Not My Type: an enemies-to-lovers romcom

By Anna Zarlenga

Sara and Teo couldn't be more different. She's a university researcher and hopelessly in love with an oblivious professor. He's the attractive heir to a fortune, and used to getting whatever he wants. When they bump into each other at a wedding, the only thing they can agree on is their total lack of interest in marriage – and each other.

So when Teo turns up at Sara's university as a mature student, she's stunned – not to mention horrified! But then he offers her a win-win deal. If she helps him pass the year, he'll help her win her professor's heart. What could go wrong? After all, they're in no danger of falling for each other...

For fans of Pernille Hughes and Jo Watson, this is THE enemies-to-lovers romance you need to read this year!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Jul 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781838932947

Anna Zarlenga

Anna Zarlenga was born in Naples in 1979 and has a degree in modern literature. Full-time teacher, mother, blogger and reader, she began writing a bit for fun, and from that moment on she's never stopped.

Book preview

NOT MY TYPE

Anna Zarlenga

AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS

www.ariafiction.com

First published in the United Kingdom in 2019 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

Copyright © Anna Zarlenga, 2019

The moral right of Anna Zarlenga to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781838932947

Cover design © Cherie Chapman

Aria

c/o Head of Zeus

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5–8 Hardwick Street

London EC1R 4RG

www.ariafiction.com

Contents

Welcome Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2: Sara

Chapter 3: Teo

Chapter 4: Sara

Chapter 5: Teo

Chapter 6: Sara

Chapter 7: Teo

Chapter 8: Sara

Chapter 9: Teo

Chapter 10: Sara

Chapter 11: Teo

Chapter 12: Sara

Chapter 13: Teo

Chapter 14: Sara

Chapter 15: Teo

Chapter 16: Sara

Chapter 17: Teo

Chapter 18: Sara

Chapter 19: Teo

Chapter 20: Sara

Chapter 21: Teo

Chapter 22: Sara

Chapter 23: Teo

Chapter 24: Sara

Chapter 25: Teo

Chapter 26: Sara

Chapter 27: Teo

Chapter 28: Sara

Chapter 29: Teo

Epilogue: Sara

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Become an Aria Addict

To Dad.

1

I hate weddings.

I hate them like a vegan hates a steak. I’m not vegan myself – show me a salad and I’ll run like there’s a pitbull at my heels – but the comparison is apt.

I hate weddings.

I’m only here because my best friend is getting married and, well, I couldn’t miss this opportunity to wind him up a bit!

I’m dressed in black. Black trousers, black jacket, black tie, black sunglasses. I look like an undertaker, which is exactly what I was going for. I’m here to offer condolences, not congratulations.

I sit in my church pew, pretending not to notice the dirty looks I’m getting from the other guests. I look so sinister that one of them makes devil horns behind my back. He thinks I’m not looking, but I see everything. Behind my dark glasses, I’m taking in every detail of this stupid farce.

What drives a man to choose monogamy? I couldn’t tell you. The very idea seems ridiculous to me. Let one woman torment me for the rest of my life? What’s in it for me?

I know I’m right. Besides, I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong with my life. I am the perfect example of a happy man and I am proud of it – very proud of it. A sudden nudge tears me away from my idle musings. Did I fall asleep?

‘Teo, try and behave yourself, just for one day!’ Matteo, the groom’s cousin, tells me.

I yawn in his face without bothering to cover my mouth. ‘This ceremony is torture! I think I might hide in the confessional and take a nap.’

‘I’d say you started napping a while ago,’ he says. Prissy people – another thing I hate.

The sound of applause startles me. Finally, we’ve reached the money shot.

‘What God has joined together, let no man put asunder,’ the priest drones in a stentorian voice.

But if a woman puts asunder what God has joined, apparently that’s fine.

My sarcastic observation inevitably leads me into gloomier thoughts: I can’t bear to have lost my crazy, hard-drinking wingman. Now who am I going to pick up bimbos on a Saturday night with? It won’t be the same without him.

The ceremonial torment finally comes to an end. Now the rice is waiting for us.

