by Lila Monroe
The Breakup Artist
Cupids: Book 4
Lila Monroe
Lila Monroe Books
Copyright 2020 by AAHM Inc
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including emailing, photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Also by Lila:
Cupids Series:
1. Cupids Anonymous
2. What’s Your Sign?
3. The Romeo Effect
4. The Break-Up Artist
5. The Romance Plan
The Lucky in Love Series:
1. Get Lucky
2. Bet Me
3. Lovestruck
4. Mr Right Now
5. Perfect Match
6. Christmas with the Billionaire
The Chick Flick Club Series:
1. How to Choose a Guy in 10 Days
2. You’ve Got Male
3. Frisky Business
Billionaire Bachelors Series:
1. Very Irresistible Playboy
2. Hot Stuff
3. Wild Card
4. Man Candy
5. Mr Casanova
6. Best Man
The Billionaire Bargain series
The Billionaire Game series
Billionaire with a Twist series
Rugged Billionaire
Snowed in with the Billionaire (holiday novella)
Contents
Prologue
Introduction
1. Katie
2. Katie
3. Katie
4. Wes
5. Katie
6. Katie
7. Katie
8. Wes
9. Katie
10. Katie
11. Katie
12. Wes
13. Katie
14. Katie
15. Katie
16. Katie
17. Wes
18. Katie
19. Katie
20. Katie
21. Wes
22. Katie
23. Katie
24. Katie
The Romance Plan
Also by Lila:
About the Author
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The Breakup Artist
A Romantic Comedy
I’m an expert in break-ups. From the slow fade, to extreme ghosting, to, ‘but you never said I couldn’t send pics of my junk to your step-sister on Instagram’ - I’ve seen it all… and built a mini-empire along the way. My blog, the Break-Up Artist, uses my past heartache to help people move on - and avoid weeping on the floor at 3am consuming their body weight in spray cheese and Oreos. Ahem.
Now, I have a new job that could mean the big-time: helping a famous Hollywood it-couple navigate their tricky break-up. Except not everyone wants them Splitsville. The movie studio needs to keep them together to promote their big movie, and they’ve sent someone to make sure I fail in my first VIP gig.
Wes Baxter. Also known as my ex.
Also ALSO known as, the guy who broke my heart so thoroughly, I had to turn myself into a self-help guru just to get over him.
I’m determined to follow my own advice (no drooling over Wes’s perfect abs, or remembering how he rocked my world) but being trapped together at a luxe country retreat isn’t helping things… And neither is Wes’s early-morning naked swim habit. Soon, love is in the air, the sparks between us are hotter than ever, and I’m seriously questioning my ‘no backsies’ policy.
Wes swears he’s changed. He wants to try again, and he’s got an annoyingly sexy way of convincing me. But can second chances really work? Or has the Break-Up Artist finally met her match?
Find out in the sizzling new romantic comedy from USA Bestselling author, Lila Monroe!
Cupids Series:
1. Cupids Anonymous
2. What’s Your Sign?
3. The Romeo Effect
4. The Break-Up Artist
5. The Romance Plan
1
Katie
People say that the only things you can count on in life are death and taxes. Well, I have one more for you: breakups. Because unless your childhood bestie becomes your high school sweetheart and you get married and live the next sixty years in perfect Hallmark bliss, feeding each other bonbons and cooing sweet nothings for the rest of your days, you’re going to have to deal with a broken heart sooner or later. And believe me, I’ve seen it all.
The guy who dumped his girlfriend when she was literally in the delivery room, with their firstborn crowning between her thighs. The woman who decided to break the news by filming a revenge porn sex video with her boyfriend’s brother—and then screening it at their anniversary party. Ooh, and how about the guy who ended things via a barbershop quartet dispatched to his lucky wife’s office to serenade her with Daphne and Celeste’s classic cult 2002 hit “Ooh Stick You (And Your Mama Too)”?
So, what’s the deal? Do I have the worst romantic luck in the world? Well, not quite. It’s all in a day’s work for me . . .
“I just don’t know what I’m going to DO without him!”
The woman opposite me bursts into floods of messy tears, clutching a grungy sweatshirt I’m guessing belongs to her ex. Honestly, I’m impressed she still has any water left in her body; she’s been weeping since she walked through the door—an hour ago.
“I know this is hard,” I tell her gently. “But breakups happen. You get to have a fresh start now and find the right guy for you.”
“He WAS the right guy.” She hiccups. “I love him so much. I’ll never find a man like him!”
“Sure you will.” I give an encouraging smile. “It’s common to romanticize a partner after the breakup, but nobody’s perfect. Did you make that list I asked for about all his flaws?”
She nods reluctantly.
“Why don’t you read it to me, and remind yourself that it wasn’t all good?” I suggest, sitting back in my chair.
