by Lila Monroe
There are chuckles in the crowd, so I keep going.
“I think we’re put on this earth to move forward, to meet new people and have new adventures and grow into the best versions of ourselves. Ninety-nine times out of one hundred, it’s not a good idea to go back.” I swallow hard, surprised by the sudden lump at the back of my throat. “But then again . . . there’s always that one. Sometimes a second chance can be a good thing. Sometimes, people do really learn from their mistakes. So, all I can say to you is, go ahead and follow your heart.”
The girl nods, wiping a tear of her own from her cheek. “Thank you,” she says with a watery smile. “That’s good advice.”
I take a deep breath, steadying, and look out at the audience. “Anybody else?” I ask, trying to keep my voice bright. “I think we’ve probably got time for one more question.”
A hand goes up at the very rear of the room, though I can’t see who it is through the densely packed crowd. “Yes?” I call. “In the back there, by the science fiction section?”
“I just heard you say that under certain circumstances you believe in second chances,” a man’s voice begins, deep and warm and achingly familiar. “But I guess my question is . . . what about third ones?”
For a moment my mind goes completely blank. My entire body flushes, hot and cold and prickly, but before I can put a coherent thought together—let alone a coherent answer—Wes steps out of the crowd and into the aisle.
And just like that, the crowd melts away, and he’s the only one I can see.
“Hi,” he says simply.
“What are you doing here?” I blurt.
He shrugs. “I couldn’t stay away.”
“I—” A hundred different emotions flood thorough me in the endless second before I remember we’re in a bookstore crammed full of people, all of whom are watching us raptly like possibly we’ve staged this encounter as part of the full Breakup Artist experience. I can’t blame them—talk about a brilliant feat of creative marketing. Eliza is probably kicking herself that she didn’t think of it first.
Only this isn’t performance art.
It’s really happening.
He’s really here.
Wes.
“Well!” Selena breaks in just then, hopping up from her chair and looking out at the audience. Saving Wes and me from ourselves. “I think we’ve got time for one more question, yeah? You there, in the polka dots! Love your style, by the way! So avant-garde!” She nudges me gently to bring me back to the task at hand. “What kind of advice are you looking for from the Breakup Artist?”
Somehow, I manage to make it through the rest of the Q&A without embarrassing myself, even though I can barely drag my attention away from Wes.
My heart is pounding in my chest, alive with a new hope. What is he doing here? Did he come all this way for a reason?
Does he want us to try again?
The bookstore clerk whisks me to a signing table at the front of the store, where I sit and chat with readers while I sign my name until my hand cramps. The whole experience is incredible—after all, a few weeks ago I didn’t even know if I’d get to have a book launch, let alone one this well-attended—but as the line snakes slowly through the aisles of the store, I’m still scanning the crowd for Wes. I don’t see him anywhere in the throng, but still it’s like I can feel him, like his heart is sending a silent, secret message to mine.
Eventually the crowd starts to thin, though, and I crane my neck to look around. I’m starting to worry that maybe I imagined him, that maybe the whole encounter was figment of my lonely, excited imagination.
And then, near the very end of the line, there he is.
And my heart stops.
“Hi there,” he says, giving me a molten smile that does crazy things to my insides. He slides his copy of the book across the table. He’s wearing dark jeans and a lightweight spring sweater, sleeves rolled up to reveal the taut, corded muscles in his forearms. I have to grip my pen to keep from reaching for him. “I was hoping to get this signed?”
I swallow down a nervous giggle. “Sure,” I say, my heart flinging itself wildly against my chest. “What’s your name?”
Wes smiles at that. “Don’t worry about it,” he says with a shake of his head. “You can just go ahead and make it out to Giant Idiot Who Almost Let the Most Incredible Woman He’s Ever Known Get Away . . .Twice.”
“That’s a lot to write,” I deadpan. I pause, desperate to talk to him for real. To get him alone . . .
“Sorry, everyone!” Eliza calls, as if reading my mind—and the body language between me and Wes. “Time for a quick bathroom break!”
