Rules of Lying (Jane Dough Series) by Stephie Smith

there was no way I could really marry a guy in exchange for his help in saving my property. I didn’t want to be rescued by a man.
    That was why I’d said no to Bryan. I hadn’t exactly understood at the time, nor later when I called Sue to tell her about the day’s surprising events and she was beyond astonished that I’d turned Bryan down. I could have gone out with him and maybe he’d have really liked me. Maybe he’d have offered to pay someone to fix up my property, thus solving all my problems. And that was what I was afraid of, Prince Charming to the rescue, which would only prove I couldn’t take care of myself. That was what my mother and sisters had been saying all along.
    I’d grown up believing in Prince Charming. Really. It seemed ridiculous but I had. I knew that one day my prince would come and whisk me away to my wonderful life, and I had planned on biding my time until he appeared.
    I was almost thirty before I realized no one was coming. I actually thought he had come, but Pete turned out to be a lying, selfish, self-centered son of a bitch who was only pretending to be Prince Charming for a few years until he started to worry about his age and his future and found a barely-old-enough-to-order-a-drink girlfriend who had no expectations of him, who made him feel like the rock superstar he never quite became, while he managed to steal most of the stuff I had purchased for our apartment.
    I would never be that kind of fool again. I’d finally grown up, and I knew now that no one was responsible for my happiness but me. There was no such thing as Prince Charming, and if there were, he wouldn’t be Bryan Rossi, who was probably a spoiled rich boy accustomed to getting what he wanted.
    I mourned the loss of my childhood dream, and then I let it go. I didn’t even want Prince Charming anymore. I only wanted a place to call my home, and I’d found it in this little two-acre piece of property. And no one was going to take it away from me now.

Chapter 8
    I was mentally exhausted when I got home from work. Not because of the actual tasks I’d done but because my boss force-fed me snippet after snippet of purple prose and waited in eager anticipation for my response. What are you supposed to do when the guy signing your paycheck asks for your opinion of his writing? Respond with jubilant admiration, of course.
    All that praise got to be wearing on me, but it seemed to have an opposite effect on my boss. His everyday conversation took on a new life. A difficult, long-term project twisted and turned through tumultuous times, an obstinate customer became a recalcitrant rogue. By the end of the day my jaw ached from the fake smiles and forced laughs.
    When I got home I was too depressed to eat dinner. What I really wanted to do was lie around and read a good book, but I didn’t feel up to battling guilt. I also didn’t feel like tramping around in the brush, so I decided to take care of a flooding problem.
    A few months earlier, a heavy rain had come this close to flooding into my house at the eastern end of my patio, where sliding glass doors sat a quarter inch lower than the French doors I’d installed at the opposite end. I was lucky the rain subsided when it did, but I knew it was just a matter of time before my luck ran out. Since the tropical season was upon us, I figured the problem was something I should take care of. Adding those flexible, accordion-like extensions to the downspouts in order to lead the water away from the patio would fix the problem until I could afford to have grading done by a professional.
    The minute I started on the project, I had the creepy feeling I was being watched. I was wearing sunglasses and a big floppy sun hat, so I was able to look around nonchalantly, without being obvious. I didn’t see anything or anyone, but because the creepy feeling stayed with me, I shoved extensions together, rammed them onto the downspouts, used a motorized screwdriver and self-threading