Pretty Ever After (Chicago Nights Book 3)

by Tabatha Kiss

  “You’ve said all I need already. Thanks, man.”

  “You’re welcome?”

  I hang up. “She’s at her parents’ house,” I say.

  Trix nods excitedly. “Okay, good.” Her brow furrows. “Should we go over there now?”

  “No,” I say, glancing around. “Not yet. We need to be more delicate than that, I think.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, she’s acting out. Burning bridges. Losing all hope.” I nod. “At this point in the story it’s time for a grand gesture.”

  “A what?”

  “A grand gesture. You know, like an extreme act of love. Something over the top that gets her attention and makes her realize how much she wants me again.”

  She frowns. “Is this a kissing book thing?”

  I nod. “Leave it to me. I’ll handle it.”

  “Wait, how?” she asks, skipping to keep up as we sidle past the movers in the hall again. “What are you going to do?”

  I smirk at her.

  She groans. “I hate when you do that.”

  Thirty-Nine

  Melanie

  Derrick dropped to one knee. Cady gasped, her hand gently rising to her mouth in shock.

  “Cady,” he said with a dozen roses in one hand and an open velvet box in the other. “I love you. I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you, I just didn’t know it. I didn’t know how to express it, but I know now. I know how to make you happy, to honor and cherish you until the day I die, so... Cady Williams...” He extended his hand, bringing the bright, shining diamond even closer. “Be my wife. Marry me. Marry me and we’ll put all of this behind us.”

  Cady stood still. She lowered her hand to her side, her chest quivering with anticipation deep in her gut.

  “Are you serious?” she asked.

  “Yes!” he said. “I want this more than anything else in the world.”

  Cady rolled her eyes. “No,” she said, standing tall. “No, I will not marry you.”

  Derrick blinked in shock. “You won’t?”

  “Hell no. You’re a stupid, lying, manipulative bastard with a tiny pecker and you know what? I can do better. I don’t have to stand here and put up with your bullshit ever again for the rest of my life.”

  She turned around, leaving the bastard on his knees.

  “Wait, Cady!” Derrick shouted from the sidewalk. “I love you!”

  Cady doesn’t look back. “I don’t care,” she said.

  “But...” He shuffled to his feet. “I’m so hot!”

  “So?”

  “And I have tattoos!”

  “Good for you.”

  “Then, shouldn’t you forgive me?”

  Cady rolled her eyes into oblivion. “Goodbye, Derrick.”

  “Please! There must be something I can do!”

  “Sure.” She spun around. “You can go die.”

  Then, a shiny red sports car stopped at the crosswalk. The top was down, exposing the elegant stallion of a man in the driver’s seat. He was stunningly handsome and fashionable, the seams of his six-piece suit practically ripping apart around the meaty muscles of his torso and biceps.

  The man smiled at Cady with a set of perfect white teeth. His golden quaff barely moved in the summer breeze as he raised a finger and beckoned her closer.

  “Hey, baby,” he said. “You ready to go?”

  Cady bit her bottom lip, oh-so-ready. “Yes,” she breathed as she hopped off the curb.

  Traffic was blocked and people honked their horns and shouted, but Cady didn’t care. She was happy now. Happier than ever before. Happier than Derrick ever made her. Ever ever ever.

  Derrick scoffed. “Who the fuck is this?!”

  Cady threw open the passenger side door. “This is Renaldo,” she said. “And he’s a real man. A better man with a bank account and a yacht and a very, very large penis.”

  Derrick gasped. “Larger than mine?”

  “Way larger.”

  And with that, Cady lowered herself into the car. She snuggled up beneath Renaldo’s thick arm as the drivers went wild, but they weren’t angry anymore. They clapped and honked in the name of true love, shouting You go girl! into the wind while Derrick probably fell to his knees and cried and died alone somewhere. Who knows? No one cared to check.

  And Cady lived happily ever.

  The doorbell rings downstairs. Again.

