{"id":258797,"date":"2026-07-13T16:30:45","date_gmt":"2026-07-13T13:30:45","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/1kitap1.com\/en\/dont-mess-with-love-mr-perfect-anna-pollack\/"},"modified":"2026-07-13T16:30:45","modified_gmt":"2026-07-13T13:30:45","slug":"dont-mess-with-love-mr-perfect-anna-pollack","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/1kitap1.com\/en\/dont-mess-with-love-mr-perfect-anna-pollack\/","title":{"rendered":"Dont Mess With Love Mr Perfect – Anna Pollack"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Consider it an investment in your future career.” “Alex, that’s ridiculous. Some of those dresses cost more than\u2014” “Than what I spend on a single tie?” I suggest. “Diana, I meant what I said. Everything is on me. You’re not returning a single thing. Besides, Gus will be personally offended if you return his carefully curated selections.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Okay,” she finally concedes. “But for the record, this feels excessive.” “Noted and ignored,” I say.<\/p>\n

“Now tell me about the shopping. How was it? Did Gus treat you well?” Her entire face transforms again, lighting up with genuine excitement. “He was wonderful! And Marge, oh my God, Alex, you should have seen her. She showed up looking like she’d just stepped out of some vintage fashion magazine, giving orders to everyone, knowing exactly what I needed before I even knew I needed it.” I lean back against my headboard, watching her talk with animated hand gestures, clearly relieved that the shopping went well.<\/p>\n

“She sounds like a force of nature,” I observe. “She really is,” Diana agrees. “I always thought she was just this fun- loving, slightly chaotic free spirit who doesn’t care about appearances, but today she was so sophisticated and knowledgeable. It was like seeing a completely different side of her.” “I’m glad you had someone with you,” I say. “Shopping alone can be intimidating, especially somewhere like Sinclair & Monroe.” “Definitely,” she agrees, then her expression becomes more thoughtful.<\/p>\n

“But enough about shopping. Can I ask you a question?” “Of course.” “Tell me more about your family,” she says, settling into what looks like her bed, grabbing what I assume is knitting needles, and propping her phone up so I can see her better. “Not the intimidating parts you already told me. Something else. Something memorable about each of them.” I’m caught off guard by the question. “Memorable how?” “I don’t know,” she says, staring at the camera while her hands turn colourful yarn into a perfect fabric.<\/p>\n

“Just… something that makes them human. A good memory, or a quirky habit, or something that makes them more than just ‘wealthy judgmental relatives.’ I want to see them in a different way.” No one has ever asked me that before. People ask about my family’s business connections, their social standing, their wealth, their influence.<\/p>\n

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21. Epilogue – Margaret 22. From the Author 23. More from Anna Pollack OceanofPDF.com I Chapter One Diana n Honeycomb, Illinois (population 350 on a good census day), the biggest scandal of the year was when Mrs. Patterson\u2019s rooster attacked the mailman. The rooster won. The mailman needed stitches. There were casseroles. In Chicago, scandals look a little different. They involve glass buildings, people who don\u2019t say please, and obscenely expensive cappuccinos. And unfortunately for me, I\u2019m about to become one because I made a very small mistake that mattered far more to someone else than it ever should have.<\/p>\n

But I\u2019m getting a little ahead of myself. Let me start with the burnt toast. Because everything in my life lately seems to start with something on fire. *** \u201cMarge, are you burning down the kitchen again?” I call out from my bedroom, dabbing concealer under my eyes in a losing battle against exhaustion that laughs at makeup and whispers, Nice try, sweetheart.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s artisanal toast, dear!\u201d Marge\u2019s voice floats through the doorway, cheerful as ever. \u201cAdds character.\u201d When I finally get to the kitchen, I find my seventy-eight-year-old landlady standing at the stove in a purple velour tracksuit and fuzzy slippers shaped like cats. The slippers have little whiskers.<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t know why. I don\u2019t ask. A haze of smoke hangs in the air, and she\u2019s waving a spatula at the smoke detector like she\u2019s conducting a dramatic symphony titled Oops, Still Alive. Somehow, despite the chaos, there\u2019s a perfectly plated breakfast waiting for me at the tiny kitchen table. \u201cYou know I can make my own breakfast, right?\u201d I slide into the chair anyway because arguing with Marge is like arguing with a tornado. You might feel heard for a second, but you will still lose your roof.<\/p>\n

\u201cNonsense. You work two jobs. I have nothing but time and stories.\u201d She sets down a plate of eggs that are surprisingly not burnt, then plops into the seat across from me. \u201cNow, where was I yesterday? Oh yes. Nineteen eighty-seven. The tango instructor with the lazy eye and the incredible\u2014\u201d \u201cMarge!\u201d I nearly choke on my orange juice, which would be a very undignified way to go. \u201cWhat? I was going to say footwork.\u201d Her eyes sparkle with mischief. \u201cGet your mind out of the gutter, Diana Marie.\u201d I shovel eggs into my mouth to hide my smile.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow does someone with a lazy eye become a tango instructor anyway?<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.<\/em><\/p>\n

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