Home > Definitely Not Him (Single at Thirty #1)

Definitely Not Him (Single at Thirty #1)
Author: Whitney G.





Present Day (Unfortunately)




If anyone ever forced me to describe Tyler Carrington in three little words, I’d choose ‘arrogant,’ ‘obnoxious,’ and ‘devastatingly-sexy-bastard-who-needs-to-be-slapped-into-another-dimension.’ (That last term is definitely in the dictionary. Trust me.)

To be fair, the runner-up word would be ‘my-baby-daddy-whom-I-loathe,’ but that’s a story for another day…

For the past several nights, I’ve devoured countless disaster novels, hoping that one plot will become a reality and he’ll magically disappear.

Alas, it pains me to admit that no sudden earthquakes, sinkholes, or zombie outbreaks have torn him out of my life.

Even now, at this very moment, he’s standing in my office doorway, glaring at me with his gorgeous almond eyes. As much as I despise him, he can arouse me with little effort, with one spoken word from his beautiful British lips. And no matter how many times I’ve attempted to convince my heart he’s unworthy of affection, it beats a yearning rhythm whenever he’s near.

“Are you ready to finish our conversation from last night, Miss March?” He finally shatters the silence, his deep accent disarming me with ease. “Now is the time to finish whatever you started to say.”

“Sure.” I shrug. “I hate everything about you and this situation. Please go back to London.”

“That’s not the conversation I’m talking about.”

“Then maybe you’re the one who has something to say.”

“I believe the words you’re looking for are, ‘I’m done playing these sick and twisted games, and I’m coming back to your place to stay.’”

“My best friends’ couches are serving me just fine. I appreciate your kind request, though.”

“This isn’t a bloody request.” He clenches his jaw. “It’s been eight days.”


“The numbers aren’t the point,” he says. “I expect to see you in my bed tonight so we can discuss this latest problem like adults.”

“What happens when you realize I’m still not there?”

“I’ll be forced to take drastic measures to protect our soon-to-be-born child.”

“My child.”

“You didn’t make it yourself.” He smirks. “Surely you remember my part in that night, correct?”

“It was quite forgettable, now that I think about it.”

“I highly doubt you forgot five orgasms.”

It was six…

I search for something sarcastic to say, but memories from that fateful night are suddenly flooding my brain. All I can see is him owning my body with his mouth, bringing me to the edge so many times that I begged him never to stop, and pulling me close while whispering the filthiest things I’d ever heard.

“That’s what I thought.” He heads toward the door. “I’ll see you at home. Or else.”

He slams the door shut, and I pick up my cell phone.

I open the ‘What to Expect When Expecting’ app and scroll to the prior weeks of my pregnancy, back when I was still in denial.

Back when “Bring in my thirties with a bang” was a mere birthday wish, and I had no idea who “Tyler Carrington” truly was.

When I make it to ‘Week 4,’ I stare at the note I’d penned and finally accept the truth.

There are no refunds on birthdays, no exchanges on time. This man—and all of his baggage—will be a permanent passenger on the flight of my life…



This Isn’t a Normal Life






Several weeks before that so-called “fateful night”

(She loved every minute of it, by the way)



London, England



“Can you please speed it up, Dillon?” I called out to my driver. “This woman looks like she’s about to die.”

Uttering those words en route to a hospital wasn’t how I originally envisioned the end of this weekend, but it served me right for making the same mistake seven Saturdays in a row.

Desperate for a taste of “normalcy,” I slipped out of Kensington Palace and rode to a pub outside London after midnight.

My goal was to find someone who didn’t keep up with the tabloid gossip—someone who had no idea who I was so I could finally get laid—but my family’s royal stain forever reigned.

Somewhere between the third and fourth round of drinks, my fake ruse exploded as always, and the same three events occurred: One, my security forced everyone in the vicinity to sign a non-disclosure agreement. Two, I rode home to serve another week in a gilded prison—dry spell intact. Three, my inner hatred for my family rose to new heights.

This morning’s incident was utterly new, though. The woman I “met” fainted and hit her head on the bar.

“Dillon?” I called out again. “Her face is pale.”

“I’m driving as fast as I can.” He tossed me a water bottle, and I pressed it against the woman’s forehead.

“I’m not paling at all.” She slurred. “I’m in awe and quite stunned. I used to hang your childhood photos on my bedroom wall. You’re the first boy I ever touched myself to…”

“Please tell me we’re around the same age.”

“I’ve always believed that you were sexy, but you’re like, a thousand times sexier in person.”

“Thank you very much.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that you were a Carrington, though?” she asked. “I would’ve dropped to my knees and sucked the soul out of your cock.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My mum taught me everything I know about deep throat techniques. You would’ve helped me make her proud.”

I blinked.

There’s no way she just said that…

“If you’re interested, I can give you a bit.” She smiled. “All you have to do is unzip your trousers and help me move my head.”

“I’d prefer if you focused on your breathing,” I said. “You look like you’re on the verge of vomiting on my floor. Again.”

“I just knew I’d seen you somewhere before.” She wasn’t listening to me at all. “Wait. Aren’t you supposed to be proposing to a Denmark princess or something? That’s what the tabloids are saying.”

“They’re quite mistaken.”

“Then why did you tell me your name was Matthew and you worked in finance?” She sucked in a deep breath. “Why did you lie to my face and deny me my lifelong dream of screwing a royal? Why would—”

She vomited on the floor mid-sentence, leaving our conversation unfinished.

The guard across from us opened an empty bag, and I lifted her head as the car coasted through the streets.

With every kilometer, the grey and rainy city softly taunted me.

The bistros laughed that I couldn’t step inside without drawing a crowd. Traffic pointed and whispered that I could never drive someplace alone without someone waving and taking pictures of the “Pretty Playboy Prince.” The tourist shops mocked my annoyance, placing “Royal Family” books in their front windows, showing me that my life’s story wasn’t mine to chart or write. It would always be narrated by authors I’d never read, published in high-glossy paperbacks that I never approved.

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