It’s Not PMS, It’s You by Rich Amooi
Ruth “Ruthless” Harper is on the verge of becoming managing partner at her all-male consulting firm and she won’t let anything stand in her way. That includes men, relationships, and that dreaded F word, FEELINGS—distractions she eliminated long ago.
After the worst day ever (a near-death experience and a public wedgie, for starters), Ruth realizes she doesn’t want to live and die alone. She puts together a business plan to find the perfect man and dives head first into the murky online dating pool. All she wants is a high-powered executive who understands how important her career is. If only it were that easy.
Problem is most men are intimidated by Ruth’s confidence and shocked by her bluntness. The exception being her landscape designer, Nick, whose cool demeanor and unsolicited dating advice are driving her nuts. He’s the antithesis of the business-oriented man Ruth envisions for herself, so why do all signs keep pointing back to him?
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“Romantic Comedy of the Year!”
“This novel is a Netflix movie waiting to happen.”
“I loved every second of this book!”
“Warning: This author causes book hangovers.”
“Oh my. Be still my heart.”
“Laugh out loud of epic proportions.”
“Loved it. Still laughing.”
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RUTH
I have orchestrated multi-million dollar business deals and have butted heads with Fortune 500 CEOs and some of the biggest corporate lawyers in the country, but my biggest challenge by far was trying to remove a monster wedgie during my spinning class without the gorgeous guy behind me noticing.
Casually turning my head to the right, I checked my periphery, confident I looked like some halfwit who was thinking of changing lanes on a stationary bike.
I couldn’t tell if the man had his eyes focused on me or on the instructor in front of the class, but it didn’t matter at this point. I had real-world issues here and needed to solve the dilemma before my butt sucked all my clothes inside my body and turned me inside out.
With every revolution of my bike’s spinning wheel, the wedgie seemed determined to go deeper, like a burrowing squirrel who hadn’t found a suitable place for habitation.
I got up at five in the morning for this torture?
To make matters worse, the instructor—Manson, Mussolini, or whatever his name was—appeared to be on a mission to send us all into cardiac arrest. And don’t even get me started on the chafing from a bike seat that was obviously manufactured with materials excavated from the surface of Mars.
I needed a distraction for the extraction.
Glancing down at my water bottle in the drink holder, I came up with the perfect plan. I would wait for the instructor to get us up off our seats again for the next sprint, then drop my water bottle on the floor to create a ruckus.
If the man behind me was a gentleman—no wagers, please—he would get off his bike and get the water bottle for me, thus taking any attention away from my derrière long enough for me to perform the embarrassing and delicate wedgie-removing procedure without him seeing.
Ironically, the song changed to “Shake Your Booty” by KC and the Sunshine Band.
“Off your butts!” the instructor barked out like a psychotic sea lion with Tourette’s. “Take it up to level five for a sprint. Thirty seconds. Go! Go! Go!”
Perfect timing.
I slammed my water bottle to the floor behind me for the distraction.
It crashed against the back wall with a loud BOOM.
Never let it be said I did anything half-assed.
No pun intended.
I checked my periphery again to see if the guy fell for the trap.
Bingo.
He slowed his pedaling and glanced behind him at my bottle on the floor.
After he made a move to get off his bike, I lifted my butt off the seat, leaned forward on the handlebars, shifted all my body weight over to my left hand, and used my right hand to reach behind me and remove the mother of all wedgies.
Oh, no.
Completing the task was proving to be difficult since it was almost impossible to pedal while standing up on the bike with only one hand gripping the handlebars.
I used one finger, then two, then three, but still couldn’t dig out the wedgie that must have been halfway to China by now.
Losing confidence with every second that passed, I wobbled back and forth like the Elvis bobblehead doll on the dashboard of my dad’s 1977 Cadillac Coupe deVille.
Things were heading south in a hurry.
There was a sharp pain in my left wrist.
My elbow buckled.
Timber!
The fall to the floor was not graceful.
I banged my shoulder on the handlebars on the way down, slid off the bike sideways, and hooked my foot on top of the pedal. My other leg flew over my head and got wedged in between the bike seat and the drink holder.
Great.
Now, I had two wedgies.
Before I had a chance to untangle and upright myself, two hands gripped me from under my armpits and lifted me to my feet in one swift motion.
I looked up, dazed, confused, blinking a few times.
It was the guy who had been on the bike behind me. “Are you okay?”
There was genuine concern in his voice, but I was a big girl and could take care of myself.
Flustered, I said the first thing I could think of. “I do that all the time.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Of course.”
Rich Amooi is a Taleflick Discovery Winner, Readers' Favorite Gold Medal Recipient, Holt Medallion Finalist, and the Amazon Bestselling author of 17 romantic comedies, including It's Not PMS, It's You, Dying to Meet You, There's Something About a Cowboy, and Madam Love, Actually.
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