Mr Right Now: A Romantic Comedy Standalone

by Lila Monroe

  Hunter raised his hands like a suspect surrendering to the police, then leaned in, his tongue tracing a lazy figure eight on my neck, the sensitive skin there tingling under his touch.

  “What if I say ‘please?’” he whispered against my hammering pulse.

  It just might be worth it…no!

  I pulled away again, shaking my finger at him. “You, Hunter Knox, are the devil himself.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, tucking his hands into his trouser pockets with a satisfied smile. Then his face went serious. “I would never ruin your big day for you.”

  “I appreciate that,” I said, and I meant it.

  We grinned at each other like fools for a few seconds. Damn, but that man looked good in a tux, even an old-school one.

  “You nervous?”

  “And excited,” I said. “But yeah, nervous too, for the big unveiling of the new branding and film. My boss is in from D.C., his boss is in from New York; everything’s riding on this.”

  Hunter took my hand and squeezed it. “It’s going to be great.”

  And looking into his eyes, seeing his belief in me, I believed that too.

  We joined the party with a discreet distance between us, trying to make it less obvious that we were…whatever we were. But how could it not be obvious? Couldn’t everyone see the electricity crackling between us? I felt like a little girl trying to hide a broken cookie jar behind her back.

  Paige swooped in out of nowhere for a quick hug. “Oh Ally, I’m so glad I caught you! Best of luck, I know you’re going to be brilliant!” Then her gaze caught on something else, and she was off again: “Martin, I told you and I told you, that shade of mauve is completely period-inappropriate—”

  I spotted Martha over by the bar and gave her a wave. She gave me a friendly wave back before zeroing in on a hot guy and moving in for the kill. The guy didn’t look like he minded being her metaphorical prey one little bit.

  And then I saw the Douchebros, palling around with what looked like most of the board.

  Well, not everything could be all roses.

  “Nice outfit, Ally,” Chad sneered. “Did you spend half as much time on your rebranding as your make-up?”

  Hunter growled, and not in the sexy way. I held up a hand in a barely perceptible signal, restraining him.

  I could see the Douchebros jockeying each other, eager to see my reaction. They wanted me to explode, to look emotional and unstable in front of the board members.

  Instead, I gave Chad a look as blank as a wiped whiteboard. “I don’t get it. Why is that funny? Explain it to me.”

  Chad sniggered. “You know.”

  “I do not,” I said in my best robot monotone. “Explain why that joke is funny. Spell it out.”

  “Uh, er…” Chad floundered, seeming to realize for the first time that over half of the board members surrounding him were women. “Uh…”

  One of the board members, Ms. Standish, interrupted with a tight smile. “While he’s searching for words, perhaps we could have some, Miss Bartlett. I was most intrigued by some of your propositions when we last spoke, and my own nonprofit is looking to revamp our ad campaign strategy, perhaps you and your company…”

  She guided me away, still expounding on her plans, leaving the Douchebros with mouths agape.

  Victory was sweet.

  An hour later, I was on top of the world. Ms. Standish had all but signed a contract after our conversation, and now Hunter was about to take the stage and officially introduce the real reason we were all gathered here today. I was going to enjoy this much more than the original plan where Chuck did the introductory remarks; in addition to having a boatload less charisma, he also was significantly less easy on the eyes.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, honored guests.” The microphone made Hunter’s sweet molasses voice boom across to us over the still night air. “It is my honor to present to you the first page of the first chapter of this company. Normally, when people say something needs no introduction, they use that as an excuse to go on introducing it for forty minutes.”

  Polite chuckles drifted across the grounds.

  “But when I say that this piece needs no introduction—” Somehow, in that huge crowd, Hunter’s eyes found mine, and held them. “I mean it. Ladies and gentlemen, just watch the damn film.”

  Genuine laughter this time, quickly hushed as the audience turned their attentive gazing to the wide screen behind him. I gazed too, somehow certain that between the last time I had viewed the reel and now, some terrible flaw had crept in.

  It opened with the shot of a sun rising, the grizzled voice of an old man saying, “First time I drank Knox bourbon? Well, I reckon they don’t make history books go back that far. But damn me if that taste ain’t the same…goes down smooth, like the tears of an angel…”

  And then I knew it would be just perfect.

  The crowd applauded heavily at the film’s conclusion, and I scanned them quickly, looking for allies and enemies. The Douchebros were the only ones not applauding at all, but besides them I’d estimate at least eighty percent of the audience was enthusiastic in their response.

  We’d done it. We’d really done it. We’d shown everyone what we could do.

