TAME ME IF YOU CAN

A Slice of Life Romantic Comedy

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dedication:

This book is dedicated to my husband, my best friend, my home. Thank you for taming me with unconditional love and patience.

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epigraph:

"Be with someone who loves you harder on the days you can't love yourself at all."

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Chapter 1:

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People get offended so easily.

Take, for example, this fancy boy next to me in his shiny red, midlife crisis car. He's flailing his arms and shouting at me as if I can hear him over my blasting music. Did I cut this guy off? Maybe. I have no idea. But I'm late for work and need to concentrate on weaving through this traffic.

My rare appointment with a nightclub later can't come soon enough. All this stress is—

A flash of a blue sweater catches my attention. PEDESTRIAN!

"I'm so sorry!" I slam the brakes and screech to a halt, hands raised in apology. The woman's eyes are wide as they stare back at me, her entire life probably flashing before them. There should really be a broadcast announcement when I get on the road.

Parking at a worn out structure of Antrio University, I rush to the Psychology building to meet the head of faculty, my new boss. In just a few days, I'll be teaching here as the youngest Associate Professor in this university's history.

The leaves crush beneath my heels as I scurry against the wind, trying to ignore the way it cuts through my sweater and freezes my bones. As if the bipolar sun isn't going to be blazing in a couple of hours. November in California, ladies and gentlemen.

"Good evening, Dr. Dennis." I beam at my boss upon entering his office.

My mentor, a shriveled-looking man, takes off his glasses to rub his tired eyes as he addresses me. "How was the drive here?"

"Oh you know..." I wave him off, but he's already exiting his office and leading me down the hall. "An appointment with a patient ran a bit overtime so I had to rush here, but I'm not late! So all good."

"I see...but you're still confident in your ability to do this while holding a second job?"

"Of course, being a therapist is perfect for teaching trauma." I smile at him. "I get to be hands on about what I teach, plus I love it."

Plus, you don't pay me enough.

We finally stop in front of an aged, jade-colored door. He hands me a bronze key. "This office is officially yours. Congratulations."

I thank him for the millionth time and snatch the keys, doing my best to not shove the door open and cartwheel inside. This is what I've been working toward for the last six years-

The stench of rotten food assaults my nose. Then I see the wreckage. "This is shit."

Inside the dim office, there's open folders, sheets of papers, and stained paper cups skewed throughout. An overflowing trash can sits beside an ugly rosewood desk positioned front and center.

"It needs some cleaning." Dr. Dennis explains. "Feel free to toss whatever's not essential."

"That desk, for sure. It screams hierarchy, I might as well hold a gavel with a judge wig."

"That's...university property. And you need hierarchy, especially with you being the same age as your students. You want them to respect you."

"Of course, but I want to earn their trust through honesty, not fear. Besides, my actions will speak louder than appearances."

"I suppose you'll learn soon enough." He sighs with a barely concealed eye roll. "And what do you propose we do with the desk? We can't just toss it."

"I can sell it? Then I can buy a desk that actually belongs in this century." I press with a cheeky smile.

His bushy eyebrows draw together. "You can't go around selling university property!"

"And if I give you the proceeds?"

He purses his narrow lips. "Fine, fine. Just make sure you uphold AU's sterling reputation."

~

After a gym session with my glutes begging for mercy, I go to my one-bedroom apartment to shower and get ready for a night of dancing.

My brown eyes are lined with thin strokes, eyelids dusted with blushing shades, and my petite face is framed with locks of long, brown waves.

My closet is what I aspire my mind to be: uncluttered and painless. Which means, I only have business and workout clothes. But it's not a problem, because I can make black joggers and a red bralette look hot with strappy heels and chandelier earrings.

Forty minutes later I'm in Hollywood. I spot Estelle in line outside the club, sparkling like a grunge reincarnation of Marilyn Monroe, her baby face decorated with side bangs and piercings.

"Mia! Ugh, it's been so long, my Taurus baby." She wraps me in her arms, squeezing me tight. "How've you been?"

"Exhausted." I smile at my old high school friend. "But I'm ready for some fun."

Estelle starts blabbering about the good old days when she had blue hair and two boyfriends at once.

She leads us to the front door, high fiving the bald bouncer on the way in.

