped him one week before V-Day, after they’d been together for six months. Instead of slumping into suicidal depression, as I surely would have, Scott threw himself into more activities, like volunteering to organize the upcoming Spring Formal. That morning, catching me and Audre in the hall before class, he’d declared that he was officially “taking a break from love.” Scott has used this expression before, and his “break” usually lasts no more than, oh, two days. But this time, he seemed serious. I’d told him I fully supported the plan, since I was taking a break myself—a sixteen-year-long one.
“Naturally,” Scott replied, chomping away. “As long as I have you and Audre, events to plan, a steady supply of Veggie Booty, and copious amounts of alcohol, I’m golden.” He paused. “I was kidding about the alcohol part.”
I giggled. “God, I wish you lived in Brooklyn.” Like most Manhattanites, Scott rarely treks over to Park Slope; he sees all the outer boroughs as odd foreign lands—which Audre and I think is hilarious.
“Speaking of Brooklyn!” Scott exclaimed. “I hear it’s going to be the setting for a certain fabulous book group .”
“Why am I not surprised you know this?” I brushed a piece of lint off my black CBGB T-shirt. Scott is involved in every club known to man, so he gets the dirt on people before they’ve even done anything gossip-worthy. Still, despite Scott’s popularity, he shuns the Plums of Millay and prefers to hang with Audre, me, and our cluster of low-key, artsy friends. I knew he’d be into the idea of a book group.
In fact,
Not to mention my whole I-hate-romance stance.
But when I’m alone in my room, I love to indulge. The sweet, simple story lines are just yummy and comforting—like eating pistachio ice cream in a hot, bubbly bath. And, yeah, the sex scenes aren’t bad either. Jane Austen is awesome, but nobody ever gets it on in her books. I tried to tell myself that when—or if —I finally got a boyfriend, I’d magically get over my secret addiction.
Until then, there was really no point in resisting.
I reached under my bed and pulled out an old reliable: Dangerous Embraces , by my favorite romance author, Irene O’Dell. She is—according to the photo inside the book—a glamorous old lady dripping in diamonds and wrapped in fur. I don’t know how Irene does it, but she comes out with a brilliant new book every two months. Dangerous Embraces was a tale of forbidden desire between a milkmaid named Elsabetha and a count named Antonio. I sat cross-legged on my shag rug and was devouring the first line— Elsabetha, a striking green-eyed beauty, had never known true love —when my cell phone rang. It was Scott.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he said, around a mouthful of what had to be Veggie Booty—he lives on the stuff.
“Ha,” I snorted in response, glancing across my room to the full-length mirror. Explain to me how gangly limbs, fair skin, nearly-black eyes, and even darker hair add up to gorgeous. But ever since I met Scott in freshman-year algebra, he’s acted as my professional confidence booster. It’s probably because he has so much self-esteem, he feels the need to spread some of it around. He’s always telling me and Audre that he doesn’t understand how such sexy mamas as ourselves could possibly be single.
Really, it’s too bad that he’s gay.
“Are you holding up okay?” I asked him, leaning against my bed and peeking into Dangerous Embraces .
Scott’s boyfriend, Chad (whom Audre and I secretly nicknamed “Cheekbones” because, honestly, those were his only good features) cruelly dumped him one week before V-Day, after they’d been together for six months. Instead of slumping into suicidal depression, as I surely would have, Scott threw himself into more activities, like volunteering to organize the upcoming Spring Formal. That morning, catching me and Audre in the hall before class, he’d declared that he was officially “taking a break from love.” Scott has used this expression before, and his “break” usually lasts no more than, oh, two days. But this time, he seemed serious. I’d told him I fully supported the plan, since I was taking a break myself—a sixteen-year-long one.
“Naturally,” Scott replied, chomping away. “As long as I have you and Audre, events to plan, a steady supply of Veggie Booty, and copious amounts of alcohol, I’m golden.” He paused. “I was kidding about the alcohol part.”
I giggled. “God, I wish you lived in Brooklyn.” Like most Manhattanites, Scott rarely treks over to Park Slope; he sees all the outer boroughs as odd foreign lands—which Audre and I think is hilarious.
“Speaking of Brooklyn!” Scott exclaimed. “I hear it’s going to be the setting for a certain fabulous book group .”
“Why am I not surprised you know this?” I brushed a piece of lint off my black CBGB T-shirt. Scott is involved in every club known to man, so he gets the dirt on people before they’ve even done anything gossip-worthy. Still, despite Scott’s popularity, he shuns the Plums of Millay and prefers to hang with Audre, me, and our cluster of low-key, artsy friends. I knew he’d be into the idea of a book group.
In fact,
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