Mr Right Now: A Romantic Comedy Standalone

by Lila Monroe

  Not at all.

  17

  Maggie

  I wake up in Drew’s bed, enjoying the quiet up here in the penthouse, away from the world. I stretch under the sheets, and the memories of all of last night’s fun echo through my body. Mmm. We had to wait until after the group date before I could go about making it up to him, but we definitely made up for lost time.

  The space beside me is empty, but a note sits folded beside my pillow with my name scrawled on the outside. I pick it up.

  Sorry to duck out on you, gorgeous. Got a call about some last-minute work I need to do with one of my artists ASAP. Make yourself at home for as long as you like. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.

  -D

  A little disappointing, but not as if I could blame him. Poor guy, having to rush off without even getting a proper breakfast. A smile curves my lips. I can do something about that.

  I slip out of bed and pad into the main room. He got my pancakes last time, but the breakfast food I’m most famous for are my waffles. I poke through the kitchen cupboards, making myself at home as he suggested. If he has a waffle iron around, or even just a griddle … There we go!

  Of course, because these are my famous waffles, they include an alcoholic twist. I add a dollop of bourbon to the batter, taste it, and drizzle in a little more. Nothing good comes from skimping.

  I’m just about to pour the first batch onto the grill when my phone jangles in my purse. Drew, checking in on me, maybe? I jog over to grab it, but I don’t recognize the number on the display.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi!” a feminine voice so bright it’s almost sparkly says. “Is this Maggie Hayes?”

  “Um, yeah,” I say. “Who is this?”

  “I’m Kimmy Francis, publicist for Alice Astley’s Adventures. Have you heard of the show?”

  I pause. “Sure.” Who hasn’t? Alice Astley is one more in the long line of heiresses spinning her parents’ fortune into a celebrity opportunity. Her reality show only started airing a year ago, and I’ve already seen a clothing line, perfume, and, of all things, dog treats popping up with her grinning, wide-eyed face on the label. (The dog treats also feature her Pomeranian, who, if you ask me, has the cuter grin.)

  “Well,” Kimmy says, “Alice is throwing her BFF an epic hometown bachelorette. We were all set to go with another catering company there, but then one of my assistants spotted the Instagram pics of your absolutely brilliant treats. Those kind of visuals would just make the episode.”

  Oh. Oh. For a second I can’t do anything expect for blink. “So … you’d like me to bake for the show.”

  “For that episode, yes. We’re looking at around two hundred and fifty at the party, plus we’ll need plenty of extras. We’ll be filming in three days. Would that be doable?”

  Holy shit. Having my cakes shown on a hit TV show could be a massive break. If I work this right. Fuck, I have no idea how to work it at all. The entertainment industry has a habit of screwing people over, doesn’t it? I don’t even know what to ask.

  I’m scrambling for something to say when a light bulb goes off in my head. I don’t know what to ask, but I’ve got a friend who could manage the hell of out this.

  “I’m very flattered by the offer,” I say quickly. “But for a job this big, I’ll need to have you to talk to my rep. Can I get your number to pass it on to her? I’ll have her get back to you shortly.”

  Kimmy rattles off her number without hesitation. The second I’ve ended that call, I’m dialing my friend Ruby in LA. I don’t know if she’s ever handled baking PR before, but she’s an ace when it comes to social media stars, and I know she’s handled TV appearances for clients before. And she’s my cousin’s bestie plus an all-around awesome gal, so I know I can trust her ten times more than anyone else on the Hollywood side of things.

  It occurs to me partway through the second ring that it’s pretty early in LA still, but lucky for me, Ruby is a workaholic. She answers the phone sounding so chipper I know she’s already got at least one espresso in her.

  “Maggie! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Strangely enough, it’s business, not pleasure today,” I say, and fill her in on the Kimmy call.

  “Oh, this is such a great opportunity for you,” Ruby says. “I know a guy who had his restaurant featured on The Hills like, ten years ago, and he’s STILL getting people lined up out the door. Let me get right on that. I’ll have everything set for you in no time.”