~

Balayage highlights, sun kissed skin, contoured faces, and Disney princess bodies. The women at this club are Snapchat filters, and I'd be intimidated if I didn't know the compromises it takes to look like that. But I prefer my pores unclogged, wallet thick, and belly full of bread.

Then I scan the men around the club, or shall I say, the sorry excuses for men. Perhaps harsh, but come on, how can you spend hours perfecting every piece of hair on your skull then walk around with a perpetually brooding expression on your face? You spent two hours on your hair, how hard can your life be?

It's evolutionarily impractical. What am I supposed to do if I get mauled by a lion? Direct his shiny hair at the beast to blind him away?

We squeeze through heavily perfumed people and get the bartender's attention for some overpriced, watered down tequila. As soon as the liquid is swallowed, shivers cover my arms and my stomach flips with disgust.

"That bad?" Estelle grimaces at my expression.

"I wish I liked it. Want to get high outside?"

When we step to the balcony, I take a drag from my sleek, black pen, watching the smoke coil seductively in the dark night. An ocean of lights sparkle in the industrial horizon while puffs of grey clouds blanket the crescent moon and stars. I tilt my head to marvel at the sky, then smell something that completely kills my mood.

"Dude, really?" I wrinkle my nose at Estelle's cigarette. "It's so bad for you."

"Yeah, but I'm addicted." She smiles, exhaling the poison away. "Your mom still smokes?"

I look away and loosen the tension in my jaw. "Can we please not talk about her..."

A group next to us starts raving about horoscope signs and mercury retrograde, and my high school friend gets immediately drawn like a bee to a flower, conversation forgotten.

I tune out to protect my brain cells from that pseudoscience crap. Because a star isn't responsible for your shitty relationship, it's actually you Karol.

To add a cherry on top of this auditory delight, a nearby female voice starts screeching like chalk on a blackboard.

"Oh my God, I like, totally love the ring you're weariiing!"

It's coming from a redhead in a black dress and Louboutins, who's casting googly eyes to a man a couple of feet away. The man chuckles. He must be hard of hearing. "Thanks. It used to belong to my dad." His voice is deep, rich, masculine.

Holy shit. He sounds hot.

I crane my neck to see if the appearance matches the sound.

Wow.

The look, without a doubt, matches the voice.

He might be the most attractive man I've seen. A v-shape brawny form towering in a charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled up, top buttons undone. Black denim, black boots, braided leather bracelet. Sharp, sleek, and alluring.

Stop objectifying him, Mia.

Excuse me, this is called aesthetic analysis.

Ok, please continue.

He runs long, tan fingers through coffee black hair, freeing a few strands on his forehead. His profile is a blend of striking angles and dark contrasts. A square jaw, dusted with stubble, a nose that might've been broken in the past, and eyebrows with intimidating arches.

My hand itches to whip out my phone and snap a picture.

"Let's go daaance! I love this song, it's my jammm. Whoo!" The redhead grinds her hips with raised arms.

"Sorry. I don't like to dance." He declines politely, and I scowl. Why is he talking to her if he's not even interested?

"You're at a freakin' cluuub! Please, please, pleeeease."

He's got to be hard of hearing. I check around if anyone else's ears are bleeding, and indeed, people are scowling, whispering, and shooting angry daggers. Even the mercury retrograde fans complain and Estelle sighs in frustration. "Fuck, I want to claw someone's throat out!"

A 'Leo' from the group says that the redhead needs help, and Estelle's eyes light up. "Mia, you're a therapist, can't you go and do something?"

I raise an eyebrow at her. "Or we can be normal people and just go back inside..."

She shakes her head and pulls out another cigarette. Now the entire group wants one too. Great, now I have six disgusting smokestacks billowing at me.

"You gotta be kidding..." I beg, backing away.

Estelle smiles with a shrug. "Let's make a bet. Use your psych skills to make her annoying ass disappear, and I'll put this cigarette out."

My lips pull into a smirk. "If I make her go away, I get to break the entire pack into pieces while you watch."

The group laughs with excitement. Estelle squares up and steps into my personal space. "You fail, and you smoke one."

"Deal."

~ A/N ~

Thank you so much for reading. <3 Hope you like our Mia so far.

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