Fifty Shades of Thrifty (a Parody) by N.J. Harlow Read Free Book Online

FIFTY
SHADES OF THRIFTY
    By
    N.J. Harlow
     
    Smashwords Edition
    Copyright 2012 © N.J. Harlow
    Published by Accio Books
    Smashwords
Edition, License Notes
    This ebook
is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or
given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another
person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading
this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only,
then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for
respecting the hard work of this author.
     
    (After
"Fifty Shades of Thrifty" enjoy a sample chapter
    of
N.J. Harlow's new novel "WING GIRL")
     
    FIFTY SHADES OF THRIFTY
    by N.J. Harlow
     
    The food fight
had left me with Lucky Charms in my hair. Not exactly the look I was going for
to meet the man who was going to sweep me off my feet.
    But when you're a
single mom with two brats from hell that qualify you as having more baggage
than a sorority girl on spring break, meeting a man willing to take on said
baggage is a tall order. My last date, upon spending thirty minutes in the
presence of my tattooed and pierced evil spawn, both of whom looked as though
the phone rang and they answered the staple gun, said there should be a law
called No Child's Behind Left as he
bolted out the door, leaving skid marks all the way down the driveway.
    But timing is
everything for this intrepid lifestyle reporter. Alas, the four wonderful weeks
the kids spend with their slug of a biological sperm donor began this morning
at eight, leaving me with an empty house for twenty-eight blissful summer days.
Twenty-eight nights during which I turn into a sexual hellcat (never mentioning
to any man that I actually have children) in the hopes of being rescued.
    Enough time to
hopefully use my feminine wiles and journalistic street smarts to ensnare a man
into a sexual trap from which there is no escape, teenagers be damned. Let's
face it, men will overlook just about anything if a good roll in the hay is
available on a regular basis and a woman has the ability to suck a golf ball
through a garden hose without smearing her lip gloss. (A skill set I possess,
along with other bedroom talents on my curriculum vitae .) If I could lay the groundwork (okay, okay, it's a
poor choice of words, but accurate) over the next four weeks with the right
guy, he'd be hopelessly head over heels for me, his common sense too
overpowered by the wrong head to notice my teenagers were future candidates for
careers as crash dummies.
    Sadly, I had no
current prospects on my to-do list.
    Until that sweet
marshmallow scent hit my nostrils as I was eating breakfast. (This was before
those magical clovers and rainbows took flight on a parabola over the breakfast
table and entwined themselves in my strawberry red tangles.) The smell of the
sugar woke me up. My bleary-eyed, overworked mom persona faded as I noticed a
coupon on the back of the box.
    And my reporter's
radar went up.
    Redeem this
coupon for a new husband.
    I'd read it in
the Sunday paper. The Coupon King, yes that Coupon King, the one who does those underwear ads when he's not telling housewives how to save fifty cents on a jar
of mayo, was in town promoting his new book. I knew from his appearances on
network morning shows that he had a great personality, and, more important, was
single. Which trumped my usual standards of breathing and male .
    The little
leprechaun on the box seemed to be talking to me. I could hear the Irish brogue
from the old TV commercial. "Get the marshmallow shamrocks out of your
hair, Cassie. Fix yourself up. There's a pot o' gold waiting at the end of the
rainbow."
    Which was better
than the pot belly of lead I'd settled for on my first trip down the aisle.
    I poured some
skim milk (fantasizing that my kids' faces were on the side of the carton) over
the cereal, took a bite and let the sugar rush into my veins like I was hooked
up to an I-V