CLAM JAM.

RC Boldt.

Dedication.

Matty, Without your support, love, and encouragement, none of this would be possible. Can you imagine that? What kind of sad, sad world would it be if no one had the opportunity to read a book about Clam Jamming? Depressing thought, I know.

I'd also like to channel my inner Mya and let you know that your "love is like whoa".

P.S. I still love you more.

A,.

Sure, you give me more gray hairs than in all my years of teaching but I wouldn't change anything for the world. You bring me and your father more joy than we ever thought possible. I love your kind heart, your constant cheerfulness, and the way you love so freely. Never change. You're my favorite girl in the whole, wide world. Always.

With that said, you're still on lockdown until you're forty. #ChastityBelt.

To anyone who's ever been clam jammed or cock blocked, this book is for you. May you be un-jammed and un-blocked from here on out.

Prologue.

My name is Maggie Finegan, and I'm the continuous victim of a "clam jam."

To answer your questions:.

No, I'm not Irish-I was adopted.

And, yes, clam jamming is a thing.

I'll wait until that one sinks in. Taps toe of shoe quietly.

Okay, ready? I'll go on. It's a pretty crazy story. It all started one dark, stormy night-wait, don't roll your eyes at me, people. Fine. So it might have been more of a typical Upstate New York overcast kind of day. I had left work early since my boss, whom I fondly referred to as Sybil, left work at lunchtime for a meeting in the city. I took advantage of him skipping out early, knowing that I could hurry home and clean up the apartment I shared with my fiance, Shane, and set the mood to get lucky. Things had been a little off lately, with both of our work schedules usually residing in the "heinously hectic" realm, and I wanted to remedy this.

Sliding my key in the lock of our apartment door, I stepped one heel over the threshold, and my favorite pair of Jimmy Choos slipped, sending me off balance. I barely caught myself as one hand flew out to brace against the entryway wall to steady myself. Prepared to take offense with whatever object had made me nearly land on my butt, the next moment happened in slow motion.

You know what I'm talking about. Slooooow moooooooootion. Where a moment in your life is too freaking weird, crazy, or just all-around effed up, and your brain does some weird thing with the synapses, immediately slowing everything down. Like an out-of-body experience. That's what I had going on. Because the offensive object that had me nearly falling on my butt was a pair of woman's panties.

Fact: Those panties weren't mine.

You know. In case you were wondering.

My slow motion continued as I bent down to make sure my eyes weren't playing tricks on me because, yeah, that was my initial thought. They might be my panties. Because no way would my fiance be getting "jiggy"-thank you, Will Smith, for that term-with someone else, right?

Go ahead. Say it. Say exactly what you're thinking. Maggie, what the hell is wrong with you? Stop being delusional!

I kicked those panties to the side, slid my briefcase's straps off my shoulder, and set it in the corner of the entryway. Walking down the hallway, I could hear my heels clicking along the hardwood floors. And do you know what I thought the entire walk to the bedroom-to our bedroom? I thought, Wow, these floors are gorgeous. And those oversized windows looking out onto downtown Saratoga Springs have a gorgeous view. I'm so glad I chose this apartment.

Weird, right? I think I had an idea of what I'd find in that bedroom, and my mind had officially gone into full-blown protective mode.

The noises were the worst. Let's be real here. I get that, in the heat of the moment, you're probably going to have harsh breathing and some moans, but what I heard as I approached that bedroom was something you'd likely find on the Discovery Channel. Elephants mating, perhaps? Something large scale. Maybe if wooly mammoths still existed, that would be the closest thing to what I heard coming from that bedroom.

That's right. I know you're cringing right now. It was absolutely mammaliciously awful. Yes, I made up that word, but you have to understand that mammals everywhere were shaking their heads in disgust at that moment.

I'm going to fast-forward a bit now because I'm pretty sure you know how what I call "the discovery" went. They both shrieked, he pulled out of her-out of her mouth, by the way-and claimed it wasn't what it looked like.

Because, you know, his penis inside of a woman's mouth was one of those blind taste tests or something. Like back in the day when they were all like, "This is Coke? Wow! I can't believe it. I've drunk Pepsi my whole life."

First of all, you should not be that amazed and mystified by a freaking beverage. That's just lame.

Let's move on.

I kicked them both out. Luckily, his name was not on the lease since he'd moved in with me. Not so lucky was the fact that this place was on the pricey side of things, so I'd have to watch my spending on happy hours, takeout, and dinner nights out.

Here's the quick rundown: 1. I left all of Shane's belongings outside the door. ALL of them.

