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

by Ellie Hall

  “The news said we’re getting a blizzard. I think this calls for supplies.”

  “Are you thinking about baked goods?”

  “Yup. We should stock up in case the power goes out. Oh, and books.”

  We bundle up and set out for the bookstore and then the market. Catherine is on a quest to gather books and chocolate, and lots of each. I can’t say I object.

  She clutches her mittened hands together, fighting off the cold. I want to do the same with this edge of doubt slicing into my mind.

  We stop by the bookstore and are keenly reminded that Valentine’s Day is a week away.

  “I have one thing in mind. A beach read, a tropical escape. Sunshine, sand, and palms waving in the breeze,” she says.

  As the wind whips down the street, I capture an idea, inspiration, a surprise for Cat.

  She hightails it to the romance section.

  I pick up several new releases and thumb through the shelves before spotting Catherine on hands and knees in the F section. Fairchild, Faust, Ferdinand, Findley... Flynn. They have a few of the books from the Love Letters series.

  Moments later, she pops to her feet, calling, “Look what I found,” but didn’t realize I was right behind her. We bump and a stack of books topples. Her unzipped bag goes flying, scattering loose coins, a reading glasses case, phone, and a tampon. It rolls toward the clerk’s foot.

  She tugs her hat down over her face at the crash and cringes. I lower to a crouch, gathering the items and books, when the clerk picks up the tampon.

  “Lose something?” he asks with a chuckle and pushes his hipster glasses up his nose. He eyes her hungrily.

  I instantly hate his pointy-chinned, beady-eyed face.

  Catherine mumbles a courteous, “Thank you.” She carefully takes the tampon.

  I want to take her out of here and away from this dork.

  “Missed you coming by. Haven’t seen you here in a while,” says the clerk in a greasy voice.

  “Library,” she croaks.

  “Preparing for a long weekend with the big storm coming?” he asks.

  “I, uh, yeah. I guess so.”

  Then I recall a conversation she had with Hazel about the bookstore boyfriend. One of the potential dates for the dare. Catherine had said something along the lines of not confusing the bookstore boyfriend with a book boyfriend—her preference because the latter came with zero drama since he’s fictitious.

  The dude’s tapered finger taps the cover of my book, which Catherine clutches against her chest. Jealousy rocks through me. I want to tell him to back off but hold my tongue.

  I don’t think she’d take kindly to that.

  We aren’t official so if she wants to interact or flirt with this guy, she has every right.

  “Don’t you always wonder what authors who use acronym’s real names are?” the clerk asks.

  Catherine chuckles and looks in my direction. “No. I mean, not in this instance.”

  “Do you know the author?”

  “Oh, um, just a fan, you could say. Possibly his biggest fan,” Cat says.

  My hackles lower and I draw a deep breath.

  His eyebrows form double peaks as though he’s always pointing something out with wry interest—or devilishness. “You don’t see many guys who write this stuff, not that I’m paying attention.”

  “No, you don’t,” I confirm, especially not this particular dude.

  He takes her books to the counter, lingering when their hands touch. Thankfully, she still wears her mittens. My hackles are back up.

  “I’ll leave these up front if you want to continue browsing,” he says helpfully.

  “Oh, um, I think seven books is enough.”

  “Always good to stock up. There’s a new one by S.L. Parnell,” he says with a wink, referring to a steamy romance writer I’ve come across.

  If he’s familiar with that particular author, this guy is not an innocent boy next door. I suppose looks can be deceiving. The lurid smirk he wears makes it seem as if he’s asking if she’s into that.

  “I’m good,” Catherine says, always one to stick to the sweeter romances.

  “You sure?” he asks, ogling her.

  Clearly, she’s catnip and not just for me. I step forward.

  “My name is Tristen, by the way.” He holds out his hand.

  I step between them, thrusting my hand out and gripping his tightly.

  “And I’m Kellan.”

  My strong fingers squeeze his clammy palm, saying what I don’t need to.

  He shrinks back.

  She rolls her eyes and nudges me over. “I’m Catherine.”

