I Almost Married a Narcissist by Lisa Maliga by Lisa Maliga - Read Online

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Summary

Charlotte White falls in love with a younger Romanian coach when they work together at a gymnastics academy.

Andrei Antonescu is a sexy and handsome foreigner who loves to have fun and flirt with the ladies.

The more she gets to know him, the more red flags are unfurled. Andrei is prone to erratic communications, self-absorption and reveals a split personality. She never knows if she’ll be flirted with or insulted. Blaming herself, she doesn’t understand that he’s a narcissist. Once she’s able to see past his good looks and muscular body, Charlotte is unprepared for some shocking revelations.

Published: Lisa Maliga on
ISBN: 9781513029504
List price: $0.99
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I Almost Married a Narcissist - Lisa Maliga

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revelations.

Other Works of Fiction by the Author

Diary of a Hollywood Nobody

Hollywood After Dark: 3 Tales of Terror

I WANT YOU: Seduction Emails from a Narcissist

Love Me, Need Me: A Narcissist's Tale

The Narcissist Chronicles

North of Sunset

Notes from Nadir

Out of the Blue

Satan’s Casting Call

South of Sunset

Sweet Dreams

The Wilkes House Haunting

The Yolanda’s Yummery Series

Boxed Set: The Yolanda’s Yummery Series, Books 1 – 3

The Great Brownie Taste-off, Book 1

Magical Cakes of Love, Book 2

The Aroma of Love, Book 3

Macarons of Love, Book 4 [Summer 2015]

Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

About the Author

Introduction

A shorter version of this novella was originally published under the title Flipping Over Grigori in the short story collection, South of Sunset.

I Almost Married a Narcissist has been revised and expanded to reveal more about the nature of a man with a narcissistic personality disorder. It is told from the point of view of the victim, Charlotte White. Charlotte works in a furniture store, and one slow weekday she tells her coworker, Lucy McBain, her story. Charlotte admits she’s not a writer but since Lucy is, she wants her story told so that others can learn how to spot a narcissist.

CHAPTER ONE

Lucy McBain

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It was a cloudy Wednesday morning and my workday began with a raucous bang. Right outside the furniture store on La Brea Avenue, a spiffy Mini Cooper had been sideswiped by some geriatric in an Oldsmobile that was new around the 1984 Olympics. I happened to walk up to the store just a minute or so after the crash. Already, the two-car accident was clogging the busy artery with the inevitable looky loos—and it was quite the street show. The navy blue with a jaunty white roofed car was upside down, mere inches from the curb. The Olds had a crumpled passenger side, and the driver, a slack-jawed codger was leaning heavily on his cane, staring at his wrecked car. The hood had popped open and black smoke was pouring out of the engine. The bearded young guy who crawled out of his tiny car seemed perplexed, but was unhurt. As I unlocked the front door to Modern Furniture Imports, the police drove up in their black and whites emblazoned with their motto, to protect and to serve, written on each side of the vehicles. They managed to protect my view of the scene, along with that of the gathering crowd on the sidewalk.

There was little business as foot traffic was limited and the congested street was gridlocked for miles in both directions. The gloom permeated the large showroom floor and even the warm track lighting and serenely glowing table and floor lamps failed to stave off the murkiness. It was mid-winter, and there wasn’t a damn thing to do inside the furniture store. I’d already dusted, vacuumed, scheduled the solitary delivery and was barely able to stay awake.

Arturo, the furniture finisher, was out back shellacking a table that was headed for some new house up in those hills of Beverly. I wished I wasn’t earning minimum wage and that I was able to sit in front of a wood burning fireplace, drinking hot chocolate with extra whipped cream, and reading a book.

The phone rang and I picked it up after the first ring, as I was sitting right next to it.

I am Jorge! I heard the deep, Spanish accented voice of the owner. Yes, you are, you arrogant asshole, I thought. The man had been here since 1978, couldn’t he figure out how to start a simple sentence?

There was only one reason for Jorge to call – to get the sales stats. I saw that the only sales clerk, Charlotte White, was on the floor talking to an earnest looking young couple that gazed longingly at the lipstick red crushed velvet sofa. It was the tackiest piece of furniture on the floor, but if it sold, Charlotte wouldn’t have to worry about making any more sales that day. I also knew that the daily sales report, for a whopping $56.29 wasn’t going to please Jorge.

I told him the numbers. But Charlotte’s with some customers right now and they’re looking at that red velvet couch...

Click. For Jorge to hang up meant that he either was on his way over – or would be soon. Of course, with traffic still snarled into infinity and beyond due to the accident, the guy would make a mercifully delayed guest appearance.

Charlotte rushed behind the counter and was rustling through a drawer in search of a measuring tape. She had a worried expression on her narrow face when I mentioned that Jorge had called. I looked past her and saw the couple immersed in conversation, the portly man leaning against the back of the whore red sofa. Looks like you have a sale, I remarked.

I certainly hope so, said the older woman as she grabbed the measuring tape and rushed back to bag a potential commission.

She had worked at the furniture store for a few years. Charlotte was a quiet employee, but when she was dealing with customers, she was animated and transformed herself into a storyteller. Once I heard about her cat’s fondness for Barry Manilow music and how it would sit in front of the stereo, waiting for a private Manilow concert.

I was relieved when the couple followed her back to the front desk to process their order. It gave me something to do, and she cheerfully commandeered the situation as I moved away from the sole computer and busied myself with the mindlessly fascinating task of assembling gift boxes and bags.

After the pair left and Charlotte had figured out her five percent commission on the $1795 sofa, which they sensibly ordered in hunter green, she smoothed her long dress as she sat down, and took a sip from her warm can of diet Mountain Dew.

I left my knitting at home, Charlotte said. I was going to make some placemats for the new American black walnut dining room table we just got. She shrugged.

Nothing to do, so I stared at the picture windows, interrupted by Arturo who came in to retrieve a work order. A new age CD played softly in the background. A meditative bliss filled the large store. Charlotte had earned money and I continued to clock in my hourly chump change.

Charlotte was staring past the tall golden Buddha statue next to the front door. Maybe she was studying it, or perhaps she was thinking of something she had done or seen.

Aren’t you a writer? she asked.

Yeah. I didn’t elaborate. I was