by Lila Monroe
“Are you kidding?” I wave away her concerns. Her non-fiction book, The Breakup Artist, just released, and it’s been a big surprise hit. “Your sales are the highlight of my list. Hopefully, it’s enough to keep me employed whenever they hire a new CEO.”
“I thought we agreed, no work talk.” Katie’s boyfriend, Wes arrives, with a new round of drinks and a mischievous look in his eyes. “We’re supposed to be cheering you up.”
“Sorry!” I smile quickly. “I’m fine. I promise.”
“You will be once you’ve sung your heart out.”
I stop. Umm, what? “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes!” Katie beams. “Did they have her song?” she asks him.
My head whips around. “What song? I don’t have a song!” Not unless we’re talking “tuneless caterwauling in the shower.” In that case, I’m a platinum recording artist, but here? in public? “No,” I say firmly. “Absolutely not.”
“Absolutely yes,” Katie says over my protests. “Come on! It’ll be fun!”
“That’s what my dentist said before the root canal,” I reply. “Spoiler alert: it wasn’t. Well, except for the laughing gas. Do you happen to have any Novocaine?” I add. “Because that’s the only way I’m getting up there!”
“Nonsense.” Katie pulls me from my seat and pushes me towards the stage. “It’ll be cathartic. You have all this pent-up tension; you need to let it all out.”
“In front of a room full of strangers?”
“Sure! Nobody’s judging you. I mean, if the wailing bachelors of Williamsburg can do it . . .”
Good point.
I take a deep breath. It has been ages since I sang a good karaoke number, and even though I’m not drunk enough for this—or even buzzed at all—I’ve been walking around all week feeling like I need to scream out loud.
Screaming, singing, it’s all the same, right?
“What did you pick for me?” I ask, feeling a tremor of nerves. “Tell me it wasn’t some crazy high Kelly Clarkson number.”
“Nope.” She grins. “Better.”
And then the familiar chords start playing, and I can’t help but laugh. “Meatloaf? Seriously?”
“I heard you humming along in the car that time. Show ’em how it’s done.” Katie gives me another push, and I basically have no choice but to clamber up on stage. I squint a little, adjusting to the lights, but luckily, everyone is pretty much ignoring me.
OK, then.
I grab the mic and brace myself. Because Meatloaf? He’s next level. We’re talking full on, “Bat Out of Hell” pop-rock-opera dramatics, and something tells me Katie didn’t pick the radio edit. But hell, if anyone deserves to blow off some steam right now, it’s me.
So I go for it.
Boy, do I go for it. I shout, I wail, I strut around that stage like the legend himself. And it does feel good. For a whole eight minutes, I’m not thinking about impending professional doom or student loans or the fact I haven’t had a decent date since I kicked Mr. Hot Pockets to the curb. It’s just me, the music, and a couple of dozen strangers. And it feels great.
“And like a SINNNNAHHH before the gates of heaven/I’ll come crawling on back to YOUUUUUUUU.”
I hit the final note—or, you know, somewhere near it—and punch my fist to the sky.
Silence.
I look out at the crowd, but they’re too busy drinking and flirting and doing other fun, carefree things to notice my triumph. There’s one tall guy by the bar looking sullen, and a bored waitress making her rounds.
Tough crowd.
“Way to go!” Katie cheers through the silence, whooping. I scramble down and go to rejoin them, breathless.
“That song’s a workout!” I exclaim, gulping down a glass of water.
“You were a superstar.” They grin. “Seriously, if you feel like changing careers . . .”
I snort. “Unlikely, but nice to know I have a backup. If publishing fails, I can busk on the street corner for dimes.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Wes teases. “That performance was worth at least a quarter.”
“Then drinks are on me.” I laugh. “But seriously, I should probably call it a night. I have to work tomorrow, and clearly, there’s no topping that performance.”
“Good idea,” Katie says, “Drop the mic and go out on a high.”
I make my way to the bar to settle up my tab, still buzzing from my moment in the spotlight. Well, the flickering bulb hanging over the stage. So what if my life isn’t exactly the sexy, exciting adventure all my favorite romance novels promised? For a moment, at least, I feel like myself again.
“That was an . . . interesting performance.”
I turn. It’s the sullen guy, who can hereby be renamed Handsome Stranger, because, hello. Up close, I can see he has broad shoulders and dark hair, and I’m pretty sure I would be swooning if his smile wasn’t so sarcastic.