‘Grab a handful!’ cries a fat woman, probably a relative of the bride, with embarrassing red hair. In her hands she has a basket full of paper cones resting on a bed of rice confetti.

‘Can I take some sugared almonds too?’ I ask huskily, turning on the charm.

The big woman smiles and winks at me. I shudder, but I don’t change my expression.

‘Help yourself, sweetheart. Just be careful where you throw it.’

‘Oh, I’ll be careful,’ I think, seized by a sudden and uncontrollable urge to play target practice with the heads of the bride and groom. Who knows, perhaps a knock on the head will bring him to his senses.

As soon as the idea has taken shape in my mind, prepare myself for the launch as if I were a baseball player. The deadly, sugar-coated bullet makes an impressive flight, so impressive that it misses the newlyweds completely and continues on its trajectory, disappearing over their heads.

A distinct ‘Ouch!’ is heard in the distance, and I duck behind a cloud of hair belonging to someone who seems to have been trying to create a haven for pigeons on their head.

‘What reckless idiot throws confetti like that?’ I hear someone exclaim. Chuckling, I stay hidden behind the human hedge. No-one will find me here.

‘Teo!’ A familiar voice seeks me out everywhere, and suddenly my friend Silvio, the condemned, advances towards me wearing a belligerent expression. I look around for an escape route, but I am stuck in the human tide of guests.

‘I warned you, Teo. No bullshit on my wedding day!’

I come out with my hands up and what I hope is a suitably disarming smile. ‘Come on, Silvio! I didn’t do it on purpose!’

He glares at me. ‘I should have known! First you snore like a trombone during the ceremony …’

‘Me?’

‘Yes you! The vibrations almost brought the walls down around our ears. You were worse than the organ! Then you try and kill everyone with confetti, and on top of everything, you’re dressed as though you were at a funeral!’

I take off my sunglasses and give him a pat on the shoulder. ‘Relax. I told you I didn’t do it on purpose. As for my clothing… I can’t think of anything more suitable. I’m mourning the loss of a friend.’

‘I really don’t know what goes on in that head of yours. Today is a day of celebration! ‘

‘For you, perhaps,’ I say with a shrug. I don’t particularly want to be having this conversation.

Silvio doesn’t press the issue, mainly because he is claimed by the other guests, who are all desperate to cover him with kisses and to paw at the bride as though she were a holy relic, capable of bestowing miracles. I can see all the spinsters, already eyeing the bouquet. How pathetic!

A finger taps my shoulder. I turn around, but see no-one in front of me. What the…? Then I realise I have to look down. A long way down. Below my field of vision stands the woman who just poked me – quite hard, I thought – in the shoulder blades.

She brandishes a candied almond like a weapon of war.

‘You could have blinded me with this thing!’ she exclaims angrily.

I look her over. Blonde, but that’s the only thing in her favour: for the rest, besides being short, she’s on the chubby side, with a fairly unremarkable face. Anyway, she’s wearing glasses and… hang on, what’s that?

I notice that the right lens is cracked, giving her a slightly nerdy appearance.

‘Do you always walk around in such shabby glasses?’ I observe with disgust. If there is one thing I can’t stand in a girl it’s sloppiness. I just don’t like badly groomed women. Not that she’s my type. She doesn’t even come close to my type.

‘Are you a comedian, too? It was you that broke my glasses!’

I try to keep a serious expression, but I’m finding it hard not to laugh in her face.

‘Perhaps you think I’m a magician? How could I have broken your glasses without even touching them?’

‘With a this candied bloody almond, that’s how!’

The girl has become quite red, which makes her appearance even more unpleasant. I give her my best roguish grin. A few crumbs, even for her. I’m feeling generous today.

‘I’m sorry, you must be mistaken.’

‘Oh no, I’m not!’

‘Well, I say you are!’ I blurt out. This conversation is getting boring. I don’t talk to plain women. In fact, I don’t talk to women at all. I just let them talk, or rather, I let them tell their life story while I zone out. I am a natural talent at this.

‘Hey, you,’ continues the tiny woman, pushing me round to face her.

I roll my eyes. What have I done to deserve this punishment? I can’t possibly have done anything that bad.

A peal of thunder in the distance seems to suggest otherwise. Even the sky is against me today…

‘What do you want?’

