Northwest Romantic Comedies: Boxed Set Books 1-6

by Lia London

  “You’ve never liked yourself, Frank.” His gut churned, still empty except for the foamy part of the beer. “And it’s because you’re thoroughly unlikable. Amaya’s right. You’re a terrific snob. You detest caviar. You don’t belong in any elite clubs, and you don’t deserve the company of a woman as …”

  His vocabulary failed him. Words could not encompass how Amaya made him feel, except she filled his heart with an open, airy, free sensation even as his arms—his whole body—yearned for the closeness of a dance with her.

  “Aaaaaugh!!” he bellowed as he blew past a double-length semi-truck that threw sheets of water at his windshield. The lack of visibility was Mother Nature’s metaphor for his whole life.

  He’d blindly barged forward, searching for respect and admiration. What he wanted and needed was love. And he’d thrown it away for his own, childish ego. To avoid looking pathetic in front of strangers in an overpriced eatery, he’d allowed Amaya to believe she didn’t matter to him.

  He cursed the laws that forbade texting while driving, but knew he’d just wrap himself around a sign post. She’d probably lose her phone anyway. And what words could he ever find to win her heart—or at least one more dance?

  Amaya slept late. Very late. When she awoke and saw the time, she groaned because she’d still not slept late enough. Too many hours of the day stretched ahead in which she’d have to live with herself. Her selfish, stupid, lonely self. The self that was so self-absorbed it couldn’t love another self the way it needed to be loved. Self. Self. Self. She hated herself for the look she’d left in Frank’s eyes.

  From the kitchen, the whirring of a blender broke the silence of the apartment.

  “You up, Charlene?” called Amaya.

  Charlene’s voice came back, poorly disguised as a baritone male. “Nah, Charlene’s gone. I’m a psycho plumber who just ground her up into a smoothie to hide my tracks. You’re next.”

  Amaya snuffled into her pillow and shoved herself up into sitting position. “You are so bizarre.”

  “You aren’t sick, are you?” Charlene sounded more sympathetic now, and a moment later, she appeared in the doorway holding the cup portion of her personal smoothie blender. It held something vaguely orange-ish green, and Amaya tried not to guess the ingredients.

  “No. Just super tired.”

  “Adrenaline crash?”

  “Probably.” More like self-respect crash, but Charlene didn’t need to know that.

  “Well, can you get up now? Your dumb phone is lost somewhere in the living room, and you’ve gotten four thousand notifications. It won’t stop beeping, but I can’t find it to shut it up.”

  Amaya rubbed her eyes and yawned. “Oh.” She slouched and frowned. “Wonder who would be texting me so much.”

  Charlene crossed her eyes. “I doubt it’s the IRS or the FBI, so maybe, oh … I dunno … All your friends congratulating you for an amazing performance last night?”

  Amaya’s smile failed to register. “Right. It’s probably that.”

  Charlene came and sat beside Amaya, and the two of them stared at the floor in silence for a moment. Both wore men’s flannel pajama bottoms with a tank top, and both had hair sticking every which way. Their delicate, athletic bodies even shared many of the same contours, one freckled and pale, and the other dark and creamy.

  “We’re friends, right?” asked Charlene.

  “Besties.”

  “So, talk to me. You’re not happy the way you should be right now, and I’m assuming it has to do with Snootypants.” She took a sip of her sludge and draped an arm around Amaya’s shoulders. “You really liked him, didn’t you?”

  Amaya sighed. “Yeah.”

  “More than Milo?”

  “Way more.” Amaya tried to pull up a reasonable explanation for her sense of loss, but she kept getting flashes of guilt and remorse instead. “I was horrible to him, Charlene. He paid me in advance, so I could get my car back, and then he was a perfect gentleman every night. He was even a great sport with Barth. Did you know he spent four hours helping my cousins with essays?”

  “Wow, that is nice.”

  “And when he kissed me—”

  “He kissed you?” Charlene’s eyes brightened, and she shifted sideways to face this news with more focus. “Tell!”