She gives me a knowing smile. “It’s right back there,” she says, nodding to the rear of the store.
“You are the best editor in the world,” I tell her gratefully, before grabbing Wes’s hand and dragging him back after me. I find a storeroom where we can be alone and slam the door, then finally turn to look at Wes.
My heart skips all over again. I’m suddenly bashful. “Hi.”
“Hi, yourself,” he says, and he pulls me into a slow, “welcome back, I missed you” kiss.
I melt into his arms, like I’m coming home. Wes backs me up against a set of shelves overflowing with overstock and galleys, my bare back bumping up against the chilly metal. The kiss deepens, and soon it’s hot and wild, weeks of regret and loneliness disappearing in the heat of his body and the slow exploration of his mouth. I pull him closer; he tangles his hands in my carefully curled hair. Finally, he pulls away.
“I messed up,” he says, his gaze searching mine.
“No, I messed up,” I interrupt. “Or we both did. I mean, yes, it was wrong of you not to tell me about Ryder. But I should have been mad at you for that, and only that. Not what I imagined you were doing, or what I imagined it meant.” I shake my head. “Clearly, I wasn’t as over our past as I thought I was. I spiraled out. But the truth is . . . I love you,” I admit. “For real, this time. I know you, and I want to be with you.
Wes’s mouth stretches into the biggest grin. “I love you, too,” he says, lacing our fingers together. “For real.”
He kisses me again, deep and slow, his tongue sliding against mine. He curls his hands around my waist and squeezes—the heat of his palms radiating through the thin cotton of my dress. I tip my head back as his mouth travels down my jaw and across my neck, lingering on my pulse point, syrupy slow.
“Uh, sorry to interrupt,” Eliza says, knocking loudly on the stockroom door before easing it open, one hand clamped over her eyes. “But you’ve still got some books to sign.”
I pull away, my cheeks flushed. Both of us are wearing identical goofy smiles, but I don’t care. It feels like we just got away with something, riding off into the sunset in a getaway car.
Together.
“Sorry!” I tell Eliza, beaming wider than I ever thought possible. “I’m all yours.” Then I look back at Wes. “Well,” I correct myself, “almost.”
24
Katie
“I think maybe I should have gotten my makeup done,” I announce, scrutinizing my pores in the bathroom mirror at Wes’s apartment. It’s a few weeks after my book launch, and we’re back in LA—this time for the premiere of Selena’s movie.
Well, Selena and Ryder’s, but we’re definitely not here for him.
“Do you think I should have gotten my makeup done?” I ask, still checking my reflection.
“Oh, definitely,” Wes deadpans, appearing in the doorway. He’s in suit pants and a dress shirt, barefoot and smelling faintly of soap and cologne. “You’re hideous. I mean, I for one can barely stand to lay eyes on you.”
I stick my tongue out at him. “It’s my first Hollywood premiere!” I protest, pouting theatrically. “I want to look nice.”
Wes raises an eyebrow. “You could wear a potato sack and a clown nose and still look way better than nice,” he promises. He laces his fingers through mine, using the leverage to pull me close for a kiss that
starts out friendly and then deepens, the warm rasp of his tongue and the hard press of his warm body against me. “Maybe we could change our plans,” he breathes when he finally releases me. “We don’t actually need to show up at this thing, do we?”
“Nice try,” I say, but I let him pull me in again anyway, winding my arms around his neck as he slides his hands up underneath the silky plum-colored fabric of my dress. “You’re going to wrinkle me,” I warn teasingly, my words muffled against his mouth.
“I definitely am,” Wes agrees, palms smoothing over the sensitive skin of my thighs.
I shiver. “We’ve got to leave in fifteen minutes, you realize.”
“I realize.” His first two fingers hook in the elastic of my tiny thong, tugging gently. “I can be fast.”
Fast . . . and spine-tingly thorough. I’m just unbuttoning the first couple buttons of his suit shirt . . .
