When life gives you lemons, put them in your bra and make you tatas look bigger. If I had done that at fourteen, maybe I would have avoided the unfortunate nickname of "Flatty Cami." 

It all started when I met Brody Murphy. I was eight years old and it was love at first sight. 

Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on your perspective, he showed me his true colors six years later. We argued every time I saw him, which was a lot since he was my brother's best friend. The hostility became outright hate when he coined that nickname I mentioned—the one that I didn't leave behind until I graduated high school. 

The day he got married and moved away was probably the luckiest day of my life and since then, I graduated college, started a business, and grew boobs so the whole nickname thing shouldn't still bother me. Yes, I know it shouldn't, but some grudges are worth holding.

Now, Brody's back in town, divorced, and with his adorable daughter in tow. But he's not the same boy I once knew. He's a hot single dad who makes me laugh and it's getting harder and harder to remember all the reasons I should hate him.