Girls Night Out 3 E-Book Bundle. Gemma BurgessЧитать онлайн книгу.
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GIRLS NIGHT OUT 3 BOOK BUNDLE
Gemma Burgess, Laura Ziepe and Anna-Lou Weatherley
Table of Contents
A Girl Like You
GEMMA BURGESS
For Paul
Because you rock.
Contents
Dedication
February. (This year.)
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Three
Chapter Thirty Four
Chapter Thirty Five
Chapter Thirty Six
Chapter Thirty Seven
Chapter Thirty Eight
Chapter Thirty Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty One
Chapter Forty Two
Chapter Forty Three
Chapter Forty Four
Chapter Forty Five
Chapter Forty Six
Chapter Forty Seven
Chapter Forty Eight
Chapter Forty Nine
The Rules of Surviving Singledom
Acknowledgement
Read on for an exclusive extract from Dating Detox
About the Author
By the same Author
I never thought I’d spend hours crying on the floor of a hotel shower.
The weird thing is that underneath the hysteria, I’m completely aware how dramatic-yet-amusing this is. I’m crying for a soul-shakingly horrible reason, my contact lenses are flipping over in my eyes from the tear-water onslaught and I don’t have the strength to get up, turn off the shower and reach for a towel . . . but I can still see that this is a teeny tiny bit funny.
Is it normal to feel so detached from reality after a heartbreak? Is this heartbreak? God, I don’t know.
And as usual, my mind is wandering. I can’t help but notice how nice the shower gel is, and how I wish I had a dinner plate showerhead at home, because crying under the pathetic trickle in my skinny white bath is so depressing.
Home, oh God, home.
Then reality hits me and I start sobbing again.
I wonder how my black eye is coming along, but I can’t bear to look in the mirror. I swear my jowls droop when I’m this tired. On top of everything else that life has landed me with (inability to tell right from left, inability to tell lust from love, inability to drink whisky without becoming really drunk), that’s just not fair.
The sick feeling I’ve had for days just won’t go away. I wonder if it ever will.
I think I’ll make the water a little bit hotter and curl up on the floor. There. I’m almost comfortable. The shower is huge, taking up about half the bathroom, which, like the rest of the hotel room, is dark and sexy with a dash of chinoiserie, and flattering lighting that whispers five star in a posh accent. Hey, if you’re going to have a breakdown, you may as well have it in the Mandarin Oriental in Hong Kong, that’s what I always say.
Perhaps I should call my sister. Sophie. She is always good at being comforting. That’s the best thing about little sisters: they spend so much time wishing they were elder sisters (when they’re waiting to go to big school, waiting to get a bike without training wheels, waiting to get their ears pierced, though wily Sophie got her ears pierced the same day as me, despite the fact that I’d been begging for YEARS and I was 13 and she was only 11) that in the end they’re far wiser than the elder ones could ever be. She’s in Chicago right now, so that’s only . . . Oh, I can’t figure out time differences.
I don’t even know what time it is here. Late afternoon?
It feels like the sun hasn’t properly risen in Hong Kong today. It’s grey and humid and thunderstormy. I love it when the weather matches my mood.
I think I’m almost sick of being in the shower. Perhaps I should go and lie