Pleasantly Popped: A Sweet Romantic Comedy (Love & Alliteration Book 3)

by Holly Kerr

  There’s a strangled yelp from something and Drogo skitters back into my legs, his nails scratching on the hardwood floor of M.K.’s entranceway.

  “What’s going on?” Trev demands, his hands full of my bin.

  “Cats! Drogo, stay.” I drop my knapsack and push past him to find a ball of white fur fluffed up to twice her size. “It’s okay, Pennywise. Dog is friend.”

  Gulliver and Scarlett are frozen in a cat greeting tableau. They must have heard the key and came running to see M.K. “Poor kitties.”

  “Poor dog. He’s terrified of cats,” Trev says. He drops to his knees to sooth the trembling Drogo.

  “How can he be afraid of them?” As I hold out my hand to Pennywise, the cat hisses and arches his back. “I get it, he’s scary.”

  Scarlett decides I’m safe and greets me with a sinuous curve around my ankles before moving past me to Trev and Drogo. “Nice kitty,” Trev says nervously, gripping Drogo’s collar. “I would have left him at home if I’d known about the cats.”

  “I would have told you if I thought he was going to be such a scaredy-cat. Or if I remembered they were here,” I relent at the mutinous expression on his face. “Maybe they can be friends.”

  “Why are they still here?” Trev asks, straightening up.

  “M.K. said something about not wanting to introduce the cats to the baby for a bit. Clay thinks cats and babies don’t mix.”

  “I think cats and babies are fine,” Trev says firmly.

  “But not dogs and cats?” He doesn’t return my smile. “Drogo seems fine now.”

  “He’s still shaking.”

  “Because Pennywise looks like a puffball.” I wave my hand between the tiny cat who has fixed a death stare onto Drogo. “Stop. Go away. I’ll get you food.”

  “Don’t reward them after that behaviour,” Trev cries after me.

  “Who sounds like the new father now?” I mutter, continuing to the kitchen.

  “Where do you want your stuff?”

  “Upstairs. I think there’s only one room with a bed, so I guess I’ll sleep there.”

  I hear the thump of his footsteps on the stairs, with the scratch of Drogo’s nails right after as I fill the cats food dishes and give them fresh water. Pennywise still hasn’t deflated by them time I’m finished.

  “Chill, will you, cat?” I say, trying to pet him again. This time I get a baleful stare instead of the hiss, so I take that as progress.

  I meet Trev at the bottom of the stairs after his last trip. “All done,” he says grumpily. Drogo has attached himself to Trev’s leg.

  “Thank you,” I say with a bright smile. “I’m sure that would have taken me an extra trip up the stairs.”

  “You would have had to borrow a car first,” Trev relents, thawing a bit. “Tell me again why you don’t have your license.”

  “Like I said, Flora had been teaching me to drive but then she followed Thomas to Toronto. I kept waiting for her to come back, but she never did. And so I never learned to drive.”

  “Couldn’t your parents teach you?”

  “My father—no. We tried that and I nearly gave him a heart attack when I passed a tractor on the road. My mother? Let’s just say I would have followed the tractor to Toronto because it would have annoyed her. She’s very impatient.”

  “That doesn’t sound like anyone I know,” Trev mutters as he follows me into the living room. “Wow. She’s got a lot of books.”

  I watch as he takes in M.K.’s bookshelves, all neatly organized by genre and author. “I always think it would be funny to colour-code all her books,” I say. “It would make a great Instagram pic.”

  “M.K. is letting you stay here?”

  “For a bit.”

  “I wouldn’t touch her books, unless you’re going to help her pack them up.”

  “What’s the fun in that?” I pout. “I’m hungry. Want something to eat?”

  “You just had something at Pain,” he reminds me.

  “That was just a snack,” I say, heading back to the kitchen. “A little taste. An amuse bouche. You know, from the Friends episode.”

  “Okay.”

  “The one where Monica is trying to impress the chef or critic or something, and he gets stoned?”

  “Okay.”