  While Ruby works her magic, I get on with mine: Waffles! I’m not sure they turn out the absolute perfect consistency, because I may be a little distracted wondering what’s going on over all those other phone lines. I’m probably lucky I don’t burn them, which would be an unspeakable horror.

  I’m just flipping the last two onto a plate when my phone rings again. I snatch it up in record time.

  “The job is yours,” Ruby announces. “With the guarantee that they’ll mention your name in association with the cakes at least three times during the episode and include a link to your website—you do have a website, right? If not, get one fast—on the episode page and in their social media photo blasts. I’m forwarding the contract to you now.”

  Then she names a figure that practically makes my eyeballs drop out of my head. I’ve rarely made that much in a few months of work. “Thank you!” I gasp. “Thank you so much.”

  She laughs. “Hey, it’s not me, it’s those cock cakes of yours. They’re really eager to get them on the show.”

  “Behind every great woman is a forty-inch dick,” I laugh.

  We hang up, and I head downstairs with the plates of waffles and a spring in my step. I can’t suppress the grin that’s stretched across my face, which is probably why Drew guesses something’s up the second he opens the studio door to let me in. His eyebrows rise.

  “What have you been up to?” he says, in that husky tone that makes me tingle.

  “You’re looking at the official baker for the bachelorette party episode of Alice Astley’s Adventures!” I say, striking an exaggerated pose.

  “Seriously? That’s fantastic! When did all this go down? You never told me you had something like that in the works.”

  I tell Drew the whole story, and he’s grinning too by the time I’m done.

  “You’re a superstar,” he says. “I knew it was only a matter of time.”

  “It’s just the one gig at this point. But, yeah, it could be the start of something really good.”

  “I’m sure it will be. Is there anything I can do to help?” He hesitates, and his smile turns wry. “Aside from another strip dance, that is.”

  I giggle. “I think we’ll be able to skip that this time. And I should be able to handle everything. But thank you for asking. It means a lot.”

  “It means a lot to me to see you getting your chance,” Drew says. Then he kisses me, with bourbon syrup sweet on his tongue, and it’s a miracle I don’t melt all over the waffles.

  It’s a short celebration—he has to get back to work, and I’ve got to start shopping. I have a lot of food to make in the next three days. But my mind is already spinning through the possibilities. I’ll have to include the standbys that impressed the show employees in the first place—dick cake, cock pops, and the lot. But it’ll be even better if I can throw in something extra to really knock their socks off. What says “raunchy bachelorette” even better than forty inches of iced cock?

  I’m considering the possibilities as I amble through the grocery store, my cart half full with the basic necessities, when a blast of blonde fury comes charging up to me.

  “You have some nerve, Maggie!”

  Becky Haverton jerks to a stop right in front of my cart, her arms folded over her chest and her perfectly painted mouth set in a thin line. Her cheeks are flushed so dark it shows through her foundation. Her eyes are practically shooting sparks—and not the happy kind.I gape at her, still half stuck in my cake daydreaming. Is this about the engagement party snafu
? It’s a little late for her to be ranting at me about that, isn’t it?

  She doesn’t leave me in suspense very long. “The Alice Astley gig was mine. They were two seconds away from sending the contract. And then you”—she jabs her finger at me—“jumped in and stole it.”

  Okay, her level of outrage suddenly makes more sense.

  “Becky,” I say, “I didn’t steal your gig. I didn’t even know the gig existed until the show called up and offered it to me. I had no idea you were involved at all.”

  “No,” she says, shaking her head. “There’s no way they’d have changed their minds at the last minute unless you used some sneaky tactic to weasel your way in there.”

  I scowl. “I’d tell you that’s not my style, but you obviously wouldn’t believe me. Anyway, if you have a problem with how the show handled it, you should take it up with them.”

  I ease back my cart to roll it around her. Becky stalks a few paces after me, audibly seething with every breath. “You’ll regret this, Maggie. I am going to ruin you in this town.”

