More Muffia (The Muffia Book 2) by Ann Royal Nicholas Page A

saying. “Or somebody growing sustainable aquaculture? That would be sort of cool.”
    “If I had to choose, I’d take the entrepreneur cultivating superior quality weed in Mendocino. Weed might just save America. That’s not my line, by the way. I read it on The Daily Beast .”
    “The product is appealing, but Mendocino is geographically undesirable,” replied Vicki.
    “Let me look.” I typed Dateafarmer into the search bar. I still couldn’t envision myself with a farmer, but maybe if I saw some pictures.
    “See the hottie in the overalls with no shirt? He raises organic chickens.”
    Mmmmm, I sure did see him—Calvin—handsome, ruddy face, windswept sun-bleached hair, adorable crow’s feet at the corners of his blue eyes. “Good looking,” I agreed. “But why do I suddenly feel like a character in The Grapes of Wrath ?”
    “One wouldn’t think you’d be such a snob, growing up in Fresno.”
    “Guess you can take the farm out of the girl, huh? Besides, my dad was an accountant.”
    “I could see myself with a salt-o’-the-earth type like Calvin,” she said. “A strong man with big hands able to help us survive the coming apocalypse.”
    “If there’s an apocalypse, no one is going to survive,” I pointed out, “big hands or not—that’s why it’s called an apocalypse.”
    “Don’t tell Kiki. She’s working on the Brownie points so as to be saved.”
    I continued clicking around Dateafarmer , and the presentation was pretty slick—the definition of “farmer,” rather generous— kind of like calling Kim Kardashian an “artist.”
    “I think they’re using the word farmer as a metaphor of some kind,” I suggested. “Beaver mining, for example. Or digging for orgasms.”
    “Such a skeptic.” Vicki laughed, not taking the bait as Jelicka would have, which is another reason I’d chosen her to talk this through with in the first place. She was a far more serious sort—not one to encourage my cynicism, which only seems to be getting worse despite my commitment to becoming a better person.
    Sure, my ankle hurt, and I was suffering from jet lag, but why was it so hard to be less cynical? The brief reprieve I experienced after reading The Glass Castle was now Gone Girl —which happened to be another Muff read, only slightly less enjoyable.
    Clearly, working on eliminating my snarky attitude was getting the same amount of focused energy I would be devoting to those Lumosity exercises Jel told me about—which is to say, none . I was quickly transitioning to being a snark with no memory. Then I realized that maybe my memory was the cause of my snarkiness. If I had no memory, there’d be nothing to snark about! Suddenly, not having a memory seemed very appealing.
    “We need to just choose a site and commit,” said Vicki. “Every person I know who’s dated online says that commitment is the most important part; which site you choose is beside the point. You have to get in there, read the profiles, have the conversations, go on the bad dates and kiss the frogs. But if you stick with it, you’ll ultimately be rewarded.”
    “How long ’til ultimately ?—I mean, best case—if you could hazard a guess.”
    “ Quinn .” She didn’t need to say another thing. The reprimand was built in.
    “All right,” I acquiesced.
    “This is going to be fun.”
    Fun? Unlikely. The whole enterprise sounded like work. Being lazy and back in bed with my married boyfriend seemed like the much easier—albeit worse—choice.
    “I better go,” I said abruptly, looking at the clock. “She-who-shall-not-be-questioned could walk out of her office with her new girlfriend at any second, and it’s almost time for me to call Moscow. Get this—they want Joseph Gordon Levitt to do a commercial for Kentucky Fried Chicken.”
    “Will he do it?”
    “No way. My job is to get them to consider other Joseph Gordon Levitts who sorta look like him.”
    “Sounds like fraud.”
    “You have no idea. It’s wrong