Northwest Romantic Comedies: Boxed Set Books 1-6

by Lia London

  “You aren’t afraid there will be squid ink in your soup?”

  She shook her head, still swishing the silk ruffles at her collar gently between two fingers.

  Frank tried not to let his glance stray. It wasn’t as if Amaya’s chest bulged with provocative cleavage. She had a dancer’s lean form, but still, her femininity beguiled him. “You’re a pretty pirate, you know.”

  Her shoulders wiggled with laughter. “I bet I have a patch over my eye. Did the rain wash off all my make-up?” She rummaged in the pocket of her coat, which hung on the back of her chair and pulled out a compact mirror.

  Frank took a moment to peruse the surroundings and decided the food must be very good because the atmosphere resembled early cave-dwelling, minus the torches or wooly mammoth rug. When he glanced back, Amaya frowned.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  She no longer held up a mirror, but her phone. “Oh no.”

  “What? Is something wrong?”

  “This is crazy.”

  “What? Did something happen to MarLee or one of your cousins?”

  Amaya’s face flickered through an array of emotions, from elation to horror. “I have to go.”

  “What?” His voice pitched higher. “We just got here. Twice!”

  “Sandra’s morning sickness is getting to her. She’s puking backstage big time.”

  “But it isn’t morning,” said Frank.

  Amaya glanced at the time. “Show starts in forty-five minutes. They’re afraid to have her up on the wire for ‘Wanderer’. Jenelle needs me there now.”

  “But you have a prior obligation.” A spike of fear lodged in his neck, sending an icy stream down his spine. Was she about to leave him in disgrace after their clumsy arrival? Not tonight. Any night but tonight, when things had to be perfect but had already gone so terribly wrong.

  “Are you serious?” Her knit brows tied a knot in his tongue.

  “Can’t they just give her some Dramamine?”

  Amaya hunched her shoulders. “This is the whole point of being an understudy. That’s my prior obligation. I have to go. The show can’t go on without a dancer in those parts. If Sandra’s barfing, that means me.”

  “But … I have to finish tonight.”

  The wine concierge had arrived.

  This was not the time. “It’ll be too late to order a full meal if we come back after the show.”

  The concierge nodded in agreement.

  “Frank, please take me to do the show,” she begged. “We can do both.”

  The concierge cleared his throat. Frank’s mind raced with tangled thoughts. He wasn’t good under the pressure of time. Becki would skewer him. He might lose the lucky break. But what would Jenelle say? Would she cut him off from his last shred of family?

  Wiping beads of sweat from his upper lip, he leaned forward and hissed. “This is totally unprofessional.”

  “What are you talking about?” Amaya’s tone matched his. “This is totally professional. My dropping everything to do my actual, real job is what being professional means in this moment.”

  He had meant his own situation. Arriving late without a wallet and then leaving early without ordering? He couldn’t show his face here again if he did something that imbecilic. “It’s not far from here, is it? Can’t you stay a little longer and—”

  She thumped the table, rattling the silverware and startling the concierge. “I have to get there fast. It’s ten blocks away, and I have to get warmed up and in costume.”

  Flustered, Frank waved his arms. He felt like a disheveled fraud, incapable of stringing words together to solve this mess. “I can’t—”

  “You have got to be kidding me.” She stood and crammed her arms into her parka. “This is my career, Frank. Not a stupid dinner job.”

  Frank pointed at the table. “This is my career.” He felt his face rush crimson and lowered his voice. “Please, Amaya. Becki threatened my job. I’ve got to get this last review just right or—”

  “Go with me, and we’ll come back tomorrow,” she insisted.

  “The assignment is due tonight. Becki’s orders.” Frank felt his future slipping away. The job. Amaya. Both were disappearing away down a long slide. Gritting his teeth, he blurted, “We have an arrangement, remember?”

  “Oh, for crying out loud. I can’t believe you won’t help me with this. I thought I meant something to …” Amaya cut herself short, but not before he felt an arrow of regret pierce him.