When I burst out laughing at the sight of the #TeamSelena tee he’s wearing underneath.
“What?” he asks, all innocence, though his eyes are dancing with glee. “Mood killer?”
“Not at all,” I tell him. “I like a man who wears his allegiances on his sleeve. Or his chest, as the case may be.” I drop a final kiss against his mouth. “We’ve got to get this show on the road, though.” I slide a hand over his ribs, then keep going, dragging my fingertip along the length of his zipper until he groans. “To be continued,” I promise, and I squeeze him once, just gently. “Let’s go.”
The studio sends a car to pick us up, and the neon lights of LA whizz by outside the tinted windows as we cruise down the darkening streets. Wes takes my hand as I climb out of the car in front of the theater, and I blink at the strobing flashbulbs, taking it all in: the cheering crowd and the shouting paparazzi, the glittering marquee overhead. “Oh my God,” I gasp, my eyes widening as Wes guides me through the scrum. “Was that Mario Lopez?”
Wes laughs. “You just consciously uncoupled the most famous duo in this hemisphere and you’re losing your mind over Zack Morris?”
“First of all, he played Slater, not Zack,” I correct him as cameras click wildly all around us. “Get your facts straight, buddy. And second of all—”
“Ohmygod, you guys made it!” Selena calls just then, waving wildly from across the red carpet. She breaks away from a cluster of photographers and comes over to meet us, wrapping me in a tight, expensive-smelling hug. She looks dazzling in a long sequined gown, her hair a dark silky waterfall down her back. Mark the hot bartender stands beside her, looking completely delighted just to be here in her orbit, holding her diamond-encrusted purse. “I’m so glad you came.”
“This is incredible,” I tell her, still looking around as we make our way inside. The venue is a gorgeous art deco theater, with flocked wallpaper and mirrored chandeliers sparkling overhead. “We’re so excited for you.” I can see Ryder across the lobby, looking better than I might have expected considering just the other night he got caught peeing in an alley outside a Hollywood club and was arrested for indecent exposure. Tonight, though, he’s freshly scrubbed in a shiny blue tux, his, uh, film canister tucked safely inside his pants.
Selena dashes off to tend to her crowd of adoring fans just as Wes and I spot Jackson, who’s standing by the bar in a sharp gray suit, a pair of tortoiseshell glasses making him look every bit the part of up-and-coming screenwriter. “Numbing the pain,” he jokes, raising his glass in our direction.
“Oh, stop it,” Wes says with a grin, clapping him on the back. “You’re the man of the hour.”
“I don’t know about that,” Jackson says with a rueful smile, “but I have to say, this all turned out significantly better than I thought it would. Granted, nobody’s actually seen the movie yet—”
“Not true!” I chide him. “All the previews have been great.”
We chat for a few more minutes about Jackson’s newest project, a biopic of an eccentric lady billionaire living high in the Hollywood Hills—“The studio will probably want me to turn her into an intergalactic sex robot before they greenlight the damn thing,” he says, though he doesn’t actually sound too upset about the idea—before Wes peels off to schmooze with a couple of guys he knew from the office. “So, how are things with you?” Jackson asks me once he’s flagged down the bartender and grabbed me a drink. “Still splitting your time between here and New York?”
My gaze flicks toward Wes, who’s standing nearby charming a cluster of balding men in suits; he catches my eye over their shoulders and shoots me a quick wink. “Oh, I don’t know,” I tell Jackson with a smile. “I think I’ll probably be sticking around LA for a while.”
He grins, clinking his glass lightly against mine. “Glad to hear it.”
The lights flicker in the lobby just then, and organizers start herding us into the theater proper. Wes finds me in the crowd, takes my hand.
“I heard what you said to Jackson,” he says quietly, ducking his head so that I can feel his warm breath on my ear. “You really thinking about becoming a permanent West Coaster?”
I take a deep breath, tipping my chin up to look at him. The old me would have hemmed and hawed, tying myself in knots to avoid answering, to make sure Wes didn’t think I was being clingy or asking too much or taking up too much space.
