His Banana (Objects of Attraction, #1) by Penelope Bloom Read Online (FREE)
Read His Banana (Objects of Attraction, #1) by Penelope Bloom online free here.
I made an art of being late. Unfortunate acts of clumsiness were my paintbrush, and New York City was my canvas. There was the time I didn’t show up to work because I thought I had won the lottery. As it turned out, I was reading last week’s numbers. I had texted my boss on the way to pick up my winnings. I told him I’d never need to attend another should have been an email meeting on my mega yacht, where beautiful, tanned men would be hand-feeding me grapes. Unfortunately, my boss had actually printed out the text and framed it for the office, and the only thing being hand-fed to me that night was stale popcorn… by myself.
Then there was the time I watched Marley and Me the night before work and couldn’t stop crying long enough to make myself presentable. I’d gotten on the wrong trains, spent thirty minutes looking for keys to the car I didn’t own, and once even missed dinner with my best friend because my dog was having a mental breakdown.
Yeah. I wasn’t proud of it, but I was kind of a walking disaster. Okay. More than kind of. I was a chaos magnet. If there was a button you absolutely should not under any circumstances push, a priceless vase, a heart-attack-prone old man, or just about anything that can be messed up, I was probably the last person you wanted around. But hey. I was a damn good journalist. The fact that I still had a job was a testament to that. Of course, the bottom-of-the-barrel assignments I always seemed to land were also a reminder that I was permanently and irrevocably on the shit list. It was hard to get ahead when you had a tendency to accidentally shoot yourself in the foot, no matter how good your stories were.
“Wake up,” I said, kicking my brother in the ribs. Braeden groaned and rolled over. He was turning thirty in a week, and he still lived with my parents. Their one requirement was that he help with chores around the house. Of course, he never did, which meant they would occasionally make the empty threat to kick him out. He’d crash on the floor of my closet of an apartment for a day or two until things blew over with them, and then he’d be out of my hair again.
If I was a functional mess, Braeden was my dysfunctional counterpart. He had all the same self-sabotaging genetics without the perseverance to fix his mistakes. The result was a twenty-nine-year-old whose primary hobby was playing Pokemon Go on his phone, who sometimes moonlighted as a “sanitation officer,” which was basically a minimum-wage gig picking up trash for the city.
“The sun isn’t even up yet,” he groaned.
“Yeah, well, your two-day grace period is up, B. I need you to go patch things up with mom and dad so I can have my shoebox to myself again.”