She unfolds a crumpled sheet of paper. “It wasn’t easy to think of anything,” she says, “I mean, our relationship was pretty much perfect. Except, maybe . . . he wasn’t a great listener. And, umm, he would be kind of nitpicky sometimes.”
“This is good,” I encourage her. “Keep going.”
“Well . . . he refuses to brush his teeth,” she continues. “Or shower more than once a week. And he wouldn’t cook or do any of the chores around our apartment. And he only ate green M&Ms. He had me pick the rest of the colors out of the bowl, and if I missed one, he would make me watch all three parts of the Lord of the Rings trilogy to make it up to him.”
Wait, what?!
I sit there, trying to hide my stunned reaction as she continues her list of personality traits that should be landing this guy a spot on the FBI’s Most Wanted List. This is the guy she’s been calling perfect and wonderful and impossible to live without?
I shouldn’t be surprised. Welcome to romance, in all its messy, wonderful, irrational glory. Some people say that love is blind, but I’ve always thought it’s more like that third margarita: it makes your head spin, and your knees unsteady, and can lead to spontaneous outbursts of Celine Dion’s greatest hits—with the righ
t person. But when it’s Mr. Wrong? Well, you find yourself waking up the next morning with a killer hangover, regretting just how fast your pants came off.
Which is where I come in.
I’ve made a career out of helping people wave goodbye to bad relationships—so they can free themselves up to find Mr. (or Miss) Right instead. I started my blog, The Breakup Artist, a few years ago after I got dumped in an epic, painful way. I’m talking ghosted so hard, I should have called Bill Murray and the rest of the Ghostbusters team to track him down. It pretty much destroyed me, but I wondered, why couldn’t there be an easier way to say your goodbyes and move on? If people could just say how they felt and part on reasonably civil terms, then there would be no need to wallow in rejection and insecurity, eating your body weight in French fries and ice cream until you feel like a used-up husk of your former self.
Or maybe that’s just me.
Either way, the blog has taken off in a major way over the past couple of years. It turned out I’m not the only one who wants to avoid piling on the self-pity (and the pounds). Now, I coach clients with their post-breakup blues and mediate couples through those brutal final fights, helping them figure out who gets the dog, the Netflix login, and custody of their favorite bar. I even have a book coming out next month, which is amazing and terrifying all at once. Amazing, because my name is emblazoned across the cover like a real author; terrifying, because my editor has taken a massive chance on me, and I don’t want to let her down.
“. . . And then he slept over with his co-worker because they were up all night on an important project. And yes, they shared a bed, but he swears nothing happened!”
My client is still talking, but luckily, the display on my phone ticks over. “Time’s up!” I interrupt, leaping to my feet. “I think you’ve made some real progress here.”
“Really?” She hugs the sweater tighter, and now that I know about his “no shower” policy, I make a mental note to Purell the couch after she’s gone.
“Really,” I tell her, and it’s true. “Remember, things didn’t work out with him for a reason. It may hurt now, but this is a good thing. Now you’re free to go out and find someone who’s more compatible with you. Someone with basic oral hygiene!”
She manages a smile. “Thanks, Katie,” she sniffles. “You’re way more helpful than my therapist. She thinks I have self-esteem issues!”
No comment.
I steer her to the door. “I’m not a qualified therapist,” I tell her. “I’m just someone who’s been where you are, dumped and miserable. But believe me, it was the best thing that could have happened to me.”
“So, did you meet Mr. Right?” she asks, looking hopeful.
“Not just yet,” I say, flashing a bright smile. “But I’m having plenty of fun looking for him!”
I send her on her way and let out a massive sigh of relief. Sure, I love coaching people past the heartache and despair, but sometimes, it’s hard to keep a straight face. Plus, I’m running late to meet my friends, so I grab my jacket and go catch the subway uptown. The train is packed and steamy: it’s the start of summer, and everybody’s checking everyone else out, looking for their next romance.
Myself included.
I wasn’t lying to my client before; I am having fun out there on the dating scene. Not that I have any choice. A hazard of my profession is that I’ve seen all the ways a relationship can fail, so I usually cut things off the minute I see the red flags waving. I must have been on a hundred first dates . . . but only a handful of fifth ones. Which is a good thing. Believe me, when I was younger, I went falling head over heels for the kind of guys who were all wrong for me—and I’ve got the heartache to prove it. Now, I can see the warning signs a mile away, which means I know when to put my emotions on the line . . . and when to keep things purely fun and casual.
Today, I catch the eye of a hot guy on the train who has “fun and casual” written all over him. Tattoos, muscles, workout gear . . . And a massive green smoothie in his hand. I flash a smile, and he smiles back, edging closer as people get on and off the train, so that by the time we’re another two stops along the ride, he’s somehow standing right next to me.
