An Unexpected Love Story: A sweet, heartwarming & uplifting romantic comedy (Falling into Happily Ever After Rom Com)

by Ellie Hall

  “Oh, come on. It’s not like you know anyone here,” she says. Thankfully, she lowered her voice.

  “Don’t you have a yoga class to go teach?”

  She taps her phone for the time. “Yes. Walk with me.”

  I’m more than happy to leave the coffee shop and the prying ears and eyes of the people listening in.

  She waves coyly to the Man-bun-barista as we exit. He’s not bad looking with his strong brow and dark stubble. He’s trim and moves efficiently while making coffee beverages. Then he winks. No. That’s doubtful. He must’ve gotten coffee grounds in his eye.

  We pass one of my favorite bookstores and instead of looking at my reflection in the glass like Hazel, I look beyond—at the stories and the pages filled with romances that reliably end with a happily ever after.

  “He’s kind of hot,” Hazel says.

  “Who? What?” I ask, pulled from my thoughts.

  “The guy in there.” She brazenly points, not caring if he sees.

  “Oh, uh, yeah,” I say vaguely.

  It hasn’t escaped my notice that the guy who I buy my books from is attractive. Or that he flirts with me every time I go in. Well, at least I think the small talk he makes is flirting. I’ve been out of practice for so long a simple hello or inquiry about my sleeping habits from my doctor is liable to be misinterpreted.

  He’s cute but so is the Man-bun-barista, the guy in the puffer jacket who just smirked at Hazel as we passed, and according to her, the fellow who lives down the hall from us in our new place. Don’t let me forget about the gym rat she’s so eager to see at her next class. There are hot, available men all over this city, but there’s a difference between being nice to look at and being a nice person.

  Yet, it might be the already-long winter or the cold spell of the several years since I turned away from men and toward books, but lately, I’ve been feeling a little twinge deep inside my chest that compels me to take a second glance and wonder...

  But I’ll do anything not to face the shame and guilt I’ve been carrying with me for years.

  I don’t tell Hazel. Not the truth and not the erosion of my self-imposed singlehood. No way. She’d have suitors lined up around the block. She loves to play matchmaker, even though she’s perpetually single.

  The sleek gray sign for the gym where she teaches her evening yoga class comes into view.

  “Tomorrow is the big day,” she says, bringing me back into the conversation. “I’ll see you bright and early, ready to move into our new place.”

  We both bounce on our toes, half because our teeth chatter and half because we’re genuinely excited. Despite the chill, Hazel’s smarts, generosity, and confidence remind me how lucky I am that our friendship has endured all these years. A delicate smile blooms on my lips, warming me.

  “Ooh, almost there,” Hazel says, returning the grin. “Just a little more.” Her smile widens, and she pokes my cheek where my dimple hides.

  Just as she’s about to go into the bright glow of the gym to teach yoga to the man-hunk, someone calls my name over the din of traffic and chatter.

  “Catherine, Cat,” repeats a low, familiar voice I all but thought I’d locked away in the past.

  I don’t turn. I don’t move. I freeze. Yes, it’s cold out, but so is my heart.

  Hazel stares. “Whoa.”

  “Catherine,” he calls again.

  She nudges me.

  I slowly turn as strong, capable arms wrap me in a hug.

  I breathe Kellan’s minty, soapy, sunshine scent long enough to remember why I need to wriggle free from his embrace and wipe the smile off my face.

  “Hi, Catnip.” He uses the pet name he had for me, always telling me I was catnip. No, more like he was, at least for this kitty. Well, not anymore.

  Kellan’s lips, the ones I imagined myself kissing before I’d ever done so with anyone, part slightly. He seems taller than I remember. Broader too and even more sure of himself if that’s possible.

  Tragically, he’s every bit as handsome as he was in all of my teenage dreams—and a few since then. He wears a dark blue knit hat over his light brown hair and a shadow of matching stubble fills in his jawline.

  My own mouth drops open whether in awe or to scream at him, I’m not sure.