I do not hide my condescending tone. I have already wasted too much time with this… this …angry hobbit.

‘A civilized person would apologize and offer to repair the damage.’

I barely hold back a laugh. ‘Well, no-one’s ever accused me of being civilized before, doll.’

Doll? God, that’s a stretch. Ragdoll, maybe.

‘Doll? Doll?’ she hisses. She seems almost offended.

‘It was a compliment,’ I point out.

Wow. She really is offended. Who would have thought?

‘Chauvinist pig!’

Not the worst thing I’ve been called. It doesn’t bother me what she thinks anyway.

‘I can live with that,’ I conclude, turning away.

That was all I needed!

I’m celebrating the day my best friend loses his freedom, which is already a contradiction. Not only do I have to pretend to enjoy myself, I must also tolerate the proximity of unlikely specimens of female.

That blonde is really scary. Better put as much distance as possible between me and her. I hope she’s not one of those women who go to weddings to hunt for a husband.

No easy prey here, sweetheart. You’re really not my type.

2

Sara

I hate weddings.

If this one wasn’t my sister’s, I would have pulled a sickie. But instead, here I am, asking myself for the millionth time what on earth could have made her agree to it.

I really don’t understand the point of these ceremonies.

I know, I know, I should be happy for my sister, but let’s be honest – is she really going to live happily ever after with a man who until recently was known to all and sundry as a notorious womanizer? Should we put our faith in fairy tales and hope that the love of a good woman has magically changed him for the better?

I’m sorry but I don’t buy it. As far as I’m concerned this is a terrible day.

I sigh with resignation, during the exchange of the rings, while my mother and various aunts and cousins dissolve into floods of tears. That’s the ridiculous logic of weddings: spend a fortune at the beautician’s and then ruin it all crying.

In Naples, so they say, weddings bring out the best in people. And it’s true, in a way. The whole thing is a competition to see who can be the most original, the most sumptuous… the most… ridiculous.

And that’s it, really. I can’t think of a more suitable word. And I’ve heard more than enough words wasted on this wedding, so I know what I’m talking about. I’ve spent months listening to my sister describing everything in minute detail: the dress, the photographer, the invitations, the floral arrangements, the reception, and on and on. I like to think I’m a pretty tolerant person and, of course, I want to be nice to my sister, but I swear there have been a few moments that have really put my patience to the test.

‘How can you not be moved?’ sighs my cousin Rita, sitting next to me in the church. ‘It’s so romantic!’

‘I can’t see what’s so romantic about a crowd of people crowded together inside one little church, sweating like pigs because it’s the middle of July.’

‘You’re only saying that because you don’t have a boyfriend!’

‘That’s why she’s always so grumpy,’ adds Simona, another of our cousins.

My God, what have I done to deserve this?

‘Quiet! They’re starting!’ snaps my mother, going into full Terminator mode: nothing and no one must be allowed to ruin this day.

I close my mouth, determined to keep my temper. Who knows, perhaps my simmering resentment will help me work up an appetite for the buffet? If I have to sit through this, at least I get to fill my belly with crap afterwards.

But there is one thing that is bothering even me, who would rather be almost anywhere else than here right now: echoing around the elegant vaults of the basilica is a sound that is anything but elegant: it seems that someone has outdone me in the boredom stakes, and has actually fallen asleep.

Is snoring, even.

The rumbling, sucking noise is unmistakable. My mother pretends nothing is happening, but it’s difficult to ignore. More than one person turns round to try and locate the source of the disturbance.

I follow the trajectory of the sound and have to smother a laugh at the sight of guilty party: it is a man, apparently in his thirties or perhaps a little older, with dark hair. He is dressed entirely in black and is wearing sunglasses. In church. Perhaps he was planning to have a snooze all along, and kept them on so no one would see his eyes were closed. What a shame his adenoids gave him away so enthusiastically.

If I had to guess, I’d say it was one of the groom’s drinking buddies.

Some friend! If it were me, I’d be furious, but hey, it’s not my wedding!

I turn away and stop paying attention: he’s just another stupid, immature man. Not my problem.