  “It was a few dates ago, and it…” Amaya massaged her temples and raked her fingers over her scalp. “Hard to explain. It was the most beautiful feeling.”

  “So, he’s a good kisser?”

  “Oh my gosh, he’s amazing.” Her heart beat a little faster. “But that’s not the point.”

  “I’m pretty sure it is,” countered Charlene, taking another gulp of her smoothie.

  “From our conversations, I got the impression he’s lonely, Charlene. I don’t think he’s been with a lot of women.” She shrugged. “Maybe he’s never been in love before.”

  “Isn’t that what you were looking for? A man who could call you his first love?”

  Amaya’s throat tightened. “When I think back to everything that happened between us, it’s like I could feel part of him reaching out to me—not in some lusty, stupid, guy way—but more… He needed me.”

  Charlene’s eyes twinkled. “That’s so romantic!”

  Amaya chewed on her lip. “And I think I needed him, too. Is that dumb?”

  “Why would it be dumb?”

  “I’m an independent career woman.”

  Charlene tucked a knee up. “Operative word there is woman. And a woman was made to be loved—not sexed, not used, not toyed with and cast aside. Loved. Inside and out.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We need that, Amaya. Every one of us.”

  “Yeah.” She felt numb.

  “So, do you think he loves you inside and out?”

  Amaya’s tears burst forth in a fresh stream. “How could he, Charlene? I was so, so, so mean to him.” She punctuated her words with punches to her thighs. “I yelled at him, and dumped money in his face, and humiliated him in front of a whole restaurant.” The horror of how she must have embarrassed him stung. “Charlene, I literally ran out on him.” She buried her face in her hands. “I blew it so big.”

  “You probably crushed him.”

  “Charlene, shut up. I’m falling apart here. This might be the first time a man loved me first. There wasn’t anyone else. I think I was his number one choice, and I threw him away.”

  “Would it help if we found your phone and you called him?” Charlene patted Amaya’s back. “I know it would help me if we could find it and make it stop beeping before I stick my head down the garbage disposal in a moment of insanity.”

  Amaya chuckled despite herself, but then flopped back on the bed, her arms stretched wide. “I can’t just call him. He deserves better. But I have no idea what to do.”

  Charlene poked Amaya’s taut stomach. “Do what he does. Write.”

  “Write? And say what? Sorry, I’m an idiot?”

  “Well, yeah. Start with that. But then write a review of him. Glowing praise of everything you enjoy about him. Tell him how you feel.” She brushed her cold smoothie against Amaya’s arm, making her shriek. “You know, feelings. Those things you always hide behind your smile.”

  “Ow.”

  “I’m only speaking truth.”

  “I know.” Amaya’s head complained at her. “You’re talking about a love letter?”

  “You love him?”

  They both knew the answer, so Amaya didn’t bother to say it.

  “It is humanly possible to be a dancer and a teacher, and still be in a relationship, you know. It’s been done before. You don’t have to be afraid to try it. You won’t lose the dance company, but you could lose out on love if you don’t try.” Charlene gripped Amaya’s arm shaking it lightly. “Seriously, could you feel worse than you do now?”

  Amaya sat up and wrapped her arms around Charlene. “No.” Tears coated her cheeks in a matter of seconds, and she sobbed on Charlene’s shoulder until her
breath came in ragged gasps. Shuddering, she freed herself from the embrace and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

  “Ew.”

  Amaya coughed a laugh. “No grosser than whatever you’re drinking.”

  “But they’re not equally nutritious,” said Charlene. “You go take a shower and collect your thoughts. I’ll go find your dumb phone. When you get out, we’ll compose that love letter, okay?”

  Amaya nodded. Frank deserved an apology. Love might be out of the question by now, but at least she could be a decent human being and say she was sorry.

  “Frank Grumbleygut, are you stark-raving mad?”

  “Good morning, Becki,” groaned Frank into his cell phone. His eyes were closed, but he was quite sure he still wore the full three-piece suit and lay on top of the covers of his bed instead of comfortably under them. “Isn’t it still Saturday? I thought our meeting was on Monday.”