  Shouting from the Rooftops

  Kellan

  I soften as a flurry of memories rush at me as I hold Catherine in a warm hug. She abruptly pulls away and stiffens as if the same memories blew through her mind like the wind whipping down the corridor of buildings.

  Catherine’s dark eyes sparkle in the gleaming city lights. Her face reminds me of a heart—a Valentine’s Day heart, like in the studio next to where we stand. Her brown hair peeks out from under a knit hat.

  She smells like sugarplums and winter. The smoothness of her skin, the cushions of her lips, and the faint memory of her laughter turn me inside out and upside down. Missing her all this time doesn’t begin to sum up the way I feel.

  I pray the tremulousness on her lips gives way to a smile. It’s the kind that lights up her face. It was the beacon glowing in my mind that pulled me through some of the most dangerous and tragic experiences I’ve had.

  She’s beautiful at rest, but even more so when she’s not pouting—the expression she wears now. The last time I saw that dimple was...years ago. Actually, four years, nine months, and seven weeks ago. I was back home visiting my parents. I think she and I were caught off guard when I showed up at the annual clambake at our parents’ country club.

  My pulse beats double time. “Catherine,” I repeat.

  Her nostrils flare slightly.

  A wrinkle forms on my brow.

  “Kellan.” Ice laces her voice and I don’t think it has to do with the weather.

  “It’s really good to see you.”

  She snorts a laugh.

  This isn’t how I expected our reunion to go.

  If her smile was my beacon, hope was my buoy for all these years. But no, of course, it wouldn’t be a simple kiss and make up. Emphasis on kiss because that memory hasn’t faded. Not one bit. I messed up things between us a long time ago. This is the price I pay.

  However, a Marine doesn’t give up that easily. “Do you want to go somewhere warm and get something to eat? Catch up?”

  I gaze at her expectantly. When she doesn’t respond, I stuff my hands in my pockets, look quickly at the ground, and then back at her.

  The way she avoided me at the clambake should’ve been the tipoff.

  I really screwed up.

  It doesn’t escape my notice that her friend surveys me, feline-like. If I didn’t know better, I’d guess she sniffs the air as though she senses something amiss.

  Before I can think about how to explain or explore the way I feel right now, I try again. “Are you going somewhere? I’d be happy to meet up afterward.”

  She clutches her bag. “I have to go.”

  Before I can say another word, she rushes off, disappearing into the throng of commuters, rushing to get home to their warm apartments.

  I try to follow, but she’s absorbed into their midst. I call her name a few more times. The way the syllables feel on my lips keeps me afloat. However, it very well may be a fool’s hope. One thing is for sure, I am a fool. A fool for Catherine, but also a fool. Or rather, was a fool. A boy, afraid, overwhelmed.

  I’ve changed and want a chance to show her, apologize, and make things right, but will take her scorn and the sight of her walking away as punishment.

  The last time her name falls from my lips, it’s a whisper. Then it’s as though the city goes quiet. All I hear is the rushing of blood in my ears as I try to stem the ache caused by her silence and her departure.

  I pass a bookstore and curiosity pulls me inside. The bookseller, wearing thick black eyeglasses, doesn’t lift his gaze to greet me. A cat flicks its tail from atop a crooked stack of hardbacks.

  It had been ages since I’ve been in New York City. Right now, I have nowhere else to
be. My meetings begin Monday, but tonight, I’ll pay tourist, if only to keep my mind off Catherine. What were the odds of running into her?

  I browse the new releases and then land on the final book in a series about three sisters who reunite at their family’s beach home after leading three very different love lives.

  If anyone asks, I’m looking for a gift for my sister. She always loved to read. Catherine, not my sister. Claire was the outgoing one, dragging Cat along for the ride.

  The covers and blurbs spark my interest, drawing me into another world. A hidden one. A secret one.

  I browse books for an hour at least and only come to when my stomach growls.

  My mind lingers on Catherine. The one who’s captured my heart. Captivated my mind. I don’t expect things ever to go back to the way they were, but I’d like the opportunity to explain. To talk. To say I’m sorry. I owe her that. I owe her more.