By divine grace the sermon is finally over, and it’s time to sign the registers. I try to escape into the fresh air, but my mother grips my arm: she is determined that everyone should be fully involved in every second of the proceedings, me included. And I had almost made it outside into the sunshine!

Instead, I find myself wedged inside the bosom of Aunt Filomena, who has decided to vent her happiness by treating me as her own personal teddy bear.

‘My beautiful niece! My beautiful niece is married! I pray every day that this day will come for you too!’ she gushes, totally unembarrassed.

‘Save the prayers for your own daughters, Aunty,’ I mutter, trying to break free.

‘Oh, they don’t need prayers, silly!’ she says, seemingly implying but you, on the other hand…

What can I say? My relatives have the tact of a bull in a china shop.

I know exactly what she is thinking. I’m the unlucky niece. The one who is still not married. The one who is at her younger sister’s wedding without a boyfriend. Everyone in my family considers my condition a real tragedy.

I hate them all feeling sorry for me as if I was some sort of victim. I’ve got everything under control! Well, most of the time, at least.

How much longer do I have to endure their pitying looks? A few more hours, maybe?

‘Grit your teeth, Sara, and think of the buffet.’ I repeat the mantra to myself as I walk over to congratulate my sister.

Sonia is a picture of happiness: every inch the radiant and beautiful bride. She inherited my share of the family’s height, while I ended up with a double portion of curves and hips, but that’s another story.

She hugs me affectionately, but I can tell she only has eyes for her new husband, who for his part seems reluctant to leave her side for long, so I don’t hang around. No-one likes being a third wheel.

We head towards the exit and I position myself behind the bride and groom, but realise almost immediately I’ve made a terrible mistake: the other guests are all lined up like snipers outside, armed with handfuls of rice. If there is one thing I hate more than anything it’s rice. It gets everywhere: in your clothes, in your hair, even in your underwear.

My irritation turns to pure terror a moment later when I realize that in addition to rice, the guests also seem to be throwing sugared almonds!

I know I said people like to compete to see who can have the most original wedding, but killing each other with airborne confectionery seems a bit much.

The thought has scarcely entered my mind when I see a sugary projectile sailing straight towards my face. I put my hands up to protect myself, but too late: the candy hits its mark with a sickening crunch, ending its journey embedded in my glasses. My new glasses, to be precise.

‘Teo!’ Shouts the bridegroom, descending like a fury on the man in black, the one who accompanied the church organ with his snoring in C minor. Is he the culprit?

I take off my glasses and squint. I basically have two choices: spend the rest of the evening groping my way along the walls to keep from falling over, or put them back on and resign myself to looking ridiculous. I put the glasses back on for now, and decide to confront Sleeping Beauty. This was premeditated, I’d bet my good lens on it!

However, my attempt to talk to him does not exactly go as planned: I didn’t expect much, to be honest, but he looks at me like a I were fly or a mosquito, buzzing around in front of his face.

My anger reaches boiling point as he unashamedly looks me up and down, like he was going to write a review or something! And from his expression, it’s pretty clear that I’d only be getting one star. Like he’s anything to write home about!

Well, oh, God… he is kind of attractive though, with his dark hair and blue eyes. And his lean, graceful body and strong, tanned arms… Cynical and jaded I may be, but I know a good-looking guy when I see one, even if I have got only one eye working at the moment. He does me the honour of taking off his fancy sunglasses and is looking at me with undisguised scorn. Who the hell does he think he is? It’s all very well being handsome, but he’s clearly about as a deep as a puddle in a drought. A man without consistency.

‘You’re an ignorant pig!’ I find myself laying into him.

And it’s weird, because I don’t generally pick fights with

strangers, but there’s something about this guy that brings out the worst in me.

‘I can live with that,’ he says, smirking like a naughty schoolboy, and then he turns his back on me and runs away like a pack of wolves were after him.

You piece of… of …

My brain is incapable of summoning an insult dreadful enough. But wait! Is he running away because he thinks, for some absurd reason, that I’m trying to flirt with him?

I certainly get the impression he has an over-inflated ego, but if that’s what he thinks, it must be the size of a bouncy castle! Could he really think I was