Page 1 of Ripped & Shipped
CHAPTER1
Ella Mae
“Hellllloooo,my peeps!
It’s me, Ella Mae, coming to you live from the quaint streets of my small town, which shall remain nameless. Yes. Yes. Yes. I know. Many of you have asked me for the name of this town. And, when I have refused to satisfy your curiosity, you cleverly asked for map coordinates, or begged to at least know the county where I live.
“And I love how much you want to visit and connect. I’d honestly LOVE to hang out with you! Love. Love. Love. I mean, you’re my peeps for a reason, and this bond we share is beyond spesh.
“But let’s be serious. Stalkers are real and I need to maintain my safety. Am I right?”
I smile a winning smile into my phone and walk toward our local coffee shop, Bean There Done That. I strategically avoid filming the name while walking in the door.
“It’s time to get caffeinated!” I shout into the phone as I approach the counter.
Yes, I’m over the top. People eat it up. Of the nearly five billion individuals on the internet, only a select few make their living as influencers. It’s a competitive, cutthroat world online, and I’ve carved out my niche by being trendy, bold, and a little eccentric.
Yes, I’m all those things in real life. But I’ll be the first to admit I ramp it up for the camera. Not that I admit it out loud. A girl has her reputation to maintain. But in my heart, I know the truth.
“Hey, Madeline! Hey, Riley!”
I greet the baristas by name. That’s how it’s done around here. In Bordeaux, we’re one big, happy, dysfunctional family of two thousand five hundred. I’m basically the black sheep of the family. A black sheep in knock-off Jimmy Choos, carrying a purse that looks like a tube of lipstick, and wearing a mini skirt that shows off the hard-earned results of my daily pilates workout. Not that you’d want to see a sheep wearing all that, but you get the gist.
As popular as I am online—and trust me and my bank account, I’m popular—I’m not so loved IRL (that’sin real lifefor those of you who aren’t up on the lingo). In fact, the only townsperson less popular than me is probably Cooter Shartz.
If he’d lay off the sauce and stop passing out in his neighbor’s bushes, he’d move up the ranks in a hot minute, and I’d officially be the most disliked person in Bordeaux.
What can I say? Some people are born ahead of their time. I was born to live somewhere else—like New York, or Paris, or Milan. Maybe the French Riviera. Instead, I’ve got the muddy banks of the Mad River, and a group of people around me who mostly don’t know the internet from a fishing net.
You’re probably wondering why I never left Bordeaux. I’ve thought about it, trust me. But I do have my bestie, Meg, here. And, I’ve got my mom, who isn’t always doing so great. I’m an only child, and basically one of the only friends Mom’s got, unless you count my grams, who could probably drink Cooter under the table. Maybe she’s had a few or more with Cooter under a table or two in the past. I wouldn’t doubt it.
Mom and Dad divorced years ago, when I was five. Dad runs the hardware store. He’s one of those old-fashioned men who believed in providing for his family while the woman stayed home to raise the kids. So, even though he and Mom don’t talk, he made sure she never had to work while I lived at home so she could stay with me. But other than that kindness, he’s got nothing good to say about her and that runs both ways between them. Rumors tell me a lot more than I’d care to know about my parents’ history.
Running a hardware store in a small town isn’t ever going to make Dad a millionaire. It’s probably barely going to provide for his retirement, but the store’s his pride and joy, so he’s never even given the option of doing a different job a second thought.
Basically, I’m here in Bordeaux because it’s what I know. As avant-garde as I can be online, in real life, I’m a creature of habit. The idea of taking a big risk like moving to a new town overwhelms me. So, I live through my virtual connections. My online life is big, even if my real life is small.
“Caffeinate me!” I shout to the two baristas.
Both girls are home for the summer from their life on the west coast. Yes. These two local besties applied to get into UCLA and were accepted. They’ve been living it up in California for three years now and only come home for the summers.
“What do you want to drink?” Madeline asks me.
Her long blond hair has natural highlights from the time she obviously spends in the sun. She’s adorable, and her fashion sense isn’t half bad.
“I wish we could do a TikTok challenge right here. But alas, we can’t. So give me your most requested drink.”
I look at the camera.
“The beauty of big cities is you can do all the challenges. Here in the sticks, we have to make do. But there’s all the sweetness of small-town life that makes up for the lack of fast-food chains and big box stores. Am I right? You know I’m right. Comment below with your fave way to caffeinate! I can’t wait to hear what you’ve got brewing! And don’t forget to put theYOUin fab-YOU-lous today!”
I’m about to turn off the camera when two of the hottest men in town walk into the coffee shop. I never can pass up an opportunity to showcase our stunning male specimens. I mean, we’re in the midwest. People all assume we’re bucktoothed and backwards. In reality, we’re the dark horse when it comes to so many awesome things. And I aim to set the record straight as often as I can.
People think California boys are hot—all looking like buff surfers or the leading men in movies. And then you’ve got the hot lawyer types in Boston, or the gorgeous southern boys with their drawls from South Carolina or Texas. But we’re not slouching here in Ohio. These men haul hay, aren’t afraid of a hard day’s work, and have the muscles to show for it.
“Ladies, Ladies, Ladies!” I say toward my phone. “I know I was about to sign off, but I have a treat for you. It’s true, I’m in the coffee shop, but I may as well be in our sweet shop because … mmmm hmmm, I just found some suh-weeet eye candy. Get ready to fan yourselves, and not because the high will be ninety-eight today. We’ve got Duke Satterson and Chris St. James coming our way.”
I turn my phone toward the door where Duke and Chris are walking in. They really are show-stoppers. Both of them are taller than six feet, blond, and ripped. They used to almost look like brothers until Chris went off to the Army. He came back with arms bigger than my legs.