2. Okay, so I might have tossed some of his things in the trash. My bad.

3. Luckily, our lead building attendant, Mr. Charlie, has adored me from day one and once I informed him of what went down, he told me not to worry about anyone reporting the overabundance of crap piled up near the trash chute.

4. I Craigslisted the hell out of that mattress. Because God only knows what had gone down-pun intended-on that thing when I hadn't been home.

5. I did the whole bawling my eyes out to my best friend, Sarah, between bouts of inherent desire to maim Shane. Because, let's be honest, that's what women do. After too much Pad Thai-wait, I'm kidding; no one can have too much Pad Thai-at my pity party, I made some new decisions about my life.

a) I was not going to date for a while. Now, I'm not saying I refused to ever date again because, really. It's not like I have my sights set on being that woman with seventy-two cats or anything. Plus, I'm allergic, so that's a no-go.

b) If I were going to be single, footloose, and fancy-free-thank you, Auntie Patsy, for that phrase that I hope never spills from my lips again-I'd need to get a roommate because I'd need the extra money. You see, I'm not a fan of women who expect guys to buy them drinks. We all know those drinks often come with expectations. The single's world is flooded with douche bags, you know. Then again, so is the attached world, as my situation served as a prime example.

c) My roommate could in no way be a straight man. It couldn't be a woman, either, because I've never been able to cohabitate with another female. I know it's weird. But it is what it is.

d) I couldn't exactly put out an ad for a "gay roommate" because, uh, discrimination? Who doesn't want to get slapped with a lawsuit and has two thumbs up? This girl.

This is the point where the story really begins. Get comfy. Well, as comfy as you possibly can when preparing to read about a year of my life being clam jammed.

Shall we begin?.

Chapter One.

Maggie.

One year ago-ish.

October.

Saratoga Springs, New York.

Holy shadoobie. This guy is hot.

No, scratch that. He's the kind of hot teenage girls spell out as H-A-W-T. He's that kind of hot. And he's applying to be my roommate, which means only one thing.

I have to send him packing.

There's no way in h-e-double hockey sticks I'll be able to maintain any self-control around a guy like this. I mean come on, people. It's like the moment you decide to diet, and you catch a whiff of pizza or walk past a bakery when they're putting new pastries in the display case.

Temtorture at its finest. I know, I know. I made that word up-a mix of the word temptation and torture. It's accurate, though, isn't it? You know you shouldn't have it because it's so bad for you, but you know once it touches your tongue, it will be so gooooood.

Wow. That sounded more sexual than I expected. Because I wasn't exactly thinking of having this guy's anything touching my tongue. But now, the seed has been planted, so ...

"I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me."

Ryland's voice brings me back from my not-so-G-rated thoughts. I am a terrible, horrible, no-good person, just like that Alexander kid in those children's books they turned into a movie. I nod, trying my best not to let his lips mesmerize me because, whoa, they're so nice and full and soft looking. And his hair makes me want to run my fingers through the short, light brownish-blond strands.

Sigh. Long, long sigh. There I go again.

"I admit"-he leans in, and I find the sparkle in his eyes captivating-"I was grateful you chose to meet in this spot since my company's offices are right above here. I had a few things to take care of this morning. And the fact that your apartment building is within walking distance is another plus."

Flattening my palms against the small table as we sit across from one another in Starbucks, I let out a slow exhale. Because it has to be said.

"I have to be honest with you, Ryland. You have great references." I gesture to his resume and list of references, both work and personal, he submitted to me when he'd contacted me about the room for rent a few days ago.

After printing off a sheet with some key information about the room for rent as well as photos of the spare bedroom, I'd posted it on the corkboard located in the lobbies of a few of the large, well-known office buildings-both mine and a few others I was familiar with nearby. I had hoped that would decrease my chances of ending up with some college kid who would end up being a slob and skip out on rent. I had a few decent applicants, but Ryland James had stuck out amidst the others.

He's not only educated but also quite successful, as was clear from both his resume and company's website. He'd explained he had been renting a room, but the guy had recently gotten married, and he didn't want to cramp the newlyweds' style, so he'd been temporarily staying with another friend. Ryland wasn't interested in buying anything-house or condo-at this point as he wasn't entirely sure his job would keep him local and didn't want the hassle of trying to sell a property or rent it out if he relocated.

Everything had checked out with him. Everything. He seemed like he had his act together. And his photo from the Eastern Sports company website didn't disappoint. Which was why I had been planning to nix him altogether. He was exactly what I didn't need right now. So why am I here, meeting with him face to face?

Sarah. She'd coerced me to meet with him. She went over each applicant's information with me, and she kept coming back to Ryland's. She'd hassled me about giving him a shot.