  “It’s two o’clock in the afternoon, not morning,” she blustered. “And the meeting on Monday is going to include some detailed explanations from you as to why you made such a spectacle of yourself in the Desperado.”

  “You mean the Escondido?”

  “Don’t change the subject,” she snapped.

  Frank groped blearily for his second pillow and sandwiched his head between the cushions of down stuffing. It did nothing to temper the shrillness of her voice. “Did you seriously order take-out with your vouchers? What were you thinking? What about the dance floor?”

  “I thought I posted the review.” He realized the pillowcase muffled his words, so he repositioned his head with a grunt. “Didn’t I mention the dance floor in the review?”

  “You called it ‘a squalid square meter of fry-sauce stains and floozies’.”

  Frank yawned. “And so it was. Wretched little place. Shadows crowded against the bar, and all packed tightly so you can’t avoid rubbing up against other diners inappropriately when you try to go anywhere.”

  “It’s a five-star restaurant. They’re supposed to have the best organic steak in town.”

  “Not in my review.” Frank wondered why this nightmare felt so real. At least it wasn’t the horrible dream in which Amaya needed his help and he flatly refused to think of anyone but himself.

  “Portlanders love that place,” insisted Becki.

  “Portlanders have bumper stickers on their old VW vans that say, Keep Portland Weird.”

  “Frank, I need you to re-write the piece. I can’t run it as is. Go ahead and have a layer of Grumbleygut snark, but don’t shred the place completely. I need the new version by four o’clock.”

  “Seriously?” he whined.

  “Improved copy by four, or Monday’s meeting won’t be the lovefest you dream of. This is your career, we’re talking about. A big door of opportunity is going to slam on you if you don’t shape up your act.” She disconnected.

  Opportunity. Career. Lovefest.

  Love.

  He’d been dreaming of love, all right.

  Love completely destroyed by his own utter unlikability and pride. By his incapacity to solve problems under pressure. He had no one to blame but himself when Amaya stormed out, but it didn’t make the hole in his chest any smaller to admit it.

  What could he possibly do to persuade Amaya Jefferson he wasn’t a complete jerk? Words wouldn’t be enough.

  He needed to take action. Bold action. But what?

  Frank heaved himself to his feet and trudged to the counter in his kitchen where he’d left his laptop the night before. After firing it back up, he ran a quick search and found the website he needed. “Now, where’s my phone?”

  “You going to be able to focus?” asked Charlene, placing her hands gently on Amaya’s shoulders.

  “Uh-huh.” Numb emotionally, Amaya set her body on automatic pilot, pulling on her costume.

  “Maybe he hasn’t seen your email yet. The fact that he hasn’t responded yet doesn’t mean he hates your guts forever, and—”

  “Yes, thank you, Charlene. I’m sure it has nothing to do with me humiliating myself with my crappy writing skills in front of a genius.”

  “Which came after acting like a reality show witch in front of a gentleman.” Charlene lifted Amaya’s chin with her finger. “Head in the game, now. Saturday crowd’s always the biggest. You gotta give it your very best.”

  “I know. Don’t you think I know?”

  The cast met backstage for final notes and a huddle of encouragement, then Jenelle let them disperse to the locations of their first entrances or the green room if they weren’t in the first number.

  ***

  After intermission, Amaya watched from the wings, letting herself live in the moment as half the company performed a dance with a seafaring motif. It was a perfect opening for the show, full of grand-scale moving set pieces with partial bows of boats and flowing sails with a lattice of ropes. Eye candy. Perched in the fake crow’s nest, Charlene portrayed an eager lad sighting land, and Amaya admired the acrobatic moves she used to clamber down.

  By the time the swashbuckling music swelled to its climax, the butterflies in Amaya’s stomach had synced themselves with her beating heart, and she was in the zone and energized.

  The night passed in a blur of music and movement. As predicted, the crowd responded well, cheering enthusiastically for all the dancers. Amaya’s satisfaction with her performance and its reception almost eclipsed her lingering sadness about Frank, but when the final curtain call came, a hollowness set in.