Now, though, I just look him in the eye.
“More than thinking about it,” I tell him honestly. “It’s what I really, really want.”
Wes doesn’t hesitate, handsome face breaking into a grin. “I was hoping you’d say that,” he confesses quietly. Then, reaching into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, he pulls out something shiny and brass. A key, I realize with a quiet gasp. He holds it out in the palm of his hand. “How would you feel about moving in?”
I gape at him. In an instant, I can see it all: waking up next to him every morning and going to bed next to him every night, strolling the LA farmers’ market on Saturdays and marathoning Netflix on chilly weeknights, our legs tangled together on the couch. “For real?” I ask.
He kisses me, smiling. “For real.”
Wes tucks the key into my hand, closing my fingers into a fist safely around it. I’m dimly aware that we’re blocking traffic, the crowd streaming around us as they make their way to their seats. “What do you say we get out of here?” he asks, gesturing toward the exit. “Start packing right now?”
I laugh, though it’s not like the idea isn’t appealing. I can hear cameras clicking behind us, photographers following Ryder and Selena’s every move, but the only epic love story I care about is the one happening right here between us. Still . . . “We’ve got plenty of time for that,” I promise, slipping my hand into his and squeezing. “In the meantime, let’s go see a movie.”
We take our seats with the rest of them and promptly laugh our asses off for the next ninety minutes. It’s a train wreck from start to finish, but I don’t care. The only love story that matters is just beginning, right here.
And I can’t wait.
THE END
(Almost!)
Thank you for reading! If you’ve enjoyed Katie’s exploits, then I have great news: the next book in the series is available to order now!
Keep scrolling to read a sneak peek of the next book in the series, Eliza’s book. The Romance Plan is available to order now. CLICK HERE to download, and scroll to read Chapter One!
>>>
Cupids: Book 5
The Romance Plan
CHAPTER ONE: Eliza
When you grow up reading romance novels, it gives you some big expectations for the world. And no, I don’t just mean the well-endowed heroes with the stamina of Olympic triathletes (although, my ex thought microwaving a Hot Pocket counted as more than enough time for foreplay). I’m talking about the rest of it.
“Jackie Collins lied,” I declare, looking around the grimy dive bar that probably has bacteria dating back to the nineties. Three guys with old-timey hipster handlebar moustaches are up on stage singing karaoke to mournful Smiths songs
. “And Judith Krantz,” I add, as one of them makes finger-guns at me and winks. “And Louise Bagshawe and Verity Lange.”
“Because we’re not wearing snazzy designer separates, jetting off to Saint-Tropez with the heir to a mysterious diamond fortune?” my friend Katie grins, munching on a handful of salted peanuts.
I smile. “I was made to believe my life would include way more marble jetted tubs,” I agree. “What happened to my swanky penthouse and blood rivalry with an evil stepsister?”
“I think they got traded in for a fifth-floor walk-up and that neighbor of yours who plays techno at three a.m.”
I wince. “Like I said, Jackie lied.”
“Aww, things will turn around.” Katie gives me a sympathetic look. “Is it really so bad at work?”
“You mean, aside from the stress, panic, and impending layoffs?” I ask, only half-kidding. “Sure, everyone’s walking around like someone just died.”
Katie’s jaw drops. “Dark!”
Maybe, but I know Harry wouldn’t begrudge me some gallows humor. He was one of a kind, a titan of the book world who led Sterling Press to be one of most prestigious small publishers in the city. He first hired me on as his assistant, fetching his coffee and making sure restaurants gave him the best power-lunch seat in the place, but over time, I worked my way up to junior editor. It’s my dream job, and I was finally making my mark . . . Until three months ago, when Harry keeled over from a heart attack after one too many foie gras truffle burgers.
May he rest in peace.
I raise my beer in a toast. “At least he died the way he lived: with a glass of scotch in one hand and a novel in the other.”
“Amen.” Katie clinks her bottle to mine. “I just wish I had another book idea for you.”