  “Nice to finally meet you, Catherine. I don’t think it’s supposed to start snowing until tonight, but we could go grab some grub.”

  He ignores me and only fixes his eyes on her.

  Maybe I do need to use my words.

  “That’d be great,” she says.

  My stomach clenches, dips, knots.

  At me, she mouths, For the dare.

  To heck with the dare. What about the basketball game kiss, and every moment before and after when we made up, made new?

  He rings up Catherine’s books and tucks them in a bag. “I should be done here at six or so. Sometimes the person who works evenings and restocks is late. I’ll text you when I’m free.”

  She swipes her credit card to pay at the same time they exchange numbers. He passes her the bag and receipt.

  The guy spares me a glance as if to say Ha! I won.

  Nope. I’ll outlast you, buddy. Whatever it takes.

  More importantly, what is she thinking?

  When we step outside, an Arctic blast sends the receipt skittering down the sidewalk. Cat dashes after it and nearly slips as she stops it with her boot. She studies it for a long moment and whispers, “Knew it.”

  No, I knew it. She’s just not into me. My shoulders drop. Walking is an endurance activity.

  We’re quiet in the supermarket, but Cat focuses on ingredients for something she calls a Hummingbird Cake that Mimi, her grandmother, also used to make.

  Upon returning, my agent calls. I motion that I have to take it. Better this than trying to talk about what’s going on, why she took up that dolt on the offer for a date, and why she isn’t choosing me.

  Cat squeezes my arm as if that’s at all reassuring. Then, presumably, she gets ready for her date. After the call with my agent, I slouch off to Hazel’s end of the apartment, flip open my computer, and work on a scene I’d been stuck on.

  My computer dings with a notification that Cat updated the Boyfriend Book Blog. Begrudgingly, I open it.

  She tells the readers how she wants to curl up into a book-reading ball for the better part of the weekend, only emerging from her cocoon for Mimi’s cookies. Then she leaves them with a tasty little tease:

  In a surprising turn of events, the Bookstore Boyfriend, the clerk at my local indie bookshop, asked me out on a date. The Hottie in 7G, the Man-bun-barista, and the Gym Stud may not have worked out, but perhaps I saved the best for last. Stay tuned because date #4 may turn out interesting.

  She makes no mention of me. My heart craters. What gives? I was right. I’d like to curl up in a cocoon too. Or maybe just get out of here. Perhaps return to Italy.

  I hear Catherine on the phone and then she appears, dressed and ready in a fitted sweater with a scarf draped around her neck. She wears wide-leg jeans and a pair of spikey-heeled boots.

  Her phone hums with a Facetime video call. I linger in the doorway.

  “Oh, good. You’re wearing those boots. Add some lipstick. Red is a power color,” Hazel says over the phone.

  “But my face will already be red since it’s so cold out.”

  “You’re impossible,” she says. “But beautiful, as always.”

  I agree.

  “You really think so?” Catherine asks.

  She’s gazing at the phone, but I nod. Cat is gorgeous.

  “If you haven’t noticed, I�
��m not friends with ugly people.” Hazel laughs.

  “Of course you’d say that.”

  “It’s true. Name one of my friends who’s ugly,” she asks.

  “You also tend to see the beauty in others.”

  “Because I see it in myself,” she says.

  “So you think he might be the one,” Cat asks.

  “I’m certain.”

  “I kind of hated you for this dare, but I’m glad you helped me.”

  “I may have given you a nudge, but you’ve been doing the heavy lifting.”

  Catherine flexes her arm. “What are you doing tonight?” she asks her roommate from afar.

  “I’m exhausted from another full day of yoga. Believe it or not, I think I’ll take a page from your book and read.”

  “Since when do you read?”

  “Since I came across K.C. Flynn.”

  Hidden behind the edge of her phone, I catch the corner of her smile. It buoys me, but not enough. She’s still going on the date with that drudge.

  It’s well past six and Catherine’s phone hasn’t beeped with a text from the bookstore dud. Hope lifts once more as the friends chat for a few more minutes.