  I snort. “How, exactly? Are you going to close my bakery? Make me move back home? Humiliate me in front of a room full of people? Wait, been there. Done that. That’s the thing about hitting rock bottom,” I add, full of determination. “There’s nowhere to go but up.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  I leave her seething, and stride away.

  Fuck Becky, and her cucumber sandwiches. I’m back in the game!

  18

  Maggie

  The day of the big TV shoot dawns bright and early. “Can you absolutely confirm there’s no orange zest in any of the cakes?” Kimmy the publicist’s assistant says in my ear. “Alice’s sister Ainsley absolutely cannot eat any orange—it’ll throw off her energy diet for the day.”

  “Uh, yeah, definitely no orange.” I got the message loud and clear the last five times he mentioned it over the past three days of round-the-clock baking. I shift my phone where I’ve got it wedged against my shoulder as I box the last batch of cupcakes. I’m not really sure how a couple of zest strings could ruin someone’s diet—or why all other kinds of zest are apparently just fine—but I’m absolutely sure I don’t want to know. “And no blue icing on any of them either.”

  “A navy blue would be all right,” the assistant says. “It’s just the paler blues—robin’s egg, sky—they totally wash out Alice’s skin tone.”

  “Right,” I say, closing the box. To be safe I simply skipped blue altogether. It’s not the sexiest color anyway. Nobody wants blue balls.

  “And you’ve got the batch of non-dairy for Pom-Pom set aside?”

  Even though he can’t see me, I restrain myself from rolling my eyes. I need the practice, because I have the feeling the questioning is only going to get worse once I make it on set. “Yes, they’re specially labeled.” Alice Astley’s not-very-creatively-named Pomeranian won’t have to worry about any tummy troubles when she joins in the celebration like one of the gals.

  The assistant seems satisfied to leave things there, although I won’t be surprised if he calls again ten minutes from now. I’ve been fielding demands and questions from him and his colleagues since the moment I got home with the baking supplies three days ago. But for the amount they’re paying me for the gig, I can’t really complain.

  I let out my breath and step back to take in my handiwork. Mom joins me. She shakes her head.

  “I do remember there being a kitchen here once upon a time.”

  I grin. The counters and most of the floor space are now stacked with boxes of cake, cupcakes, pops, and various novelty items. Enough for two hundred and fifty reality TV show folks, plus extra. I’ve barely left the kitchen except to sleep, but I’m finally completely done. And in a few hours, all my work is going to taking a starring role on camera.

  “It’ll all be back to normal once I’ve got this all loaded up in the truck,” I tell her.

  “I’m not saying I mind.” She tilts her head to the side. “Look at what you accomplished with just our little space to work with. Don’t you think you could start a business right here in the city? Downtown Philly is dying for some cupcakes like yours.”

  “I think the city will survive without them,” I say, not wanting to get into another “put down roots, get married, give me grand-babies” conversation. “They’ve managed to this long already. Help me bring the boxes out?”

  It takes several minutes to schlep all the boxes into the back of the van I’ve rented for the day, but I’ve left myself plenty of wiggle room in the schedule. I’m not taking any chances today. The event doesn’t start until early evening, but I plan to be here mid-afternoon for whatever last-minute adjustments that’ll no doubt occur to the staff.

  I’m just hopping into the driver’s seat when my phone rings again. I brace myself for more weird food rules, but when I see the caller ID, my face splits with a smile.

  “Hello, handsome,” I say.

  “Hello, gorgeous,” Drew’s mellow voice replies. Even over the phone line, it makes me shiver in a good way. “I just wanted to wish you luck on your big day. Not that I think you’ll need it.”

  “Don’t jinx me.”

  “You’re going to rock this, Maggie. The whole world will be in awe of your cocks.” He laughs. “Maybe that came out wrong.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment anyway.”

  “Well, I know you’ve got to be uber busy, so I’ll let you go. But I’ll be thinking about you tonight.”

  “Thinking and doing what?” I tease.