  Hope and hunger are the only things that drag me back onto the street.

  Hope because even though this city claims over eight million residents, Catherine is among them. We ran into each other once. God willing, we will again.

  Hunger, well, that’s relatively obvious, but it also means ambition and that’s what brought me here. Well, that and an entirely unexpected career after honorable discharge from duty, finishing up college, and then backpacking around Europe.

  After grabbing a slice of pizza, I return to the Airbnb rental that wasn’t as advertised. By non-Manhattan real estate standards, the apartment is more like a closet. I’m over six feet tall and can touch one wall with my fingertips, stretch, and reach the other wall with the tips of my toes.

  I ought to check out the gym I spotted just before I ran into Catherine. Working out in this dollhouse will be next to impossible.

  Not much bothers me, especially after being stationed overseas, but I have to admit the place is claustrophobic. It doesn’t help that some genius divided the pre-existing apartments in the building into smaller units without separating the climate control, leaving me sweltering.

  Or maybe it’s just thoughts of Catherine.

  I throw open the window—it sticks halfway up because decades worth of paint form cream, yellow, and beige layers of strata. I let the cold winter air chill my cheeks. Drawing an icy breath, I lean out.

  From somewhere nearby, I hear, “Kellan Connolly, if you can hear me, go back to wherever you came from!” The window rattles when it slams down.

  I sink back and rub my eyes. Did I imagine that?

  I look around, trying to find the source, but the checkerboard of windows in the building across the alleyway doesn’t reveal whoever just shouted at me. Unless there is another Kellan Connolly who did the unthinkable. Or maybe it was Ellen Connery, and I misheard.

  Still, harsh.

  Was that Catherine?

  I duck my head out the window and call, “Catherine? Cat?”

  No answer other than a deep, male voice with a thick New York accent telling me to keep it down.

  It would be weird for me to sit here all night waiting to spot Catherine. Totally stalkerish and I’m not that kind of guy. Despite her potential proximity, I close the window halfway and search online for another rental.

  I’ll only be here for a few weeks, so don’t want anything long term.

  Well, unless Catherine would do me the honor of speaking to me. I could imagine something long term with her. It’s a yearning, one that stretches into our past and catches up to me in the present.

  I glance out the window into the dark one more time and am lit with the tiniest bit of hope.

  Sappy? Fine.

  Dramatic? I won’t deny it.

  Romantic? All the way.

  Whatever. Don’t roll your eyes at me. I can be tough on the outside and soft in the middle. Well, not my middle. My abs are rock solid.

  I’m determined to lie down my armor and make an apology.

  A man of my word, I won’t run away again.

  Home Sweet Homeless

  Catherine

  When Hazel said she was moving from her old apartment to a new one and had an extra room, I thought she meant she was going to use it for home office space or a yoga practice room. She surprised me by asking if I wanted to move in. She can afford the rent on her own. Yes, even Manhattan prices. I didn’t want her to take pity on me, especially since, at the time, I was between jobs, but I would have been insane to say no.

  I have visions that the new bedroom is at least the same size as the one I had in my parents’ colonial outside Boston and on the edge of the Cape, which is to say there’s room for a bed, dresser, a desk, and a few bookshelves. My present studio accommodates little more than a bed and a chair. Bonus, Hazel said there’s also a closet. Not to mention the apartment boasts a kitchen, a bathroom, and a living room. My current place is jealous.

  Hazel regularly takes and teaches yoga retreats so Auntie Catherine will easily be able to take care of Mew, Hazel’s cat. Whenever I visit, he purrs loudly, which makes me think he likes me better even though I’m a dog person. He’s probably the only male in the city who feels that way—we’re buddies.

  I survey the boxes stacked next to the door. When I left my college dorm and took this apartment, I instantly went to Ikea for inspiration—how to make efficient use of three-hundred square feet of prime Manhattan property.

  It was exciting! I was on my own! Independent! And what’s happened since?

  I racked up a significant amount of credit card debt.

  I failed at being a girl boss.