  She narrowed her eyes and pulled her wallet out of her pocket. Without looking, she dumped its contents onto the table. A wad of small bills and 83 cents in change rolled onto his napkin. “Keep the change.”

  “Amaya!” he protested. “Please don’t make a scene.”

  “If I owe you more, send me the bill. You’ll get a full refund. Don’t worry.”

  He glanced nervously around. A waiter had joined the concierge. “Amaya, please.”

  “I don’t have time for this!” Amaya turned and ran out the door, pulling on her blue parka as she went. The pounding of her fists on the double doors drew all eyes in the room to her departing frame.

  Frank gawped after her, his mouth and eyes dry, and his organs shriveling with shame.

  “So … she’s leaving, but you’re staying?” asked the waiter, a mousy man in his twenties with frizzy hair.

  “Apparently so.” Frank dropped his face into his hands for a moment to regroup, then looked up with his practiced sneer. “I don’t suppose you can relocate me to the bar?”

  The waiter turned a full circle slowly, taking in the extreme proximity of the bar. “Sure. You could take the spot right there at the end if you want.”

  “Great.” Frank lunged in one, bear-like movement and seized a barstool.

  “You don’t want to go after her?” The waiter’s eyes widened.

  Frank’s heart lurched as he imagined the shattered pieces of his pride and dignity on the floor. There was no point in chasing her. Her message had come through loud and clear: she was through with him. He was thoroughly unlovable. It was too late. Damage done. He’d lost again.

  “What’ll you have?” asked the bartender, wandering up.

  “A glass of water and two antacids,” barked Frank.

  “Water, I have, but—”

  “Just bring me a plate of something detestable and a box to throw it up in.”

  Chapter 12 ~ “You Should Be Flying”

  Applause echoed in Amaya’s ears long after the last curtain call and congratulatory hug from cast mates. Despite arriving out-of-breath and sore from running ten blocks in heels, she had danced the “Wanderer” better than ever before. Perhaps her exhausted state had added to the despair of the character. Adrenaline carried her through her role as the lead robot, then through the nostalgic dance about children playing, and finally the tribute to The Jungle Book, where her lithe portrayal of Mowgli brought a standing ovation.

  Now fatigue and hunger struck, and she stared at her face under the bright lights of the make-up mirrors.

  “Thanks for making it in so fast, Amaya.” Jenelle gave her a half hug and crouched beside her chair. “Was Frank okay with it?”

  Amaya felt the sting in her eyes. “No.”

  Jenelle tensed. “No?”

  “I’m sorry. I …” Amaya sighed.

  “What happened?” Jenelle dropped to her knees and narrowed her eyes at Amaya.

  “I probably totally offended him. We had a bit of a fight over my leaving the date.”

  Jenelle licked her lips and stared at the floor. “That’s really unfortunate.”

  “I guess you’ll be getting Sandra back in there as fast as possible.” Amaya resumed scraping at the make-up on her cheek.

  “What?”

  “I mean, since it didn’t work out with me and Frank.”

  Balking, Jenelle set her elbows on the counter and made eye contact with Amaya’s reflection. “Is that what you think? That I set you two up as some sordid way for you
to get ahead?” She shook her head with obvious disgust. “Come on, Amaya, you know me better than that. I am strictly about talent and work ethic. If you were up there shining on the stage today, it’s because you’re the best dancer I’ve seen in my fifteen years of running this gig. Frank’s got nothing to do with it.”

  Amaya’s stomach growled with confusion. “I … what?”

  Wagging her head, Jenelle repeated, “Frank’s got nothing to do with you advancing. I just hoped you two would get along.” Her forehead dimpled with concern. “He’s had a rough go of it, trying to figure out this adulting thing on his own with no support from his family. When he pursued writing and the arts, his parents flipped out and told him he was wasting his time. He’s got so much raw talent and no belief in himself.” She held up a finger. “I know he acts like a pretentious pig, but he’s got no confidence. Never really had someone believe in him or recognize his worth.”

  Amaya felt a weight on her shoulder. “I know. I see that in him, too.”