  He chuckles. “A gentleman never tells. But if you stop by tomorrow, maybe I’ll give you a hands-on demonstration.”

  “A tempting offer. Let me get back to you on that.” As if there’s any doubt that I’ll be heading over to Drew’s place—and Drew’s bed—the moment I have the chance. The guy is more addictive than chocolate. And that’s coming from a lifelong chocoholic.

  Being a reality TV starlet, Alice Astley of course didn’t settle for some ordinary bar to hold a bachelorette blowout bash. The show has taken over the full event space of a posh hotel downtown. I drive down the street past it. Trailers and trucks are jammed all along both sidewalks—and parking’s not even technically legal on the one side. Crew members hustle back and forth, everyone yammering into mics hooked into their ears. There’s nowhere for me to squeeze in the van.

  I’d better find out exactly where they want me. I park in the first empty spot I can find around the block. Where’s the special ID card Kimmy couriered to me? And the menu list and the contract, in case for some reason someone needs to see one of those right away.

  I hustle around the corner to the hotel. A security guy stops me before I’m even halfway to the door.

  “I’m Maggie Hayes,” I tell him. “I’m bringing the cakes for the party?”

  I show him my ID and he consults a list before he lets me walk by. I guess I can understand. There are already a bunch of passersby gawking around the fringes of the set.

  Inside the lobby, I’m momentarily overwhelmed. Staff are racing this way and that, hollering instructions to each other that bounce off the high ceiling. There’ve got to be at least ten cameras being rolled around, spotlights lifting and lowering as the techs work out the best positioning, tables being draped with sparkly linens in the event room to my left. And somewhere a dog is yapping. Hello, Pom-Pom.

  In the midst of the chaos is a petite woman in very high heels, who’s brandishing her clipboard and barking out orders from that vantage point. Her carrot-red hair is yanked tight into a ponytail that explodes into a cloud of curls at the back of her head. She looks like the person who’ll know what’s what, if she doesn’t bite my head off for asking.

  “Hey,” I say, walking up to her. “I’m—”

  “Maggie!” the woman says. “Good, you’re here, you’re here. Early is good.” She jabs out her hand and retracts it after the briskest handshake of my life. “Kimmy. Glad to meet you in person. Let’s get
those cakes into the kitchen area so they’ll be ready for final touch-ups.”

  “I just need to know where to park,” I say quickly. “The street outside …” I motion to vaguely indicate the impenetrable swarm of vehicles.

  “We have an entire level of the underground parking for our use.” Kimmy retrieves a pass from her pocket and shoves it into my grasp. “Park as close to the elevator as you can. I’ll send someone down to help with the transport.”

  Okay. I can handle that. I dash back outside, make a quick note of the entrance to the underground parking, and jog back down the street. I round the corner—and stop dead in my tracks.

  Where’s the van?

  I look around, but it’s nowhere to be seen—just an empty space, and the row of trucks unloading.

  What the hell?

  My stomach flips over. Noooo … I hurry farther down the street. I was in a rush. Maybe I just forgot where I parked it?

  But I reach the end of the block, and there’s still no sign of a white rental van anywhere. My stomach gives up on gymnastics and starts tying itself into knots. I feel like I’m stuck in one of those awful dreams where I’m back in high school, realizing there’s a midterm about to start that I completely forgot to study for. In my most difficult subject. And I’m buck-naked, to boot.

  At least I’m dressed today, but honestly, I’d take a naked stroll just to get my van back. Shit. Shit! But how could an entire van full of cake disappear into thin air? That was three days of baking in the back of the van. If I can’t find it, the only thing that’s going to fix this is a time machine.

  I head back toward the hotel, thinking there’s a slight chance it somehow got moved by one of the crew. I’m just passing the main doors when the last person I’d want to see comes waltzing up the street.

  It’s Becky, with three women in caterer uniforms behind her. I suppress a shudder at the memory of wearing one of those just a couple weeks ago. Becky gives me a thin but satisfied smile and turns toward the doors. I block her way.

  “What are you doing here?”