  Because they were a company, they stood in a line together for one long bow. Then the few featured lead dancers would step forward in turn, based on the complexity and quantity of their work. Amaya, as the soloist in four of the ten pieces, went last, and by the time, she stepped up to the foot lights, the brightness blinded her eyes. The applause surged, and she sensed movement in the audience.

  She dipped into a bow, knowing how fragile it made her appear in the Mowgli costume. The leotard matched her skin so that from a distance, the red loincloth looked like her only covering. With her hair picked to fly wild, one would hardly know she was a full-grown, elegant woman, not a scruffy little jungle boy. She loved the ability of all her costumes to transform her look entirely for each dance, and she was smiling at this thought when she lifted her eyes.

  “Oh!” She stopped mid-rise and gaped. Just below the lip of the stage, her entire extended family stood waving a long, plastic banner that read, We love you, Amaya! Barth and MarLee, at either end of the message, blew her kisses, and Amaya laughed, graciously returning the gesture before retreating to her spot in line with the other dancers.

  The performer to her right nudged her with his elbow. “Wow, your family’s awesome.”

  “I didn’t know they were coming again tonight,” replied Amaya through a wide grin as they collectively took a final bow.

  This time as she rose, a ripple of surprise sounded from the dancers. Amaya stared, open-mouthed. Barth and MarLee flipped the banner over to reveal a new message: You are my first and only love, Amaya! Please forgive me. There stood Frank with a terrified smile, in jeans and a polo, carrying an enormous bouquet of red roses.

  Without thinking, she raced forward and leaped from the stage, arms wide with a Mowgli-ish yelp.

  Frank dropped the flowers and caught her up, swinging her in a circle as she clung to him with her arms and legs wrapped around him. “Oh my gosh, are you going to get fired for that?”

  “Who cares?” Her heart pounded with joy. “You got my email?”

  “What? No.”

  “You mean you did this totally on your own?”

  He nuzzled his nose into her hair. “Obviously, I solicited some help from MarLee and company.”

  “But … you felt this way before I said anything?” Amaya wondered if her heart could be heard over the commotion.

  “What did you say?”

  “I love you, Frank Judd. I really do! And I’m so, so, so sorry if I ruined your review job. I didn’t mean
to. I was just thinking of—”

  Whether his passionate kiss or the applause lasted longer became a matter of debate in the family for years to come, but Amaya paid no attention. No public approval would ever fill her heart like that kiss, and she hoped they would share many, many more.

  Epilogue

  “Order 264,” droned the worker.

  Frank retrieved the tray of fast food, pinching a pair of fries into his mouth before setting the meal down in front of Amaya. “Want me to grab your drink?”

  She glanced up absently from a newspaper. “Huh? Oh, yeah. Dr. Pepper, easy on the ice.”

  “Got it.” He strode over to the fountain drink dispenser and filled their cups, casting repeated glances at Amaya, who finally met his eyes with a smile just as he fumbled to fit the plastic lid in place.

  “Need help?” she asked with a chuckle.

  “I figured it out.”

  A gaggle of teenagers joked with each other in the corner booth, and a man with earbuds and a beard down to his waist sat snoozing at a table by the window.

  He felt no need to impress this crowd. Under Amaya’s approving gaze, he had no need to impress anyone. Her love was enough. He was even learning to like himself

  Sliding the red and yellow cups onto the table, he sat down opposite Amaya and stretched his legs forward. She instantly enveloped his ankles with her calves and grinned. “So,” she said, tapping the paper with her finger. “You really hated that place, huh?”

  “The Escondido?”

  “Yeah. It didn’t have what I’m looking for in an eatery.” He winked. “You weren’t there.”

  “You prefer your menus up on the wall after all, Mr. Grumbleygut?”

  “That’s Mr. Judd to you. I am no longer doing the other part.”

  Amaya raised a brow at him and began unwrapping her burger. “Really? When were you going to tell me this wonderful bit of news? Is that why you’re available for lunch on a Monday afternoon?”

  He smirked. “The Register-Guard and I have parted … over creative differences.”