  I ignore it, feeling annoyed that my latest attempt at Cady’s happy ending was once again interrupted, but perhaps it was for the best. Can’t exactly keep these words, anyway. I’ve been rage-sprinting for days now and every scene always seems to come back to Renaldo.

  Who the fuck is Renaldo?

  Drew appears in my open doorway with a vase of roses in his hands. “You got another one,” he says, holding them up.

  I sigh from the bed. “Just put them with the others, I guess,” I say, purposefully throwing my focus back to Derrick and his tiny pecker.

  Drew walks in and pauses next to the desk, awkwardly trying to fit it next to the nine other vases Robbie has sent over in the last three days. Afterward, he plucks the card free and opens it. “You figure out what it says yet?” he asks.

  “Yeah, about three bouquets ago,” I say, glaring at the spread of cards on my floor.

  Drew kneels beside it and drops the newest one on the floor in the final empty spot. Ten cards. Ten puzzle pieces.

  One big pain in my ass.

  “You’ve got to admit,” Drew says. “It’s clever.”

  “No, it’s not,” I mutter.

  “You going to go?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Drew...”

  “I mean, the guy went through all this trouble, you might as well give him sixty seconds.”

  “I gave him years of my life,” I say, glaring at my little brother. “Not making that mistake again.”

  Drew rises off the floor. “Come on, Mel. It’s Christmas.”

  “Christmas is a marketing tool.”

  “Yeah, no shit, but even Scrooge got his shit together for it. You should, too.”

  I close my laptop and hop off the bed. “Get out of my room,” I say.

  “Nope.” He shakes his head. “Mom and Dad put me in charge of the house while they’re on their cruise and I don’t want to, so tough titty, big sister.”

  I point at the door. “Get out!” He doesn’t move. I try to shove him, but he easily slaps my hands away. “Drew, knock it off!”

  “No.” He digs his heels in. “Not until you say you’re going to meet with Robbie.”

  “One, I’m the oldest, so I’m in charge.”

  “No, you’re not. Dad said you’d say that.”

  “And two, no, I will not meet with Robbie.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want to, so mind your own business and get out of my room!” I shove him again, but it’s still like fighting a brick wall. I groan. “When did you get so freaking tall?”

  “Do you remember the end of Soulmates in Sixty Seconds? When the hero sets up an elaborate flash mob that re-enacts all the stages of their relationship in under a minute, making her realize that she really loved him all along?”

  I blink twice. “You read my books?”

  “No, but Robbie does, and that’s the point. Most guys wouldn’t bother, but he does. He supports you.”

  “He invented a secret admirer and lied to me about it for months, Drew,” I argue. “That’s not exactly what I’d call support.”

  “He did that because he loves you. What part bothers you the most, big sister? That it was all a white lie? Or that the man who loves you that much was right in front of you and you were too stubborn to admit it?”

  I furrow my brow. “How did you know the ending to Soulmates if you didn’t read it?”

  “Because Robbie gave me twenty bucks to remind you about it. Wanna get pizza?”

  I groan and shove him again. This time, he stumbles back into the hallway
.

  “Give him a chance,” he says. “You know you want to.”

  “No, I don’t,” I say.

  “Yes, you do.”

  “No, I don’t!”

  “Yes, you do!”

  I slam the door in his face. I heave a frustrated, big sister breath, fighting the urge to stomp my feet while I’m at it. With arms crossed, I glare at the ten bouquets gathered on top of my desk. They’re the same roses he sent me before. That scent used to drive me crazy in the best of ways, but now the smell just gathers in my stomach like a rock. I should just spew them out and get the pain over with.

  I walk over to the desk. I reach out and pull open the top drawer. Six little ribbons all bunched up together. I now know each one symbolizes one month of his sobriety.

  I push the drawer closed, smashing the ribbons inside. If he wanted to celebrate with me, then he should have just told me. Why the secrets? Why the games? Why lie to me and then get my friends in on the lie? Did he want to make me look stupid, because I definitely feel stupid for ever falling for it.