  I pause at the kitchen door and glance back at Trev with disbelief. “Do you watch Friends?”

  He shrugs sheepishly. “Maybe an episode or two.”

  “Seriously? How can you not watch it?” I shake my head before he can answer. “Well, I know what we’re doing today.”

  “I was going to take my dog and go home,” Trev says weakly.

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because he doesn’t like the cats.”

  I glance pointedly at Drogo sniffing the empty cat dishes, Scarlett doing her weave between the dog’s legs. “I think he likes them fine. And since we’ve decided you like me, why wouldn’t you want to stay?”

  “Who decided that I like you?”

  I roll my eyes. “Please. Everyone likes me. I’m very likeable. Some would even say irresistible.”

  He grins and it does something to my insides. “And as always, so modest.”

  I give a wave to mask my response. “Check out those cupboards to see if you can find any pasta,” I order as I open the fridge, which is surprisingly well stocked for M.K. living with Clay.

  “It’s ten o’clock in the morning!”

  As if Trev’s comment reminds me of how little sleep I got last night, my face cracks in a yawn. “It’s always time for pasta. It’s like champagne. Plus, I can’t make breakfast foods.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Trev begins opening the cupboards.

  He’s… he’s not what I thought he was. He’s better, in so many ways. The bubbles in my belly begin to do a happy dance and as I turn my attention back to the contents of the fridge, I don’t bother to hide my smile.

  “Anyone can make breakfast foods.” Trev whistles at the finely organized array of food stuff. “M.K. must really like to organize things.”

  “You can call her anal retentive. I do.”

  “I’d rather not, until I know her better.”

  “She’s seriously great.” Trev shakes a box of dried pasta and I turn to see him holding up two boxes for my approval. “The capellini.”

  “What are we making?”

  I pull the butter dish and a package of prosciutto from the fridge. “This should be okay,” I say, giving the meat a sniff.

  “Am I going to be able to eat this?”

  “Is there anything you can’t eat?” I ask, as I open cupboards until I find M.K.s pots, all nicely stacked with a white cloth between each.

  “I don’t like pineapple.”

  “There is no pineapple in this,” I assure him. “Does that mean you’re one of the pineapple-on-pizza haters?”

  “Fruit should not be on pizza,” he says mulishly.

  “Tomatoes are a fruit,” I point out as I fill the pot with water.

  “That’s different. Tomatoes are a main part of pizza.”

  “What about white pizza? Or pesto sauce? Or barbecue sauce with chicken and bacon?”

  He shakes his head. “Tomato sauce.”

  “You need to live a little.” I hum under my breath. “I kind of want pizza now.”

  “Pasta.” He shakes the box again. “With some sort of non-smelly meat.”

  “Proscuitto. It’s like bacon, but better.”

  Trev sits at the tiny table and watches as I grate a pile of Parmesan cheese as I wait for the water to boil. “Do you cook?” I ask over my shoulder.

  “I can cook,” he says carefully.

  “So you don’t like to cook.”

  “I live by myself. I need to cook, but no, it’s not my favourite thing to do.”

  “Will you expect your wife to do all the cooking?”

  “I hope whoever I marry will like to cook, but no, I don’t expect anything. I’m good at cleaning u
p, so we can share that.”

  “It’s very sexy when a man likes being in the kitchen.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says me.”

  “I like sitting here in the kitchen while you make something for me to eat,” Trev says with a grin.

  I smile in return, tempted for a moment to waltz over and give him a kiss.

  But…no. Why am I thinking of kissing him? Just because his hair is so artfully tousled from running his hands through it?

  I’ve noticed he runs his hand through his hair when he’s frustrated. It seems to happen a lot when he’s with me.

  And when Trev smiles like that, it stretches out his bottom lip, tempting me to nibble on it.

  I know from last night, Trev’s lips are very nibble-able.

  “Why are you staring at me like that?” I start as Trev’s question breaks my revere, but then I notice he’s directed the question to a Pennywise who hovers in the doorway with a fixed glare. “I don’t think he likes me.”

