Almost Matched (Almost Bad Boys)


An Almost Bad Boys Novella











Three Graces Publishing

Copyright © 2013 A. O. Peart

All Rights Reserved.


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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, locations, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Almost Matched

Copyright © 2013 by A. O. Peart

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used, reproduced, scanned, distributed, stored, or transmitted in whole or in part, in any form, by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying or recording without the express written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

For further information or permission please contact the author at
[email protected]

Author and publisher do not have control and do not assume responsibility for third party websites featuring this book and their content.


Artwork by Regina Wamba

Copyright © 2013 by A. O. Peart


First Edition, 2013 published in the United States of America

Three Graces Publishing.


ISBN-13: 978-0-9883695-4-2



To my family. You will always be my first priority, even though it may not seem like you are when I’m locked in my office, writing. I love you forever.






















Praise For Almost Matched

“Almost Matched has some of the best writing I've ever encountered. Every character has a distinct personality that comes to life within the pages portraying genuine-raw emotion. An attention grabbing plot from the very beginning that ends with an unexpected twist that will leave you craving more, you won't be able to read it fast enough.”

- Helena Ison, book reviewer


“I simply loved, loved this book. I could not put it down. I read it until 4AM in the morning because I had to see and find out how it ended.”

- Angela Fiducia, book reviewer


“Outrageously Funny and Surprisingly Tender

A ball of laughs with a surprising emotional core that gives weight to the story. Crisp scenes, precise writing, and memorable characters. Their friendship sounds so real! It reminds me of Sex & The City with a splash of Bridget Jones.”

- Fabio Bueno, Author of the Singularity series


“Almost Matched is a fascinating mix of human emotions, and situations and scenes that either tug on your heartstrings or make you laugh out loud, as well as darker descriptions of the emotional baggage that some of the characters are carrying. Much of the humour - which is counter-balanced by the heavy drama that emerges in the latter part of the book - reminded me of Sex In The City, without however seeming to borrow from that series or to plagiarise it.”

- Jack Fenwick, Author of This Is What We Are


It's a story that will run thru all your emotions, perfect for when you are having a rough day and need to escape for a bit.

- Kimberly, book reviewer



Table of Contents
















Bonus Material: Excerpt from Almost Broken Up

Author’s Note




“It’s choice—not chance—that determines your destiny.”

Jean Nidetch


I’m sweating like Snooki in her cardio YouTube videos. Ugh. My brand new silk top is getting drenched. I peek down at my boobs. They jump up and down with the rhythm of my feet beating the pavement. Big wet stains blossom around my low-cut neckline and down from my armpits. Crap!
! There is no way I can make it in time to the office.

Stupid car. Yesterday I left the lights on overnight like an idiot, and the battery decided to die. My alarm clock didn’t go off this morning, which was also my own damn fault. I forgot to set it before crashing in bed last night. Miraculously, I actually made it to bed, instead of collapsing on the sofa. Going out with the girls on Wednesday night had never been an issue, even if we stayed up past 1 a.m. I usually operate on four to five hours of sleep anyway. No problem. But last night really kicked my ass. And this morning isn’t shaping up any better.

I’m still mentally sore from last weekend. My so-called boyfriend, Ray, dumped me like a bad habit. My problem is not that he did, because sooner or later I would have ended it myself. He’d stood me up twice in a row. Twice! And his excuses were so lame that I suspect he is a complete moron. Well, he is, but that’s another story. So last Saturday, after I forgave him, we are finally in my apartment, having sex and all that good stuff.

When he’s done, he says to me:
I don’t want to sound like a jerk, but this
(he motions between me and him back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, as if his freaking wrist is made out of flexible rubber)
is not working for me.

Dude, what the hell? We just had sex. That’s so not cool. If you want to break up with me, do it like a civilized person
. I was fuming, but tried hard to remain calm. Not an easy thing to do when you’re naked in bed with a guy who simply used you and now walks out on you. I finally said,
Forget it. Get out.
I might have called him a name or two. Hey, he deserved it!

So my girlfriends—Caroline, Ali, and Jena—took me out to cheer me up. We couldn’t get together until Wednesday night, but that was okay. I had three full days to get most of the anger and disappointment out of me, so I wouldn’t be too bitchy when we finally went out. I only feel bad for Ali. She’s my business partner, and we work together, and so she’d been exposed to my pissy attitude for a while. But she’s a good sport. Besides, she’s got the most forget-the-world personality in the universe, so I know she can handle my state of mind.

The taxi that I took from home this morning got stuck in traffic a few blocks from my office. There was a nasty accident, blocking all the lanes. I paid the driver and got out, convinced that I would get to work faster walking than waiting for this mess to disperse. Now I’m running and sweating. Great.

I stop at the crosswalk, panting and wiping my forehead with the back of my hand. I feel like shit; look probably even worse. I glance at my watch. The meeting in the office starts in fifteen minutes. Fifteen freakin’ minutes!

“Come on, come on,” I whisper, impatiently tapping my foot and adjusting the strap of my second-hand Louis Vuitton purse over my shoulder.

My cell phone vibrates, and then jams some obnoxious heavy metal tune against my rib cage. I have to change that riff. It’s unbearable. I fish the phone out of my purse and look at the screen. It’s Ali. She hooked up with that nerdy but cute guy at Black Horned Beast bar last night. This is her day off, so why in heavens is she calling me before 8 a.m.?

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