Page 1 of Say Yes to the Hot Mess

One

Maya

I havea serious bone to pick with the romance authors of the world.

Back when I was pregnant, I read a romance about a new mom. It’s not my normal trope at all, but I figured since I was going to be entering the single mom market, I may as well check out some love stories in that setting. Do your research, right?

And anyway, Iloveromance novels. I’m not ashamed of that, despite the reputation romance readers sometimes get. There’s nothing silly about rejoicing in love and connection. Why do you thinkSay Yes to the Dressis my favorite show of all time? There’s nothing wrong with finding joy in watching characters grow together. Those just aren’t weird things to enjoy, so I don’t know why we get a bad rap. Shouldn’t we be worrying about the people who voluntarily read horror, with all the mass murders and weird alien monster things?

Anyway, I read the book. This cute new mom fell for a kindhearted man—who was frankly way too perfect, but I can suspend disbelief—and he stepped in to be the father of her new baby. They lived happily ever after, yada yada yada. It was sweet and tender, and it left me feeling warm and fuzzy and hopeful.

But things have changed, my friends. Things have changed, and now…well, now I’m just kind of annoyed. Because I was lied to.

I was lied tobigtime.

The baby in that book never cried. Not once. That new mom never so much as mentioned a poopy diaper. Heck, when her too-perfect boyfriend took both her and the baby on a picnic,she didn’t even bring the diaper bag.It’s not that she forgot, either—she just decided she wouldn’t need it. What kind of absolute nonsense is that? Universal law decrees that theoneday your baby will have a major blowout is the day you don’t have diapers, wipes, or spare onesies.

Everyone knows this.Everyone.

But you know what? That baby was perfect for that picnic, and pretty much the whole book. Not to mention the mom’s body was behaving in a way no new mother’s body does. Was she losing clumps of hair every time she showered? No. Were her hormones so abysmally off-kilter that she threatened to decapitate the poor delivery guy when he knocked on the door and woke the baby? No. Did she ever have anything really embarrassing happen, like—and I’m just spitballing here, of course—having her milk come in while she was standing in the checkout line at the grocery store? Did this new mom have to fold her arms awkwardly over her chest while the pimply seventeen-year-old cashier juststared, his eyes bugging out of his head?

No. No, she did not. Perfect Book Mom never had that happen, and even if it had, Perfect Book Baby would have had the decency to sleep through the whole incident rather than start his own chorus of cries, making the situation much, much worse.

Because did you know that a crying baby can cause a breastfeeding mother’s milk to come in? It can, and it does, and it is not ideal for those days when you forget to wear nursing pads.

So, I quit. No more romance novels about new moms for me. No more books about women who, at two weeks postpartum, are already “quivering with desire” when a man gives them sexy eyes. There will be no postpartum quivering for this new mom—not from anything other than sheer exhaustion, anyway—and all those book boyfriends can just take their sexy eyes and shove them where the sun don’t shine.

Because sexy eyes are what landed me in this situation in the first place. Sexy eyes and sweet nothings and the complete failure to acknowledge red flags—red flags that were really more like red banners waving in the wind, or maybe like those red blanket things matadors use to get bulls to charge.

I sigh, shaking my head at my own stupidity. These days my feelings about my past are complicated, frequently resulting in headaches, and sometimes it’s easier to just not think about it.

Because as I look down at the tiny ball of chub fast asleep in my arms…well, I know, red flags aside, that I wouldn’t change a single thing. Sure, my relationship with my ex, Chet, was unhealthy. He was an iffy boyfriend and a downright bad fiancé, and breaking things off was the right thing to do. I don’t doubt that for a second. But all that aside, I still can’t bring myself to regret him.

Because Chet brought me Archer, and Archer isperfect.

I mean, he cries a lot. Like, alot. He doesn’t believe in sleeping at night. He wreaked absolute havoc on my poor body. But…he’s still perfection. Fifteen pounds of thigh rolls and squishy lips and dimples where his knuckles are supposed to be. A full head of dark, fluffy hair, which I’m pretty sure is because he’s one-quarter Filipino. My hair was the same way.

It’s cuter on Archer, though. Everything is cuter on him. He’s gorgeous, and I spend possibly abnormal amounts of time just staring at him.

My phone dings from the changing table next to me, and I wince at the sound. Craning my neck, I see that it’s a text from my cousin Carter, but I can’t see what it says. I give the phone a glare for good measure, because if that notification wakes Archer, I’m not going to be happy.

He doesn’t stir, though.

The midday sun filters through his window, finding the edges of the blackout curtains and seeping in. Archer is tiny in my arms, and for a moment I just marvel at the way my female body is formed—marvel at the way the crook of my elbow lines up perfectly with my breasts, so that he has a place to rest his head while I feed him. Everything perfect in its place, everything just so.

So unlike my life.

I lean closer, pressing a kiss to his tiny little forehead, and then I stand up. I move so slowly you’d think I’m crossing a minefield, but it works; he stays asleep. I deposit him gently in his crib for a nap—because he won’t stay awake during the day and then he parties all night—and grab my phone, then tiptoe back out of his room, closing the door behind me. Then—moment of truth—I press my ear to the door and listen.

And listen.

And listen…

And…score!I resist the urge to punch the air in victory. Nothing but silence and little baby snores comes from the room—I’m home free.

My steps are light as I retreat down the hallway before descending the stairs and emerging into the bold, modern kitchen. It’s taken a while to get used to this apartment, because everything is soshiny, so sterile and sleek. My parents’ house, the house I lived in until seven months ago, was cozy and warm. I miss it like crazy. Although my cousin Carter is renting it from me now so I don’t have to sell, and I know he’s taking good care of it while I’m living here.

Remembering Carter, I pull up his text to see what it says.

---