by Jayne Denker
"Hang on. I'm taking it off the market for now so you can have free rein with it. Go ahead—renovate it the way you've always wanted. I mean top to bottom, not just spruce it up. You were right," he shrugs. "It's too tired looking, and nobody wants to take on that challenge. So do your thing. Then we'll turn it back over to Laura to sell."
"Wait a minute. Back up. When you asked me to list it—"
"And you refused—"
"Can't guilt me."
"You thought I needed the money because DBC was in trouble. It wasn't—which you would have found out if you'd just asked me—"
"Yeah, yeah. So why are you selling it?"
"Well, let me tell you a little story." With a sigh, he rounds the bar and sits on the stool beside me. "But blow out your candle and make a wish first, before you have a puddle of wax in the middle of your frosting."
I do as he suggests, sneaking a finger full of frosting as I turn back to Conn. "Okay, tell me a story."
"When I asked you to list the house last spring, I had decided to sell because I was getting kind of…restless."
"You were bored with Abbott's Bay?" Unthinkable. "You told me you'd never leave here."
"I wanted to stay, but I didn't think I could anymore. I…couldn't take being around you."
I'm horrified. "Did I annoy you that much? You told me it was an act, a smokescreen."
"It was. I figured if I stayed annoyed, I wouldn't act like an idiot around you. There I was, crushing on you so hard, while you looked right through me."
God, that was what Maude said when she asked me for help—she accused me of never noticing other people around me. And it may have been true. But never with Conn. I take his hands in mine and say earnestly, "I always saw you. Always."
"But not the way I wanted you to. You didn't feel the same way."
I'm so stunned I don't know what to do. So I shove his shoulder. "Why didn't you ask me out, you doofus? You could have convinced me. Easily."
He grins. "Sure, I know that now."
"So you were going to sell everything you owned and leave?"
"I thought maybe I could get you out of my head if I didn't see you every day."
"Thank goodness you stuck around." I give him a long, reassuring kiss. "So why did you end up listing it with Laura anyway? God, when I saw that For Sale sign, I thought you were going to dump me and move to Provincetown."
"What? Never!" Conn takes a breath and says in a rush, "I still want to sell it because you hate it. I want you to be happy. I figured I'd sell the ugly house so you and I can have a fresh start…in a house you like."
You and I? Conn is asking me to move in with him? I lean forward and interlace my fingers at the back of his neck. "No." Then, before Conn can get worried, I add quickly, "You love the house. And I…like it. We should live in it."
"Really?"
"If you really meant it when you said I could renovate it."
"Oh, I meant it."
He looks so happy I can't resist kissing him again. "There's just one small problem."
"What's that?"
"Us living in sin. Your mother's head would explode."
"Hm. You're right. We can't have that."
Well, damn. I don't expect him to backpedal so quickly.
I'm scrambling to come up with a way to invoke a no-backsies rule when he says evenly, "Maybe we should get married then."
A buzz starts in the back of my head and my brain switches off. My breathing grows shallow, and I vaguely wonder if I'm hyperventilating. Especially when Conn brings out a ring. The man. Has. A ring. A gorgeous one. I look from the diamond to his anxious but hopeful handsome face to the diamond to Conn to the cupcake (don't judge—I said my brain has switched off) and back to Conn.
"Wh-where did you get this?" I breathe, awed.
"Oh, I've had it for a while. Tonight…it seemed like the right time."
A while? How long is a while? "So you didn't…because…the other day, when you found out Jack asked me to the ball…"
He laughs softly. "No, I didn't rush out and buy a ring out of jealousy. In fact, if you really want to try to get Jack away from Sasha, just say the word…"
"And what? You'd support me?"
"Well, no. I'd question your sanity, to be honest."
"So would I." My eyes are drawn to the ring again. "And you're serious?"
"Completely."
"I mean…me?"
He puts on an exaggerated puzzled expression and glances around the empty restaurant, pointedly indicating he hasn't confused me with anyone else. It's amazing how he can still get a laugh out of me even when I'm a stunned wreck.
Then he grows serious, saying earnestly, "Melanie, I love you. I've loved you for a long time, in so many ways over the years I don't even know exactly when I fell in love with you, but I did. Completely. Wholeheartedly. And permanently. Do you need convincing? Because I've got ammo for that. We've known each other forever. You know me better than anyone in the world."
"And you know me better than anyone in the world. That's the problem."
"How is it a problem?"
My insides surge as I brace myself to reveal my deepest fear. "A while back, you said I was perfect. We both know I'm not."
"M, come on."
"I'm a spoiled brat."
"You're not."
I just raise an eyebrow at him.
"You grew out of it," he amends.
"I waged a reign of terror."
"You grew out of that too. I'm not so sure Taylor did, but…"
God, he's got me laughing again. But I still need to get this out. "And the whole TV thing…you accused me of doing it because it was a boost to my ego, but that wasn't the reason. I wanted to be…" I hesitate, because saying it out loud might make it seem as ludicrous as I suspect it is.
"What?"
"Worthy of you."
"What in the world are you talking about?"
"You and Jack and Sasha all have your 'big things' that you do, the things that make you special. Being on TV gave me a chance to…I don't know…be somebody, get to that level."
