Free Miracle at the Museum of Broken Hearts by Talli Roland Page A
Authors: Talli Roland
NOVEL.
Miracle at the Museum of Broken Hearts © Talli Roland 2011
E-edition published worldwide 2011
© Talli Roland
All rights reserved in all media. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical (including but not limited to: the Internet, photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system), without prior permission in writing from the author and/or publisher.
The moral right of Talli Roland as the author of the work
has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Cover design by Notting Hill Press In-house.
All characters and events featured in this book are entirely fictional and any resemblance to any person, organisation, place or thing living or dead, or event or place, is purely coincidental and completely unintentional.
ALSO BY TALLI ROLAND
Build A Man
Chosen as a Top 15 Pick of 2011 by Chick Lit News and Reviews
Nominated as a Top 10 Book of 2011 by Trashionista
The Hating Game
Shortlisted for Best Romantic Read at the UK’s Festival of Romance
Chosen as a Top 10 book of 2010 by Trashionista
Watching Willow Watts
A Top 100 Amazon Customer Favourite for 2011
Selected as a Favourite Romantic Read by Romantic Fiction Online
Nominated as a Top 10 Book of 2011 by Trashionista
BUILD A MAN
CHAPTER ONE
If I see another set of boobs, I’m going to lose it.
Wrinkled or saggy, those insanely pert fake ones, I don’t care – I’m sick of the sight of them. In my six months as receptionist here, I’ve seen more booty than Russell Brand . . . or maybe even that old Playboy man with the mansion. And that’s just in the waiting room! What is it about cosmetic surgery clinics that makes women think it’s okay to show off body parts normally buttoned under prim little cardigans or swathed in silk scarves?
Even as I think it, old Mrs Lipenstein is lifting her shirt and flashing another patient I call Lizard Lady (she looks like she’s moulting), who makes admiring noises then reaches out and–
Oh God. I grimace and glance away before contact is made. As posh as this seating area is – all leather chairs and low lighting designed to make even shrivelled Lizard Lady look youthful – it should come with an X-rating.
“ Mrs Lipenstein?” Peter strides into the room, and Mrs Lipenstein's face tries its best to smile. Which, in its current Botoxed state, means the corners lift a fraction of an inch.
“ What do you think, Doctor?” she asks as she swivels in his direction, practically knocking him off his feet with her chest. “They’ve come out nicely, haven’t they?”
Peter nods, his face carefully neutral. Honestly, I don’t know how he does it when he has women shoving their tits in his face day and night. And not just tits – he’s worked on butts and he’s even performed vaginoplasties, which are . . . well, you don’t really want to know, believe me. I’ve always wondered what doctors are thinking when they’re faced with people’s nether-regions. I know what I’d be thinking: gross .
It should bother me, having my boyfriend examine other women’s goods on a regular basis, right? But somehow, it doesn’t. Peter’s so respectable, so responsible. I can’t imagine him going behind my back with someone, let alone a patient.
Mrs Lipenstein trots down the hall behind Peter and the door to the consulting room closes. With Lizard Lady’s perfectly sculpted nose jammed in a magazine, I grab the opportunity to creep into the bathroom – loo, whatever. Collapsing on the toilet seat, I jab a limp strand of sandy hair back into my ponytail and slip off my high heels.
God, it’s tiring, this receptionist gig. It’s not the actual work so much, but having to be nice to snooty women who treat me like a piece of fat squished out of their thigh is beyond draining. The job was only supposed to be for a month or two,
Miracle at the Museum of Broken Hearts © Talli Roland 2011
E-edition published worldwide 2011
© Talli Roland
All rights reserved in all media. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical (including but not limited to: the Internet, photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system), without prior permission in writing from the author and/or publisher.
The moral right of Talli Roland as the author of the work
has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Cover design by Notting Hill Press In-house.
All characters and events featured in this book are entirely fictional and any resemblance to any person, organisation, place or thing living or dead, or event or place, is purely coincidental and completely unintentional.
ALSO BY TALLI ROLAND
Build A Man
Chosen as a Top 15 Pick of 2011 by Chick Lit News and Reviews
Nominated as a Top 10 Book of 2011 by Trashionista
The Hating Game
Shortlisted for Best Romantic Read at the UK’s Festival of Romance
Chosen as a Top 10 book of 2010 by Trashionista
Watching Willow Watts
A Top 100 Amazon Customer Favourite for 2011
Selected as a Favourite Romantic Read by Romantic Fiction Online
Nominated as a Top 10 Book of 2011 by Trashionista
BUILD A MAN
CHAPTER ONE
If I see another set of boobs, I’m going to lose it.
Wrinkled or saggy, those insanely pert fake ones, I don’t care – I’m sick of the sight of them. In my six months as receptionist here, I’ve seen more booty than Russell Brand . . . or maybe even that old Playboy man with the mansion. And that’s just in the waiting room! What is it about cosmetic surgery clinics that makes women think it’s okay to show off body parts normally buttoned under prim little cardigans or swathed in silk scarves?
Even as I think it, old Mrs Lipenstein is lifting her shirt and flashing another patient I call Lizard Lady (she looks like she’s moulting), who makes admiring noises then reaches out and–
Oh God. I grimace and glance away before contact is made. As posh as this seating area is – all leather chairs and low lighting designed to make even shrivelled Lizard Lady look youthful – it should come with an X-rating.
“ Mrs Lipenstein?” Peter strides into the room, and Mrs Lipenstein's face tries its best to smile. Which, in its current Botoxed state, means the corners lift a fraction of an inch.
“ What do you think, Doctor?” she asks as she swivels in his direction, practically knocking him off his feet with her chest. “They’ve come out nicely, haven’t they?”
Peter nods, his face carefully neutral. Honestly, I don’t know how he does it when he has women shoving their tits in his face day and night. And not just tits – he’s worked on butts and he’s even performed vaginoplasties, which are . . . well, you don’t really want to know, believe me. I’ve always wondered what doctors are thinking when they’re faced with people’s nether-regions. I know what I’d be thinking: gross .
It should bother me, having my boyfriend examine other women’s goods on a regular basis, right? But somehow, it doesn’t. Peter’s so respectable, so responsible. I can’t imagine him going behind my back with someone, let alone a patient.
Mrs Lipenstein trots down the hall behind Peter and the door to the consulting room closes. With Lizard Lady’s perfectly sculpted nose jammed in a magazine, I grab the opportunity to creep into the bathroom – loo, whatever. Collapsing on the toilet seat, I jab a limp strand of sandy hair back into my ponytail and slip off my high heels.
God, it’s tiring, this receptionist gig. It’s not the actual work so much, but having to be nice to snooty women who treat me like a piece of fat squished out of their thigh is beyond draining. The job was only supposed to be for a month or two,
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