  Cat says, “Gotta run. He just texted. Wish me luck.”

  I want to stop her. To follow her. But this is her choice. I encouraged her to do the dare.

  Maybe Hazel is right, and he is the one. I may write romance novels, but with that guy, she could live out her wildest dreams.

  I slump back to my room, flip on my computer, and escape into words that I cannot say.

  Buns & Shakedown

  Catherine

  Kellan must still be on the call with his agent. I slip out of the apartment and spring for a cab to take me to the restaurant, not wanting to risk my demise in these boots. The neon sign hanging over the entryway says Chester’s Buns and Shakes. The outline of a big-busted woman winks and her electronic arms points to the words buns and shakes.

  Um. No.

  Instantly, I regret not telling Kellan. I regret coming here without him. But I had a reason, mostly that he can be hotheaded, as evidenced by his behavior in the bookstore. I had a feeling about Tristen and it turns out that I was right. I just want to be present when he gets what is coming to him.

  Music pumps from inside the restaurant. I was going to wear my grandmother’s pearls instead of the scarf but they would have been out of place. However, by the impression I get, so am I, at least with a sweater on. Maybe a bookstore boyfriend has a rowdy sense of humor and this is a practical joke.

  I’m not laughing, but the joke is on him.

  I text that I’m here. I refuse to go in. I’m not that kind of girl.

  A long and freezing five minutes later, he pops his head out the door. “Hey, you made it. I thought maybe I gave you the wrong address,” Tristen says.

  “You didn’t give me the wrong address?” I ask and discretely click record on my phone.

  “No, isn’t this place great?”

  I frown. “Do you come here often?”

  “A few times a week. My ex works here,” he says, gesturing over his shoulder.

  Oh. “By the way, you didn’t charge me correctly for the books earlier.” It’s go time.

  He scoffs. “Think of it as a complimentary gift—a hit against the trappings of capitalism.” Keep talking, buddy.

  “What about the bookstore owner?”

  “Whatever. They don’t give me paid sick days. And believe me, I get sick a lot.” He winks.

  A growl builds inside. “And the authors? That’s how they make their living.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  I’m about to argue all of this when someone giggles and tugs him back inside, leaving me alone on the sidewalk.

  I pull out my phone and text the bookstore owner. They’ll contact the authorities. Then I check in with Kellan.

  Me: Rescue me, please.

  My phone instantly rings. In a steely voice, Kellan asks, “Where are you? What’s wrong?”

  In the background, the apartment door squeaks and then slams.

  “I was doing a sting operation. Is that what they call it in the military or is that a police thing? Well, anyway, the cops and the bookstore owner should be showing up at any moment.

  In under a half-hour, Tristen has been arrested for theft, the bookstore owner thank me a hundred times over, and Kellan and I sit inside a diner. A perfect slice of chocolate cream pie rests temptingly on the table between us.

  As I wonder who’s going to take the first bite, he reaches for the fork and a dense morsel of rich dark chocolate, topped with a dollop of fluffy cream and chocolate shavings appears an inch from my mouth.

  I open.

  He feeds me. Not just the pie. But my heart.

  While we trade bites, I tell him how the bookstore buffoon was ripping off writers and his boss, undercharging people for books, including me.

  “I got the information for the bookstore owner and explained what I thought was going on. For example, my receipt from earlier showed a charge of $9.95. The seven books should tally up to at least a hundred dollars with tax, which I’ll gladly pay to support the bookstore and authors. I’m a booklover and consider it my contribution to the arts.”

  “What if it was a mistake?” Kellan asks.

  “I looked through all my charges over the last year or so. Usually, I don’t even take a receipt. Irresponsible, I know. But I had a hunch something wasn’t right.”

  “Why’d you agree to go on a date with him?” Kellan looks away, hiding the disappointment in his eyes.

  I gently guide his gaze back to mine.