  Little Black Book presents: Love in Sixty Seconds.

  Instantly Fall in Love this Christmas!

  I glare at the finished puzzle on my floor. Ten little cards all put together to create a flier for Nora’s speed-dating event.

  The timer goes off, signaling the end of the minute.

  “Pass,” I say, giving this guy the only smile he’ll ever get out of me.

  He slinks from his chair, still glaring at me as if I just sprouted a second head. Oh, well.

  The next guy sits down in front of me. I let my eyes bounce from the crown of his head to his white t-shirt, which is all I can see above the table. Dark, shaggy hair. A worn-out leather jacket, but he makes it work.

  I open my mouth to ask my usual filter questions, but he talks over me.

  “Why are you really here?” he asks, his voice naturally deep yet playful.

  I pause. “Excuse me?”

  His head bobs toward the poor sap I just excused. “That’s the sixth guy to creep away from this booth looking like you just castrated him with your teeth. You’re nothing at all like the gruesome travesty I expected when I sat down.”

  I shrug a shoulder. “Can’t handle me at my worst, yadda yadda. Do you want—”

  “Did your friends drag you to this like mine did?” he asks.

  “No,” I answer. “I came here for research.”

  “Oh?” He leans forward. “You’re a writer?”

  I raise a brow. “How did you guess?”

  “You’ve got the vibe.”

  Fair enough.

  “I’m a novelist,” I confirm with a nod. “Just doing a bit of Saturday night research for a book I’m working on. It was my editor’s idea. This kind of thing isn’t my usual forte.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “Are you going to ask me what I’m working on?” I ask, expecting the question.

  “Hell, no. That’s the worst thing you can ask a writer.”

  I tilt my head. He speaks truth.

  My eyes wander his face again. It’s pleasant. Very pleasant, actually. Stark eyes, high cheekbones, and a jaw built for eating pussy.

  Not bad, leather jacket guy.

  Not bad at all.

  But...

  “Do you want kids?” I ask.

  “Nope,” he answers. “Got snipped last year.”

  Jackpot.

  “Really?” I ask.

  “I framed the all-clear letter from the urologist. It’s hanging above my bed next to a picture of my childhood corgi.” He cocks his head. “Why? Is that a dealbreaker?”

  “No, I love dogs.”

  He smiles. Oh, fuck me. He’s got dimples, too.

  “What’s your name?” he asks.

  “Melanie,” I say.

  He extends his hand across the booth. “It’s nice to meet you, Melanie. I’m Robbie.”

  I untangle my arms from their protective wrap around my chest to shake his hand, admiring his long, strong fingers as I do.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Robbie.”

  The timer chimes again. The other men get up to move down, but Robbie rebels with his eyes still locked on mine.

  “Hey, what are you doing after this?” I ask him.

  “You,” he says.

  I grin.

  Good answer.

  I sit down on my floor next to the puzzle. I pinch a card in the middle and pull it out, the one from today that completes the date, time, and location. I know what he’s doing. Robbie was always better at coming up with the cheesiest grand gestures. Taking me back to the night we met. Re-living our first date, our first kiss, our first fuck. It’s more than a little obvious.

  Hell, it might even work.

  Forty

  Robbie

  I scan the holding room, surrounded by two dozen eligible dudes in suits. I guess the average person sees Botsford Plaza on a flier and dresses to impress, but I wasn’t about to deny the magic of my leather jacket and tight, white t-shirt.

  Especially when it comes to wooing Melanie Rose.

  She’ll come.

  She won’t be able to resist it.

  Finally, a short brunette with a clipboard opens the golden double doors and announces that it’s time to start. She gives us the basic speed-dating spiel for anyone living in a hole for the last fifteen years. Each date is sixty seconds. When the timer goes off, we say goodbye, and move down to the next lady. We can mingle in the lobby afterward and treat ourselves and our dates to a discounted room for the night, courtesy of billionaire Nora Payne. How kind of her.