“’Sup.” he gives me a bro-ish nod, slurping on his green sludgy drink. “You like to work out?”
It takes me a minute to see he’s nodding to my tote bag—a freebie I got from a local gym way back when. “Um, sometimes,” I reply, which isn’t exactly a lie. I mean, sex counts as a workout. Especially if you’re doing it right.
“Cool,” the guy nods, smiling. “Me too.”
“Great.”
We fall silent. OK, so he’s definitely not soulmate material. But then again, those biceps . . .
“So,” I start. “Where are you heading?”
But before he can reply, the train jolts—sending the guy stumbling forwards, his smoothie spilling all down my front.
“Aww, man,” the guys whines, looking annoyed. “That was ten bucks! Extra chia!”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I manage as green sludge drips down my chest and pools on the subway car floor. We reach the next stop and get off together. “I should probably get cleaned up,” I say, but instead of offering to help me out, the guy just nods.
“Yeah, you really smell.” He disappears into the crowd, leaving me stinking like a sewer.
I sigh. That’s what I get for shallow lusting! I grab some tissues from my purse and try to mop myself down, but that only rubs the stench deeper. I love this shirt, but something tells me I’m better off firing it into the sun than trying to get it clean again. I’m just about to admit defeat and detour to the nearest Gap when I hear my name being called behind me on the subway platform.
“Katie?”
I turn—and promptly take back everything I just thought. Can I fire myself into the sun right now? Because this cannot be happening.
“It is you!” The guy in front of me breaks out into a massive smile. “Holy shit, it’s been forever. What, four years?”
“Five,” I reply, numbly, staring up into the sparkling blue eyes of Mr. Wrong himself. Him. The original ghost. The man who broke my heart so thoroughly, I had to launch a career as a self-help guru just to make sense of it all.
Wes Baker.
Dammit, this isn’t how it’s supposed to happen. Because believe me, I’ve thought about running into him again. Except in those fantasies, I’m always gorgeous and polished, with a fresh blow-out and a hot guy on my arm. I’m breezy and casual and act like I never once ate my body weight in ice cream while sobbing over the heart he broke.
Some dream.
Because instead of that fabulous fantasy, I’m standing on a sweltering subway platform with my bangs sticking to my forehead, looking like a small child just vomited all over me.
Wes’s eyes drift lower to the green disaster all over my chest. “Are you OK?” he asks.
“Fine!” I blurt. “Just . . . extra chia seeds.”
“Oh. OK.” Wes pauses, and I can see the initial thrill of running into a familiar face blend into the memory of how exactly we left things.
Or rather, how he left—the city—and I eventually found out. From his roommate. After leaving messages for a week, wondering where my boyfriend was.
Clear across the country, that’s where.
I gulp, my old humiliation suddenly roaring to life. Hello, rejection, it’s been a while. Thanks for coming, please never show your face again.
I can’t do this. I know I should be able to put on a happy face for all of five minutes and pretend like I don’t still care about our history—because I definitely, absolutely, positively don’t—but getting ambushed like this has left me too flustered to turn in that kind of Oscar-worthy performance. My fight or flight instinct is screaming at me right now, and flight is winning. Big time.
“I have to go!” I say quickly, backing away. “But, umm, take care!”
Take care?
I turn, disoriented—and almost walk straight
off the platform. Wes grabs my arm just in time and yanks me back. “Careful,” he says, looking at me like I’m some kind of freak.
Which, right now, I am.
“Thanks!” I manage to yelp, before tearing free and racing for the exit. I don’t slow down, I don’t even pause for breath, until I’m back at street level and three blocks away from my humiliation.
“It was terrible!” I wail to my friend Poppy when we meet outside the Griffin Hotel. “Think of the most embarrassing, toe-curling, skin-peeling awful encounter you can think of, then multiply it by a factor of a thousand.”
“So, not great then,” she deadpans.
I cringe. “Look at me!” I gesture to the mess. She winces. “Is this how you want to run into the ex who broke your heart into a million pieces?”
“It was really him?” She shakes her head. “I can’t believe it. I thought he moved to Los Angeles.”
“It’s the West Coast, not Antarctica,” I sigh. “I knew I’d see him again someday, I just didn’t expect it to be . . . this.”
“He probably didn’t notice,” Poppy says, comforting.
I snort. “They can smell me coming six blocks away.”
She laughs. “I think I have some spare clothes in the Presidential suite,” she says, leading me inside the hotel.
“I’m not going to ask why.” I shoot her a smirk. Poppy grins back. She’s been dating the owner of the hotel for a year now and is prone to very racy PDAs, but I’m not about to give her a hard time about their sexcapades when she’s saving my ass from green goop. “Just point me to the running water and laundry supply.”