  “I don’t think he likes anyone.”

  Trev wiggles his fingers trying to catch Pennywise’s attention, but only succeeds in luring Scarlett to his side. “So I never heard what happened with you and Colton Pruitt,” he says, obviously trying to be casual and failing miserably.

  His effort makes me smile. “Maybe because I never told you.”

  “Fair enough.”

  I turn back to grating the cheese. “I suppose you want me to tell you now.”

  He glances around the kitchen. “Can’t see we’re doing much of anything else.”

  “I broke up with him,” I say shortly.

  “Yes, I figured that out myself.”

  “With my help,” I add.

  “Sure, if you want to take credit. Why? What happened? He’s a big-name baseball player with great hair.”

  My hand freezes with the cheese aloft. “Did you just seriously comment on Colton’s hair?” I laugh with disbelief.

  “I heard someone say something about it,” he says defensively. “I thought women like hair like his.”

  “Some do. I do.” I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. “You have better hair. I like it.”

  “Yes, I got that impression when you ran your hand through it.” Trev smiles and I feel my cheeks flush.

  “I guess I did that, didn’t I?” I try for casual and I think I succeed. But now I have the urge to do it again and grip the cheese so tightly that the corner breaks off. “Do you know there’s a word for it?”

  “There’s a word for everything.”

  “Cafuné,” I say, hoping I’ve got the pronunciation right.

  “I’ll have to take your word for that. So, Colton,” Trev tries again. He doesn’t take his eyes off me.

  “Nothing. He’s a sweet guy when he’s not trying to get into another girl’s pants. But I would have ended it even if Dean hadn’t told me.” I’m surprised to find myself confess.

  “Not into the baseball-god lifestyle?”

  “I can handle that.”

  Trev gives me a slow smile. “Ruthie, I think you can handle just about anything.”

  “I can,” I agree. “But I knew it wouldn’t have worked out with Colton even when he proposed. It wasn’t going to last.”

  “Then why did you accept?”

  I shrug and turn back to the now boiling pot. Adding salt and the box of pasta, I give it a healthy stir before I pull out a frying pan from M.K.’s stash. Laying strips of prosciutto in the pan, I think of how to respond.

  As the smell of frying pork drifts upward, I decide on the truth. “I can’t seem to say no.”

  “To guys who want to marry you?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “So, if I dropped down on one knee and proposed right now, you’d say you’d marry me?”

  “No, because you’d mean it. Colton, and Rafe and Tommy, they didn’t mean it. They never wanted to marry me, they just liked the idea of me. They wanted something from me, and thought that’s how to get it. That’s what I think anyway.”

  “What did they want from you?” he asks.

  “I’m a virgin.” I give the pasta another stir before I turn so I can see his reaction. “Everyone likes the idea of that.”

  Trev’s reaction does not disappoint. Surprise and shock drop his jaw almost to the table. “Oh.”

  Trev

  I’m quiet as Ruthie prepares our breakfast, mainly because I haven’t got a clue what to say.

  Ruthie is a virgin. That shouldn’t be a shock. She’s young…

  As I take the bowl of pasta from Ruthie and follow her into the living room, I keep my distance. Why would she tell me such a personal thing? And to just blurt it out like that.

  Part of her topknot has fallen down, the green streaks in her hair vivid against her white sweater. Of course she’d blurt out something like that. There’s no beating around the bush with her.

  She’s still wearing the pajama pants.

  Ruthie flops on the couch and picks up the remote control. “We’re going to watch Friends,” she tells me like she’s never dropped the bombshell of her virginity.

  “Oh, we are, are we?”

  “I have spoken.”

  I look at her curiously, recognizing the line from episode two of The Mandalorian. “I don’t suppose you’ve been watching the new Disney streaming service with Dean, have you?”

  Ruthie rolls her eyes. “I’ve been staying with them since Christmas. Yes, I’ve watched The Mandalorian more times than I care to admit.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “You’re a Star Wars geek aren’t you?”

  I rub the back of my neck. “I don’t know if I’d use the term geek.”