"Are you kidding? You already are somebody. You're Melanie Abbott, totally unique and irreplaceable. Empress of Abbott's Bay. Own it. There's nothing better."
"Be serious."
"Look, whatever you thought you were trying to achieve, that level you were trying to reach…it's not real. There is no next level. And you're definitely not beneath Jack or Sasha. I mean, look at them. All the money in the world can't fix that hot mess."
"You're making it really hard to be serious right now."
"Do you want to go back to Triple N and try again? Be the next Trudy Helmet-Head?"
"No," I say emphatically. "Lanie was a horrible person, and I'm glad she's dead. Good riddance."
"So you don't regret quitting? You could have been famous."
"Famous for all the wrong reasons. No, no regrets. Besides, I can't go back now. You punched my boss."
Conn laughs then takes my hand. Softly and seriously, he says, "M, you have nothing to worry about. You think I don't know you're not perfect? I've seen you at your worst for years."
"Hey!"
"And at your best. Believe me—your best far outweighs your worst." I'm still dubious, and my expression must show it, because he adds, "Of course you're not perfect. Nobody is. When I said you were perfect, I meant perfect for me. I love you, Melanie Abbott. You say you love me—do you mean it?"
"I do. I love you with all my heart."
"Okay then. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. If you'll have me." I'm back to being speechless. This is really happening. I must be quiet longer than I think, because Conn asks worriedly, "Melanie? Are you freaking out?"
Yes. Yes, I am freaking out. But not for the reason he thinks. I'm observing our entire lives collapsing in on our present reality. My head is flooded with memories of Conn and me, at all stages of our lives together—when we were kids, playing on the beach…okay, he was playing f
ootball and I was running up and down the sidelines, in awe of him…when I was a teenager and almost shy around the cocky collegiate who seemed so much more mature than I was, Conn at his wedding, our close friendship over the past several years. I've known and loved a dozen different versions of Conn, and now they've all converged into the wonderful man in front of me. The one who's waiting for my answer.
As if there's ever been more than one option.
"Yes," I whisper.
"You are freaking out?"
"No! I mean yes, I'll marry you."
"You will?"
His bewildered squeak makes me laugh even as I start crying—happy tears. "Don't sound so shocked, will you please? Yes. I'll marry you." My voice is shaky, but my decision isn't. Not at all.
Finally his face lights up, and he grabs me, holds me tight, kisses me over and over. "I promise," he whispers into my hair, "I will do everything I can to make you happy for the rest of your life."
"You've got a pretty good head start already." As he rests his forehead against mine and brushes my tears away with his thumb, I murmur, "Melanie Garvey," for the first time. Well, the first time out loud, anyway. "That'll work."
"Oh, no. You can't change your name."
"Why not?"
"Because you're Melanie Abbott first, last, and always. Don't ever change."
EPILOGUE
Two and a half weeks later, my dad wins his assembly seat, and quite handily too. He's so excited, he calls his erstwhile boyfriend Jerome to tell him, and they have a lovely, long conversation. I'm hopeful for a reconciliation.
Election Day also happens to be my birthday this year. My mother calls—an interesting, unique twist on our birthday phone tag. I let it go to voicemail. I call her back eventually.
Two months later, Sasha and Jack have a baby girl. Conn and I send a card. It's a nice card.
Four months after that, a party of DBC loyalists travels from Abbott's Bay to the Cape to celebrate the opening of DBC II in Provincetown. It's a stunner of a place, which Tommy will be managing. Conn hates to lose him, but he knows the new restaurant will be in good hands. Besides, he fills Tommy's old job instantly, bumping Marty up to full-time manager. There's much happy-dancing by me and Hannah about this.
Three months after that, Conn and I have a glorious August wedding on the beach. Bare feet, picnic food, dancing till dawn—everything that makes us happy. (And everything that's the complete opposite of Conn and Sasha's dignified, traditional nuptials. Yes, I planned it that way on purpose.) We get top billing in the Abbott's Bay Bugle's Bugle Bites column. All our friends are there, including Beebs and Ornette (as a couple—I was right all along—it just took them a little more time to get there), Hannah and Marty, Vernon and Zoë (who are so happy to spend another summer together in Abbott's Bay), Taylor and some new guy she's dating, and as many of the residents of Abbott's Bay who want to attend. Dad is thrilled, as is Bruce Garvey. Constance is another matter, but I'll win her over eventually. Never underestimate Melanie Abbott. Sasha and Jack politely send their regrets, claiming their daughter isn't quite up to traveling yet. They send a card. It's a nice card. Ours was better.
Then, in the dim, dove gray light of a new morning, Conn pulls me away from the party, which is finally winding down, and takes me to Deep Brew C.
"Making me coffee?" I ask, as he leads me inside, the train of my lace dress swishing on the oak floorboards.
"I will if you want. But I have a wedding present for you."
"It can be coffee."
He doesn't turn the lights on, just leads me through the shadowy restaurant to my favorite wingback chair, and whispers against my ear, "You might start Your New Best Friend up again, or you might not. But no matter what, this is always, always your spot."
