Play Fling (A Stupid Cupid Book) Read Online Free

to Stalin, Brooke had made her
first notable profit last month. One thousand, seven hundred,
fifty-four dollars and thirty-two cents. Felt like a million.
    A year and a half ago, no one had taken her
idea, or her, seriously. Not her in-laws, her husband or their
friends. In fact, Millie counted as the only person who did since.
But then Millie hadn’t known her as Mrs. Jason Munkle. They’d only
met seven or eight months ago. Still, success felt damned when
everyone wondered why on earth she would need money or want to
work. Jason did so well for them, as her mother, and his,
consistently pointed out. Jason had treated her as though she’d
adultered herself. Over a job. A tiny little business.
    It was never for the money. It was for
her.
    Thinking back, to Jason, her starting a
business must have felt like cheating. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t
been surprised when she’d asked for a divorce one month after that
antiquing trip. It was almost as though he had anticipated it.
Remarkable. Fifteen years should have been more difficult to walk
away from. For both of them.
    She conceded one yawn, trying to conceal it
with a hand to her chin and a bend to her purse. Absolute boredom.
Her lips were dry. The twenty something brunette next to her
crossed her jean-clad legs. Brooke stared at the taunt butterfly
design embroidered on the thigh area. She had once been able to
pull off butterfly jeans. Brooke sighed.
    Forty more minutes. Brooke would not leave
early. Not today. Maybe another time. She’d spent good money on
this class and eventually, understanding her bestselling
merchandise’s era would improve sales. It would. Dramatically, she
hoped. And wouldn’t that feel good? Proving everyone wrong? Worth a
few yawns, certainly.
    Identify what drew people to this era, spoke
to their hearts, then speak that language herself. Fluently. Millie
always got it. She’d said, “Don’t try to sell Prada if you’ve only
ever worn Gap.” Precisely.
    A third yawn threatened. Brooke began willing
Shope to call a break. He held out to the bitter end on breaks.
Probably because he lost half his audience. Man, did he love an
audience.
    The brunette stretched, revealing a page of
doodling, what looked like practiced signatures. Instead of copious
notes, Beth, as the majority of the scroll suggested, focused on
whether or not to hyphenate her (new?) last name. The Mrs. part she
had down. Part of Brooke wanted to pull her aside and warn her.
Warn her to wait for marriage, to live a life first, because the
best years would siphon away in a blink of an eye.
    Shope paused in his animated drone and
retrieved his pocket watch.
    Brooke inched her hand toward her purse,
ready to sprint. Front row had advantages beyond a sunset view. The
pretty brunette shifted again, tossing her long mane of hair past
Brooke’s face.
    “As you leave for a brief interlude,” Shope
said, chalk tapping his lips. Brooke lifted her bag. “Imagine
yourself a concentration camp inmate, suddenly freed by Allied
soldiers. Those of you who do so successfully, will get the
inexplicable desire to return post haste. I hope you will do so, in
no more than ten minutes.”
    What the…? Had he really just said that?
Brooke schooled her features and kept her gaze on the door. She
thanked whoever was in charge up there for Shope’s self-importance,
though. It meant he likely wouldn’t be grading this week’s paper,
either. Funny how collecting them at the close of class didn’t
improve attendance any more than his wacko break comments. Several
students left theirs behind on desks, making pacts with those who
stayed to turn theirs in for them.
    Her fellow inmates dug for keys, shuffled
papers and fled, assignments if not left behind, then maybe dropped
off at Shope’s office instead. Brooke watched one wistfully. A
grade hung in the balance. Her grade. She couldn’t stomach leaving
her paper on a desk, couldn’t muster asking someone to take her
responsibility. What if