  “Then no, I didn’t like it. I don’t like fantasy shows. Or movies. Or books. Nothing at all fantasy.”

  “What about romance books? Isn’t that a kind of fantasy? The kind that suggests there’s a perfect woman for every man?”

  “Why do you assume I read romance novels?”

  “Don’t all women? The ones with the heaving bosoms and shirtless men on the cover?”

  Now it’s Ruthie’s turn to look at me like I sprouted two heads. “Did you just say heaving bosoms?”

  “Well-endowed women on the cover,” I correct.

  She laughs and slurps up more pasta. “I think you should quit while you’re ahead or you’re going to have the Romance Writers of Canada after you.”

  “Is there really such a thing?”

  “Of course. Romance is a big business. And I do read my fair share. I like the idea that there’s someone out there for everyone.”

  “If she’s out there for me, I sure as heck don’t know how to find her.”

  She looks at me with those hazel eyes, suddenly serious. “You stop looking.”

  “Then how am I supposed to find her?”

  “Fate? I don’t know—it just happens.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t believe in that.”

  “Really? How do you think Flora and Dean found each other? They met in Las Vegas, didn’t know anything about each other, not even where they lived. And then Dean picks Flora’s shop out of the whole city to buy flowers from. You don’t think that’s fate?”

  “A nice coincidence.”

  “I think it’s a little more than that.”

  If Flora and Dean hadn’t gotten together, would I be sitting here with Ruthie? “I don’t know what it was that brought them together, but I’m glad it did,” I say in a quiet voice.

  Ruthie laughs. Heart sinking, I glance over to find her fixated on the television. She didn’t even hear me.

  I don’t repeat my comment but concentrate on finishing every last strand of pasta. It’s amazing how good simple pasta and butter can taste.

  Ruthie is full of surprises.

  She falls asleep during the second episode of Friends, her soft snores rivaling the dog flopped out on the floor. I tuck the blanket around her shoulders and fight the urge to drop a kiss on her forehe
ad. Her face relaxes as she sleeps, making her look younger, softer, less like the whirlwind she is.

  I take our dishes into the kitchen and clean up the kitchen as quietly as possible. Then I take Drogo out for a quick walk. After that, I settle onto the couch, my feet meeting Ruthie’s in the middle, and drape the end of the blanket over my feet.

  I’m surprised I’ve never gotten into watching Friends. It’s a funny show.

  Even so, I let myself drift off around the third episode.

  ~

  Ruthie kicks my leg to wake me up. “Stop it,” I mumble, peeling my eyelids open to see her wide awake and

  grinning at me. She points to the floor to where Drogo is curled up on the floor in front of the television, his long legs bent at an awkward angle. But the absolutely adorable part of this is that Pennywise, the tiny ball of angry white fluff, is snuggled into the crock of his front leg.

  Drogo opens his eyes like he knows I’m watching him, and gives me a pained expression. “You’re not going anywhere now, dog,” I tell him.

  “At least they’re getting along,” Ruthie says softly.

  “He’s using him for his size,” I point out. Ruthie breaks into a wide smile. “And his warmth,” I quickly add.

  “I’m sure he’s very warm.” She yawned. “So are you.”

  “How can you tell when you’re way down there?” I ask. There’s no flirtation in my voice, but there’s need. Need for Ruthie, want for Ruthie. I’m surprised how strong it is.

  But I have to let her make any move that needs to be made.

  Her eyes are wide and expectant, her face devoid of makeup. It’s the first time I’ve seen her without lipstick or anything else and I study her face like a new book.

  She’s lost the topknot and her hair hangs loose to her shoulders, slightly mussed from sleep. Ruthie doesn’t have classically pretty features—her mouth is too wide, the top lip full with a lopsided smile. Her nose is long, her jaw slightly square. She has an interesting face; every time I look at it I find something new to admire. She’s attractive to be sure, but as I silently stare at her, I realize the beauty in her eyes, in her whole self. She’s not just attractive, but beautiful and I’d argue anyone who said she wasn’t.