I love my boyfriend. Probably. So how can I be so tempted by someone else at the very first sign of trouble?
After all, it's not that Jonathan's not wonderful. He is. He didn't mean to cripple me by giving me shoes two sizes too small. He didn't think that I would actually wear too-small shoes to a dinner with his very bizarre boss (and I know about bizarre from working with porn stars all day). He certainly couldn't have known I would use said miniature shoes to cripple the lecherous boss to keep him from slipping me the tongue.
But what kind of guy chooses to tend to his disgusting boss's minor heel-inflicted wound instead of siding with his poor abused girlfriend? More important, what kind of girl just ignores the overtures of a gorgeous doctor who shows up and carries her - actually picks her up and carries her - away from the grabby boss, the embarrassing scene, and the vise-gripping shoes?
Not this girl. And so I go from man to man, until one day I sit down at my best friend's wedding reception and realize I've been to bed with every last man at my table. How did this happen? I'm beginning to think the worst is true: My name is Rosie, and I'm a serial dater. This is my story . . .