Inhaling deeply, I continue, "But I have to be honest with you. I've recently broken up with my dirtbag fiance"-I break off with what I hope is a lighthearted laugh, but I swear it comes out sounding strained and a touch maniacal-"and I'm not interested in having a roommate who's a guy and-"

"I'm gay."

I jerk, startled by his interrupting admission. And if I didn't know better, I'd swear I detected a little hint of surprise in his eyes.

My eyebrows arch. "Really?" Shoot. That's rude because even I hear the tinge of disbelieving doubt in my voice.

"Yes." He nods, clasping his hands together and leaning forward to rest his forearms on the table. "Jack and I have been together for years now." One of his hands reaches up to tug on his earlobe. "We still have a bit of an"-he pauses, lips pressing thin as though he's trying to word it correctly-"open relationship, and I feel it's best ... to have a separate place and not be continuously underfoot."

Huhhhhh. I'm still processing this information when he continues.

"So"-he flashes a smile that makes my insides all gooey-"you wouldn't have anything to worry about with me."

"Okay," I say slowly, "but what about guests and sleepovers? Because I'm not a huge fan of having to listen to moaning and-"

"Not a problem." He waves a hand dismissively. "I can totally stay at Jack's place. He doesn't have a roommate. It's no big deal." He flashes me another smile, and I feel my ovaries weep his name.

It's a good thing he's gay. Otherwise, let's be real. I'd likely end up being that roommate who accidentally-on-purpose "sleepwalks" into his bedroom-naked-and has sex with him.

Holy crap. Did I really just think that? Bad, Maggie. Baaaad, Maggie.

Glancing over his paperwork, I say, "If you don't mind, I have a few other applicants to interview." Lies. I'm totally stalling. Raising my eyes, I find him watching me expectantly; that gaze centered on me in such a way that I feel like I'm the only person who exists right now. "But, tentatively, I'd like to offer you the room for rent."

If I thought Ryland's smile was ovary-lurch inducing before, this one trumps that. Big time. It's blindingly bright and infectious, and I can't help but return it. We sit there for a moment before he clears his throat, and I remember what else I have to tell him.

"So, as I mentioned earlier, the utilities normally run this much per month." I use my capped pen to point at the sheet I had printed, which includes all the pertinent financial information. "We'll split it fifty-fifty. Rent is due on the first of the month, and a late fee will be imposed if it isn't in by the fifth day." I recap a few other details and ask him if he'd like to look at the room.

He agrees, and when we stand, pushing in our chairs, he helps me slip into my coat once I pluck it from where I'd draped it over the back of my chair.

I repeat: Ryland took it upon himself to help me put on my coat.

I know, right? He has to be gay. Because no normal guy would take the initiative to do that for a woman. Especially not in this day and age.

Exiting the busy Starbucks, we fall in step along the crowded sidewalk full of the usual Saturday foot traffic as I lead him to my apartment building. He rushes up to beat me to the large, heavy doors to the building, reaching out to hold it open for me. Flashing him a smile, I thank him.

Such a gentleman, this one. Jack is one hell of a lucky guy.

"Hey, Mr. Charlie!" I smile, greeting our lead building attendant. He's become like an adopted father to both Sarah and me. He's sweet as pie and always watches out for us.

"Have to use your handcuffs on anyone recently, Chad?" I can't resist teasing our security guard since an older woman on the second floor flirts with him shamelessly. It wouldn't be as funny if she weren't pushing ninety. I never knew women that age could still be hoochie mamas.

I introduce Ryland to them, and Chad steps around the desk where he was chatting with Mr. Charlie and walks with us to the elevators. I had already asked him if he'd be willing to accompany us up to my apartment in case I chose to show it to Ryland.

Chad waits in the hallway while I show Ryland around. After a quick peek in the spare bathroom, I lead him to the spare bedroom.

"Obviously, I still have a few more things to move out of here since it's been used as storage more than an actual bedroom. But no worries, it'll be cleaned out and ready to roll." I gesture to a few small boxes I've yet to toss out-mainly mementos of my relationship with Shane-one, in particular, is a box of photographs of Shane and me from over the years. I've been putting off getting rid of it, which is dumb because it's over and I know it. But those photos of us-especially the ones from early in our relationship-show us so happy and in love. It's painful to think about throwing those away.

"Looks good." Ryland's deep voice behind me sends shivers down my spine.

"Well"-I turn, facing him-"that's it." I reach out a hand. "It was great meeting you, Ryland. I'll definitely be in touch."

When he slides his hand in mine, grasping it firmly but not too tight, I feel tingles. "Call me Ry," he offers with a soft smile.

"Ry," I repeat and inwardly wince when it comes out sounding a bit breathless. "It was great to meet you."

"Likewise, Maggie."