  I lost my dream job at a small publisher and was forced to take a soul-sucking position to pay down my bills. All I have to show for it is a huge collection of books, a heart that has never quite healed, and a void in my life I don’t know how to fill except with the aforementioned books. Mountains, heaps, shelves, and stacks of them.

  This space, once my pride and refuge, has become stifling. I cannot wait to leave. But that’s not the only reason. The face that has haunted me with the smug pouty-lipped smile, the cunning summer-blue eyes, and his low rumble of a voice—the one that wasn’t man enough to speak up when he should have—simmers my blood.

  Exactly why I shouted into the night.

  I thought I’d gotten Kellan out of my system. After I slammed the window, I returned to packing. I haven’t considered how I’m going to get everything across town and up a few blocks to the new apartment. I don’t think a taxi driver will take kindly to me schlepping load after load, stuffing his trunk full of books, and strapping my mattress to the roof. Never mind the expense if he keeps the meter running.

  I flop onto my bed and my head slaps into a bound rectangular shape about six-by-eight as though scolding me for not thinking this through sooner.

  All I have left to pack are my bathroom items, but first, I’ll read, escape into a happy world of romance to take away the sting of this lonely Friday night and unexpectedly seeing Kellan.

  I reread the passage He loved her despite her flaws and doubts. He loved the lines whiskering her eyes. He loved the curl of her toes. He loved her jaunty laughter, her dry skin, her smile. He loved everything about her. Inside and out. Then the lines blur when I get to Yet, that was not enough. I race through the next few chapters, desperate to know how it turns out, but then my phone beeps with a text.

  Mom: Are you done packing?

  Me: No. Not even close.

  Mom: Have you figured out how you’re going to get everything to Hazel’s? Your father said he’d help.

  My mother supremely approves of our cohabitating, likely hoping some of Hazel’s confidence, grace, and accomplishments will rub off on me.

  Me: Not yet.

  Then I delete it. I consider a lie such as I was out on a date and just got in. He’s going to help me move tomorrow. But after everything that happened, I abide by a strict code of honesty. Maybe with everyone except myself.

  Me: I’ll get it sorted out. Not to worry. Please thank Dad for me though.

/>   But she does worry. That’s her thing. The little dots on my phone screen indicating she’s replying fill me with guilt and shame.

  My phone beeps with her message.

  Mom: I think this move will be wonderful for you. Best of luck, dear. Please call if you need anything.

  I haven’t needed anything since my heart was broken and I left home for college. I don’t need anything or anyone. I may have a few fails under my belt, a few too many tubs of ice cream too, but I’m still here, still standing. Well reclined, at present.

  I get to my feet and slide the last several years of my life into labeled boxes. My clothes fill a couple of suitcases and my books fit neatly into reusable bags, crates, boxes, and bins.

  I fall asleep reading about how the love interest in my book won the main character back by being so purely honest in his affections, words, and deeds she found herself deeply, madly in love. Of course, they lived happily ever after.

  I wake abruptly to rapping on my front door—the singular door aside from the pocket door to the bathroom. I scramble out from under the heavy comforter, wipe sweat from my brow—the heat is cranked. Odd that I didn’t throw off the covers in the night. The romantic notion that they were like a lover’s embrace sweeps into my thoughts as I face plant on the floor, my foot twisted in the sheets. All the while, the knocking continues.

  “Coming,” I call. I only have to take a few strides to reach the door. I peer through the peephole at a stout man wearing a hat that says Morty’s Movers. I swing open the door.

  “Morning, Miss Kittredge,” he says, glancing at a piece of paper. “Hazel Loves sent me here to collect your things.”

  “Oh. Oh!” I repeat, frantic. “If you don’t mind giving me a minute.”

  He taps his watch. “Listen, I’m doing her a favor and I’m double-parked. I can only give you a minute. Literally sixty seconds.”

  I exhale and then toss my bedding into a black trash bag, my remaining toiletries into a shopping bag, and then pull on my boots and jacket over my pajamas. I gather other random items scattered around the small space, stuffing them into my pockets and a random bag.