Standing on the cushion of the chair is an engraved brass place card that reads, Reserved—M.A.
My breath catches, and suddenly I'm crying and laughing at the same time. I've got what I've always wanted. And the Reserved sign too.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jayne Denker divides her time between working hard to bring the funny into her romantic comedies (six and counting) and raising a young son who's way too clever for his own good. She lives in a small village in western New York that is in no way, shape, or form related to the small village that's the setting for her Marsden novels, Down on Love, Picture This, and Lucky for You. When she's not hard at work on another romcom, the social media addict can usually be found frittering away startling amounts of time on Facebook (Jayne Denker Author) and Twitter (@JDenkerAuthor). She has an Instagram account (@JayneDenkerAuthor), but she's not sure why. Stop by her blog, http://jaynedenker.com, and say hi.
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BOOKS BY JAYNE DENKER
Your New Best Friend
Marsden Novels:
Down On Love
Picture This
Lucky For You
Other works:
Unscripted
By Design
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SNEAK PEEK
If you enjoyed this romantic comedy, check out this sneak peek of another exciting novel from Gemma Halliday Publishing:
THIS IS 35
by
STACEY WIEDOWER
CHAPTER ONE
Falling Up
April 12, fourteen months to thirty-five
Erin Crawford knew better than to look down.
After five years of living outside the lines, paving new paths, scaring herself every day, living her dreams, and every other self-improvement cliché in her vast writer's repertoire, she knew damn well better than to look down.
But Leo Messick—field producer-slash-Evel Knievel wannabe—seemed determined to shake the very foundation of her courage, if not her sanity. "Watch how I'm doing it."
"I'm trying," Erin said between gritted teeth. "Hang on." The cord she gripped like a literal lifeline was cutting into the outer edge of her wrist. She clenched it tighter, anchoring her cheek against the gritty face of the boulder and searching for a new foothold with the toe of her climbing shoe before daring to shift her gaze south.
The split-second glimpse of evergreen treetops far below, their spindly tips glinting in a brilliant, sunlit haze, was enough to send a spasm of panic through her stomach and make her head feel as if it were spinning away from her body. She sucked in a sharp breath, closed her eyes. Do not…look…down.
"I…can't," she said after a long moment, her voice an exasperated exhale. She rested her face against the side of the mountain, the coarse surface of the rock grating like sandpaper against her skin.
"There's no 'I can't,' only 'I can try.'"
The catch phrase Erin had written and heard uttered dozens of times through the lips of her show's host—who was safely back in L.A., presumably shooting studio footage in front of a green screen while she performed this death-defying act of insanity—stung like a slap across the cheek, and her eyes popped open.
"That. Is. So. Unfair." She huffed, each word its own gasping breath. "You know I hate heights."
"C'mon. This is, like, a baby climb. It's not even that steep right here." Leo chuckled, and the sound of his voice was closer than it had been moments earlier.
Erin risked another glance at him, her gaze skimming over the rough stone surface and landing on the vivid blue of Leo's Spandex shirt. He gestured with his head to the right, where Erin visualized menacing points of rock blended with snowy embankments and cedar trees protruding from seemingly inhospitable swaths of earth far below them.
Far, far below them.
Leo looked as if he was barely hanging on, and in fact, his right hand gripped not the cliff face but the tiny camera she'd thought was attached to his hat. Her breathing began to
even out as she realized that beyond his mocking, he didn't exhibit an ounce of fear. For him, a seasoned daredevil, this towering wall of granite above Lake Tahoe was a bunny slope.
His nonchalance, coupled with the close-up shots he was capturing of her panicked idiocy, was enough to help Erin regain her control. She gritted her teeth, scanned the cliff for a new foothold, and heaved her body a few inches higher on the rock. If Leo could do this one-handed, she could certainly do it. It wasn't as if she was a first-timer to extreme sports.
A video reel of her past five years started playing behind Erin's eyes, replacing the panorama of panic that stretched out below her. First was the dive—Erin's first (and last) skydive, which was the grand finale of her first bucket list challenge. She could still feel the hitch of terror when the instructor opened the hatch. The mix of panic and exhilaration on the faces around her. The unbelievable freedom of letting go—letting go of security, of insecurity, of rationality, of fear. It had been the single best and single worst moment of her life.
Well, maybe second best. A small smile twitched at her lips as she called up what happened later that night, when Ben Bertram showed up on her doorstep with that single red rose.
Ben. Erin's heart fluttered, and a new jolt of exhilaration and fear trembled in her stomach. In exactly…she counted down the hours in her head while she scanned the rock for her next foothold…twenty-eight and a half hours she'd be taking another risk, ticking off another box on the running checklist that comprised her life. Participating in another extreme sport—albeit one on level ground with no rappelling ropes, parachutes, or climbing shoes involved.
Just a minister, a white dress, and one daunting pair of three-inch, glittery silver heels.
Erin drew in a shuddering, raspy breath, and her foot slipped from the granite ledge. "Whoa." She clutched at the ropes again, tightening her grasp and pulling her body closer to the rock. She breathed carefully in and out to quell her panic, and then began skimming the cliff again, searching for the next logical spot to take a vertical step.