  That said, it might be nice to curl up with Melanie after this with room service and fancy white bathrobes. Just leave the world behind.

  Merry Christmas, baby.

  I follow the crowd into the main ballroom. The cutesy brunette told us to pick a random chair — doesn’t matter which, as we’ll all hit each one eventually over the next twenty-five minutes, but I’m a little more impatient than that.

  I scan the tables. A blonde. A brunette. A redhead. Another brunette. All beautiful and dressed to the nines.

  But they’re not my Melanie.

  No one is.

  I shuffle down the tables, dodging suit jackets and shiny loafers, and desperately trying to maintain morale as I search for her.

  There she is.

  She’s here.

  I catch sight of her at the far end of the table and, just like four years ago, my breath instantly leaves my body. Back then, she wore a little black dress that she was clearly uncomfortable in, but she wanted to take the research seriously. She got me out of it, a man who thinks she’s beautiful no matter what she wears.

  I quicken my step as another man approaches her ahead of me. He reaches out to grab the chair, but I tap his shoulder and point away with my thumb.

  “Piss off, dude,” I say, bumping him aside to take the chair.

  He scoffs without making a fuss and instantly forgets all about it when he sees the skinny blonde two chairs down.

  Melanie watches me lower into the chair. She tucks her lips downward to hide how badly she wants to chuckle, but she won’t let herself.

  This time, she wears her gray coat with a striped black and blue sweater beneath it. Confident and comfortable. That’s my Melanie.

  Her eyes bounce down the arms of my jacket.

  Finally, she smiles.

  “Let’s get started, everybody!” Clipboard Girl says. “Three-two-one! Go!”

  The timer goes off. The room instantly erupts in pleasantries.

  Melanie and I don’t say a word. We stare at each other, wasting precious seconds, but that’s how long it took for us to fall for each other before. We can do it again.

  Melanie sits forward slightly, ready to break the silence. “Listen, Robbie, I—”

  “Wait,” I say. “Let me talk first. I only have like fifty seconds left here and I really need to get this out.”

  She goes quiet and nods.
>
  I clear my throat. “Hi, there. I’m Robbie.”

  “I’m Melanie,” she replies.

  “That’s a pretty name.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you like romance novels, Melanie?”

  “I’ve read a few,” she says, playing along.

  “I love them,” I say. “That’s the first thing you should know about me. I love romance novels. People give me weird looks when I read them in public, but I’m secure enough to not care. They’re missing out, not me.”

  Melanie’s lips twitch, but she says nothing.

  “They’re full of hope,” I continue. “Story structure dictates that there needs to be a dark moment near the end when everything falls apart. In romance, that’s when the couple has to make a choice. They can go their separate ways and stop hurting each other, or they can fight for each other. They always fight. They always choose each other. They’re in love and nothing else matters. It doesn’t matter how hard it is or how illogical it is. They choose love. That’s why I read romance. It makes me think there’s someone out there who would look at me and see someone worth fighting for.”

  Melanie swallows hard. “Rob—”

  “I’m a liar,” I say over her. “That’s the second thing you should know about me. I lied to myself. I lied to my wife. I lied to her about lying to her. She deserved… and deserves better than me. She deserves a man like the ones in romance novels who will always choose her no matter what.”

  “Is that who you are now?” she asks.

  “That’s who I will fight to be for the rest of my life, Melanie. For you.” I slide my hand across the table, taking hers. “It will be hard and very illogical, but I know that we are worth fighting for. I love you. I’ve loved you since the moment I sat down in a chair just like this one four years ago. And I know that you love me, too.”

  “You’re right, Rob,” she says. “I do love you. But love isn’t enough.”

  “It’s a start,” I argue.

  “Romance is a fantasy. It’s neat and structured and everything always works out, but it’s not real.”

  “Mel—”

  “You hurt me.” She pauses. “And I’ve hurt you plenty, too.”

  “Then, what do we do?” I ask. “How do we fix this? How do we put this behind us?”