  Jenelle sighed and rose to her feet. “I guess I hoped you’d shake that out of him. You make everyone feel special. I thought it would be a win-win. You’d get the dough you needed, and he’d get courage.”

  “Like the lion in The Wizard of Oz,” said Amaya with a sad laugh.

  “Sounds like he needs a heart and brain, too. He’s a regular Tin Man and Scarecrow.”

  Amaya smiled. “I am sorry, though. I was pretty rude to him. Maybe I was the Wicked Witch of the West.”

  “Well, I’m sure you tried your best. It’s not your fault he’s an idiot.” Jenelle left before Amaya could respond. What would she have said anyway?

  Charlene slid into the plastic chair beside her and dropped a vibrant bouquet of dyed daisies wrapped in cellophane. “You’re freaking brilliant, Amaya. You totally saved the day. I’m so proud of you, I could …” She let out a shrill squeal and kicked her heels in the air.

  Amaya chuckled and patted Charlene’s knee. “Thanks, girl. How’d you get the flowers?”

  “A little thing called a phone. I made a call and had them delivered ASAP as soon as Jenelle said you were coming.”

  Overcome with gratitude, Amaya swiveled in her seat and wrapped her arms around Charlene’s shoulders. “Thank you so much. You’re the best friend ever.”

  “Best enough to love you even when you stink,” teased Charlene, pulling back enough to bump foreheads with Amaya. “Did your boyfriend come see you again?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.” Amaya’s weariness doubled, and she turned back to the process of removing the body make-up.

  “Whatever. Is he out there?”

  “No, Charlene. He’s not out there.”

  Charlene’s brows bent low, and she leaned back. “How come?”

  “Because, as always, I come second.”

  “There’s another woman?” Charlene’s scandalized expression almost made Amaya laugh.

  “No, not that I know of. He’s off cuddling with his pride … his reputation.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means he put his stupid job over supporting me in my dream.”

  Charlene angled herself to meet Amaya’s eyes in the reflection. For a long moment, she said nothing, and then she shrugged sadly. “Maybe his stupid job is his dream.”

  Amaya hadn’t thought of that. She’d been too wrapped up in the urgency of her Big Moment.

  She stared at herself, heat pricking behind her eyes, making them feel puffy. Closing them, she pawed away at her skin with the sponge for several minutes. Her tears mixed with the make-up remover until she was left bare, exposed, and ashamed.

  Frank ended up placing an order to go because the three-course meal options were not available at the bar. While the young waiter huffed and puffed about how unusual it was, Frank nursed a lite beer on tap, knowing he’d have to make the long drive home sober, if not happy.

  A woman in a velvety, skin-tight top climbed onto the barstool next to him. “Hey, buy me a drink?”

  Frank couldn’t believe his rotten luck. He stared at her as the humiliation of attracting a barfly bimbo swept away the last of his pride. She was shapely enough, though a little on the short side. Her strawberry blonde hair tousled attractively around a ruddy, over-painted face. With a shrug, he flagged down the bartender. “Give her what she wants.” He swiveled to face her. “But I get one dance.”

  “Deal!” she said, hopping back down to the floor. Platform shoes with five-inch heels. He doubted the woman crested five feet on her own. “Have an apple margarita waiting for me when I get back, Joe,” she said to the bartender.

  “Sure thing, Dalila.”

  Frank raised a brow. Fruity hard alcohol. First-name basis with the bartender. “You come here often?”

  “Where else am I going to find the classy guys?” She wrinkled her nose like a bunny sniffing at clover leaves.

  “Right.” He stood and swept his hand towards the dance floor. “Ready for a trip around the room?”

  She tapped his chest with bright, tiger-striped fingernails. “Be more ambitious. We can trip further than that!” She giggled at her own joke.

  “I just need a feel for the floor,” he replied, already wishing he’d ignored her.

  “Not a feel for me?”

  Frank’s lips disappeared in a thin smile, and he lifted her arms into position as the music for a paso doble came blaring through the speakers.

  “Seriously?” Dalila sneered. “The music here is so random.”

  “It’s the traditional dance for matadors.”