“Thanks,” I reply breezily. “It’s hard to go wrong with the Loaf.”
The guy smirks. “The Loaf? You guys are close?”
“Besties. When I was younger, my mom had a boyfriend who was a massive fan,” I find myself sharing. “He would pull up to our apartment to pick her up for dates, blasting it full volume. Our neighbors must have thrown a party when they finally broke up.”
The guy just looks at me like I’m babbling, which maybe I am.
“Anyway,” I say, “he’s a lot of fun to sing. You should try it sometime.”
He curls his lip in a sneer. “No, thanks. I prefer not to make a total fool of myself.”
I blink. What an asshole!
I’m tempted to just roll my eyes and stalk off, but instead, I can’t resist giving him a sweet smile. “I get it. You look more like the kind of guy who wants to just stand on the sidelines, sneering at everyone else.”
And with that, I scribble my signature on the credit card slip and walk out. I find Katie and Wes on the sidewalk out front, waiting for a ride. “Will you get home OK?” she asks.
“I’m just a few blocks away,” I reassure them.
“Well, good luck at work.” Katie hugs me as their car arrives. “Brunch this weekend?”
“If there’s bacon, I’ll be there,” I vow.
I turn to head home, but a busy storefront opposite catches my eye. Ice cream. It’s a sticky August night, and right now, I can’t think of anything better.
Screw tequila, I prefer drowning my sorrows in a vat of pure sugar.
I cross the street and take my place in the busy line. It inches forwards, frustratingly slow, so by the time I reach the register to pay for my scoop of double chocolate butternut crunch, I’m pretty much drooling in anticipation of the deliciousness. Then I reach for my wallet to pay, and I realize—I don’t have my credit card.
“Noooo!” I wail, patting frantically at my pockets. Which, in this dress, doesn’t take long. “Mothertrucker!”
But just as I’m scrounging up stray quarters from my wallet and wondering if I can offer my body in trade—because have you tasted the double chocolate butternut crunch?—a voice comes from beside me.
“Are you looking for this?”
My credit card lands on the counter. I look up. It’s Handsome Stranger. Who now is officially named Annoyingly Handsome Stranger, because nobody who looks that good should be such a superior grouch. “You left it at the bar,” he explains, looking exasperated. “You should keep better track of your things.”
“Thank you,” I manage to say, even though he’s being an ass about it. I pause, reluctant. “I suppose I better buy you a cone now.”
“No, thanks,” AHS answers shortly. “I don’t eat sugar.”
“You what?!” I can’t believe it, but no: there he is, glowering at everyone in the store as we happily pollute our bodies with sweet, sweet candy. I shrug. “Suit yourself.”
I pay the cashier and grab my cone, but just as I’m heading out of the store, my toe catches on an uneven slab of sidewalk. I stumble, and my perfect sco
op of pick-me-up ice cream tumbles to the dirty ground with a SPLAT!
I whimper.
Sure, it’s just a late-night treat, but after the week I’ve had, it feels like the last straw. All the stress at work, the bad dates, Harry dying: suddenly, everything comes welling up.
“Are you crying? Over ice cream?” AHS asks beside me, disdain clear in his voice.
I’m not about to tell him the truth, so I swallow back the tears. “No,” I answer in a small voice. “I just like ice cream.”
He sighs. “Let me get you an Uber.”
“It’s fine. I’ll walk,” I reply, finally dragging my gaze away from my dearly departed cone.
AHS is rolling his eyes. “You’re drunk. I don’t need to know your address. In fact, I shouldn’t. You can just tell the driver.”
“No, I mean it,” I argue. “I’m perfectly sober. Goodnight.”
I turn and start walking. Thankfully, I don’t stumble on the first step. Nope, it takes me all of ten paces before my heel catches and I almost go flying.
When I find my balance, AHS has drawn level. “Sober. Right.” He sighs, sounding supremely irritated.
“I am!” I protest. “I just can’t walk in these heels.”
“So why are you wearing them?”
“Because they’re pretty.” I pause to admire the cute red straps and tiny polka-dots. I bought them on a whim, flush when The Breakup Artist hit the non-fiction bestsellers list. Since I’m probably going to have to sell them on consignment soon enough, I should enjoy them while I can. “Anyway, thanks for . . . everything, but I’ve got this from here.”
I start walking again. I’m not just being stubborn. I know this neighborhood pretty well, and there are still plenty of people out on the sidewalks. Plus, I keep a can of illegal pepper spray on my keychain. I can make it ten blocks just fine.