  “To officially complete the dare and so I had time to figure out how to contact the bookstore owner without tipping Tristen off. Also, I wanted to lure him into thinking we were cool and then show him not to mess with me...or my favorite author.” I wink.

  Kellan doesn’t smile.

  But I do. “I’d never trade in a filet mignon for a burger from Chester’s Buns and Shakes.”

  He smirks. “Are you calling me man meat?”

  “I’m calling you hot stuff. Hotter than the Hottie in 7G, the Man-Bun-Barista, Omar, God bless him, and of course, the bookstore butthead.”

  He chuckles. “I have a stronger word for him, but I’ll keep it to myself.”

  Reaching across the table, Kellan links his pinky in mine.

  We’ve laid down our weapons and called a truce over chocolate.

  At last, there is peace in Catherine-Kellan land.

  I blink and meet his gunmetal blue eyes. They’re oceans of calm and kindness. It’s a relief to forgive him. To move on.

  Then as if trying once more to defeat my attempt at love and happiness, the place inside that softened and opened, stiffens, and begins to close as thoughts of Kellan leaving if things get too good, too intense attempt one last stand.

  I won’t let my doubts and fears overcome me. “The worst part is he stole one of your books.”

  “One of my books?”

  “And I plan to reread it later. When I first read it, I had no idea you were the author. Now, it’ll have new meaning.”

  “Pay close attention to the stargazing scene.”

  My cheeks warm.

  He says, “Remember that night it was raining and everyone planned to go to the movies, then a few people canceled—I think Marshall was sick—so we decided to meet up at Sal’s for bowling, but I don’t know what happened—you and I ended up in my driveway.”

  “We sat in your car and listened to music for hours.”

  It was the night of my dreams, being left alone with Kellan in a storm, with music playing low and neither one of us wanting to brave the pelting rain to run in the house where Claire and her boyfriend were waiting for us. We talked for hours and hours.

  Kellan hides a grin.

  I’m not sure if his expression is partly sunny or partly cloudy. Regretting the past or looking forward to the future. There’s a difference, you know. His
eyes sparkle, but there’s a shadow there too. My shield and sword glints on the periphery of my vision.

  I want to trust him fully. I can forgive what happened between us in the past. But I can’t forget.

  The server refills our coffees. Silence breathes between us.

  I tell myself to be positive. To be glass half full.

  For so long I wanted to stun him with laser beam eyes, shoot him the death stare, and watch him writhe in pain, but I’m out of ammunition. There’s no fuse to light. But there is a spark, reviving a feeling in me that was nothing but embers.

  Kellan’s eyes darken and he gets to his feet. He throws a twenty-dollar bill on the table, grabs my hand and coat, and pulls me outside.

  I struggle to get my mittens on as he rushes us a few doors past the diner. Snow pricks holes in the night sky, but there’s no chance to admire it because Kellan spins me toward a brick wall, gently cupping the back of my neck in one hand. The other grips my shoulder. His blue eyes probe the depths of mine.

  I inhale his smell, strongly masculine and the ocean-swept boy I remember, intermingling with the fresh scent of snow. There’s a pang in my chest.

  He leans in.

  Our noses brush.

  My breath catches.

  Once more, his lips slide against mine. I lift my chin, moving closer until there’s firm contact. His kiss is slow at first, a brief inquiry.

  My upper lip gains the attention of his lower. Then we switch. He takes a delicate nip. Our mouths flirt, dance, and find a rhythm. His hand tangles in my hair, protecting me from the bricks. We speak a wordless, all but forgotten language, but as the kissing continues under a snowy skyscape, we find we’re fluent in this language—the one of love, not war, not hate, but of tender affection, a pulsing connection.

  He picks up momentum and demand.

  I kiss him with all the energy I’ve kept inside these past years: the love, the hate, the confusion, the pain, and the longing channels through my lips.

  He emits a low sound.

  I shiver.

  He pauses and leans back, wearing a wolfish grin. “Are you cold? Do you want me to stop?”

  “No,” I whisper, tugging him closer. “No, I don’t want to stop.”

  I don’t want this to ever end.