  “Mata-whats?”

  “Bull fighters.” Dalila’s hands felt clammier than a bowl of oysters, and he needed this dance to be over.

  “You don’t want me to waltz or something, do you?” Dalila pulled her hands from his and wrapped them around his neck, thrusting herself a little too close for his comfort.

  “We can try the ‘or something’,” he quipped.

  Dalila giggled. “You’re weird.”

  He sighed and placed his hands on her waist. “I suppose I am.” Without further discussion, he shuffled around the floor, focusing more on the quality of the sound system, air flow, and dancing surface than on his partner. When he’d gleaned enough information to form a negative opinion, he let go of Dalila with a bow. “Thank you for the dance.” He glanced towards the bar. “I believe Joe has your apple juice, and I think I see my take-out order.”

  “Apple margarita,” corrected Dalila.

  “Of course.” He passed her graciously up onto her barstool. “Have a lovely evening.”

  “You, too.”

  “I won’t,” he said, retrieving the fancy paper bag with twined hemp handles and the Escondido logo on the side.

  “Hey, aren’t you staying?” Dalila pouted and gave what Frank assumed was intended to be an alluring shrug.

  “Nope.”

  “But I don’t even know your name.”

  “Yes, isn’t that fortunate for both of us?” He tipped an invisible hat and stomped out of the restaurant.

  Amaya found herself dependent on Charlene for a ride home. Normally this wouldn’t bother her, but her roomie wanted to go out and party a little before heading home.

  “It’s Friday night, after all. No classes to teach tomorrow. Nothing to do until cast call at six.” Charlene’s apologetic smile lacked sincerity, and Amaya felt like a jerk begging to be dropped off home first.

  “Okay, but don’t let me drink,” insisted Amaya.

  “What? Why not?”

  Amaya sighed, adjusting the ruffle of her white silk blouse, dry now after the rain. “I don’t want to do anything stupid. I’m feeling low, y’know?”

  “You just got standing ovations, Amaya. Jenelle praised your dance slippers off. You should be flying higher than the stars right now.

  Amaya wrapped her arm around Charlene’s shoulder. “I know. I’m an idiot.” What she didn’t say aloud was that all the applause in the world couldn’t give her the fee
ling of being supremely loved by a good man.

  The memory of Frank’s stammering face when she’d yelled at him burned in her mind, and she held back a scream. How could she have been so critical and unkind? He had changed impressively since their first greeting, opening up his scared soul to her. Tears blurred her vision, and she saw him struggling to be comfortable in her big, loud family, even helping her cousins with their homework. He had tried, she acknowledged.

  Why had she pushed him away? Couldn’t she have found a nicer way to leave without hurting him?

  Amaya ground the heel of her hands into her eye sockets. She had spent her whole adult life complaining she came in second with every guy she liked, but if she were honest with herself, wasn’t she equally to blame? Hadn’t she put her career ahead of love?

  And what had it gotten her? An auditorium full of cheering crowds, and a pair of empty arms to wrap around her selfish heart.

  Frank’s hands cramped because of how tightly he grasped the steering wheel. He harbored no fear of sliding off the dark, wet road, though the lines marking the lanes were barely visible beneath the black sheen. No, Frank worried that if he let go of the wheel, he’d wrap his hands around his own throat and give himself a fatal shaking.

  How could he have let his myopic pride stand in the way of … whatever might have been with Amaya?

  “You know words, Frank,” he growled at himself. “You know a lot of big, fancy, articulate words, but you’re an idiot. You can’t bring yourself to say, ‘I love you’.”

  He felt a jolt. Either the car had hydroplaned, or he’d just admitted aloud he held strong feelings for Amaya Jefferson. A strong feeling that refused to dissipate, no matter how many miles he put between them.

  Frank had heard the axiom you can’t love another person until you love yourself so many times that his teeth hurt whenever someone repeated it. Like a cavity.

  He shook his head. The cavity in his heart.

  Forcing his eyes wider, he snapped on the AC despite the cold weather, hoping the frigid air would push the tears back into his skull.