But clearly, Annoyingly Handsome Stranger doesn’t agree, because after about half a block, I realize he’s still following me. “Will you quit it?” I call back to him, frustrated. “I’m fine!”
“You’re drunk, and it’s late,” he replies. “I’m not letting you stumble into a gutter and die.”
“I’m not drunk!”
“You sang Meatloaf at karaoke, cried over spilled ice cream, and can’t take more than ten steps without falling on your face!” he yells back. “Are you telling me this is what you’re like sober?”
“Yes!” I bellow. “Now leave me alone!”
“I CAN’T!” he roars, looking furious. “I’M TRYING TO BE A GODDAMN GENTLEMAN!”
His voice echoes, so mad that I just can’t help it.
I burst out laughing.
AHS looks at me like I just sprouted a second head. “What are you laughing at?”
“This! Us!” I splutter, still giggling. I’ve never seen somebody so reluctantly chivalrous in all my life. He’s like William Darcy crossed with a grumpy grandpa, but I kind of see his point.
I try to recover, wiping at my eyes. “What will it take to convince you that I’m of sound mind and judgment?” I ask, still smiling. “I mean, using the phrase ‘sound mind and judgment’ has to count for something, right?”
AHS folds his arms across his surprisingly broad chest and scowls at me. “You think this is funny?”
“Actually, yes.” I grin back. “Isn’t the point of chivalry to respect women and what they tell you?”
He grits his teeth. “I thought it was to stop people from getting mugged and left in a gutter to die.”
I sigh. Clearly, this dude won’t leave me alone until I prove I’m not a stumbling danger to myself or others. I wrack my brains, trying to think of something that will—
Aha!
I suddenly get a flash of inspiration. It’s a feat I haven’t even attempted since college, but what the hell. Go big, and then maybe I’ll be able to go home in peace.
I give AHS a smile. “Watch and learn, mister.”
I take a few steps, summon all the muscle memory I can, and launch myself into a series of perfect cartwheels down the empty sidewalk. I’m already on my second when I think about the fact my bare hands are touching the New York City street, but hey, the three-second rule counts here, too.
I finish with my hands in the air in triumph. “Ta-da!” I declare. “Is that good enough for you?”
AHS looks a little impressed. Or maybe that’s just relief that he can wash his hands of me now. “You’re really sober?” he asks, drawing closer.
“For the thousandth time, YES!”
He draws level, looking at me with a weird expression in his eyes. “OK. I believe you.”
And then he kisses me.
I freeze in shock, because what the freaking hell?
And also, yum.
His body is warm against me, his mouth is cool and soft, and his tongue . . .
Well, let’s just say it’s good for more than just sarcastic retorts. I still have no idea what’s happening, but my body clearly knows what’s up, because somehow, I’m already reaching to pull him closer, kissing him back until my head spins and my knees are weak.
Then just as suddenly, Annoyingly Handsome Stranger wrenches away from me. His eyes are dark in the streetlight, his hair is rumpled from my fingertips, and he looks about as surprised as I’m feeling. “Uh,” he stutters, “I’m, uh, sorry.”
Don’t be, I’m about to tell him, and lean in for another round, but he’s already backing away. “I’ll, um . . . Goodnight.”
He turns on his heel and pretty much bolts in the opposite direction like he’s trying to break the land speed record.
I watch him go. My heart is still pounding, and as for my other vital organs . . . Well, let’s just say, they’ve woken all the way up.
I shake my head and start the walk home. Is the entire planet in retrograde or something? First my dream job, then the ice cream, and now this Handsome Stranger? It seems like the universe is dangling all these tasty treats in front of me, only to yank them away at the last minute.
Good thing I still have some emergency cookie dough in my freezer. Because that’s clearly the only satisfaction I’m getting tonight!
TO BE CONTINUED…
What plot twists are waiting for Eliza and her mystery man? THE ROMANCE PLAN is the next sizzling book in the Cupids series - featuring Katie, Wes, and all your favorite characters. Available to order now!
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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)
About the Author
Combining her love of writing, sex and well-fitted suits, Lila Monroe weaves sex, humor and romance into tales about hard-headed men and the strong and sassy women who try to tame-slash-love-slash-tame them. Her books are extensions of her own fantasy life and take readers from the boardroom to the Berkshire Mountains, with keen character development, unique plot lines, and fanciful romance.
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