  “Thank you!” Hunter called out over the cheers. “Thank you, everyone, for that wonderful show of support. Of course, I couldn’t have done it without Allison Bartlett, a vital proponent of this new branding strategy and an advertising genius!”

  Had I thought I felt good before? It was nothing compared to how good I felt now.

  I flashed a smile up at him and kept scanning the crowd. Happy face, happy face, intrigued face, intrigued happy face, concern—concern?

  My stomach dropped.

  Oh no.

  The concerned face belonged to a board member. And it was right next to a lot of other concerned faces that also belonged to, you guessed it: board members.

  The group was clumped around Ms. Standish who I had been talking to earlier. I couldn’t hear what they were saying; even if it hadn’t been so loud, it looked like they were whispering. Their gestures were urgent but abbreviated, as if they were trying to keep them from being seen.

  I started to make my way casually over, intending to accidentally-on-purpose interrupt their cabal, but before I was halfway there they broke apart and tromped over to the stage, clumping once again around Hunter.

  I gave up all pretense of being casual and increased my speed, trotting over just in time to hear, “We need to talk to you inside, Mr. Knox.”

  “I’m coming too!” I threw in.

  Several of the board members started, not having seen me, but Ms. Standish just surveyed me and then nodded shrewdly. “I think that’d be best.”

  I followed them inside, wishing I could take Hunter’s hand for comfort.

  What the hell was going on?

  Chuck.

  That goddamn motherfucker Chuck was what was going on.

  He leaned back in Hunter’s luxurious black leather armchair, sprawling out over it as if he owned it and everything else in the manor. “It’s quite simple. We’ve decided to remove Hunter as CEO and go in a different direction with the rebrand.”

  I felt the floor falling out from underneath me. Anger and disbelief warred in my brain. “No, you can’t!”

  “Damn right you can’t,” Hunter snapped, his fury cold and hard. “What the hell are you thinking springing this, Chuck?”

  A board member shuffled her feet nervously. “This does seem a bit sudden, Charles. Perhaps if we took some time to reconsider…”

  Chuck sighed regretfully. “You know I can’t do that, Irma. Not when the whole future of the company could be at stake.”

  Irma sighed and looked back down again, cowed.

  “There are rules, Chuck,” Hunter said, his voice ice. “There has to be a majority vote, there has to be a good reason—”

  “There’s the very best of reasons,” Hunter said. “Oh, you tried to bury it
, but Allison’s colleagues very obligingly dug it up for me. Remember Slade, Inc.?”

  Hunter went still.

  What had the Douchebros done now?

  “The board doesn’t have your sterling memory, of course,” Chuck went on. “So I refreshed it, in the emergency meeting we had just now. Showed them all the evidence, all the meeting notes and memorandums which that young Chad fellow so enterprisingly fished up, all detailing how you drove that company into the ground in your reckless need to prove you were worth something out of the shadow of your grandfather. And you did it the same way you’re doing it to Knox, refusing to listen to the concerns of your board while proceeding with a costly advertising strategy that will strangle Knox Liquors like a noose and utterly deplete the profit margins.”

  “Now, see here,” another board member cut in gruffly. “No need to be melodramatic. We just had some concerns. You tried a risky new strategy there with no statistical backing, and Chuck tells me you’re going with another untested one here, and well, I have to give a vote of no confidence.”

  Chuck stood, hands clasped behind his back, his face mournful. “You’re a great kid, Hunter, you really are. I wanted to give you a chance. I looked everywhere for evidence that you could be trusted in such a high position—” he turned, meeting my eyes with a sly smile only I could see, “but even your ad exec doesn’t have faith in you.”

  I gaped, dumbfounded. “What…what do you…?”

  “‘He wants to run everything himself,’” he quoted. “‘He thinks the family name is sacred, that he’s a missionary.’ Does that sound like someone concerned about their fiduciary responsibility to the shareholders? You did say that, didn’t you?”

  I could feel Hunter’s gaze on me, feel his eyes demanding answers.

  “Not like that—” I pleaded.

  He raised his voice. “You did say that, didn’t you?”

  “It wasn’t like that—”

  “I believe you were most worried about him running the company into the ground before he’d admit the company needed an advertising strategy in the first place?” Chuck continued. “You kindly went on for some time in this vein, all about how he distrusted advertising methods and would prefer not to utilize anything other than word of mouth. How you were so worried that he was only going along with your particular scheme in order to placate your sister, who he is currently dating. I’ve passed your information on to the board; they saw my point of view much more clearly after that.”

  I heard Hunter next to me, a sound as if he’d been stabbed.

  “It doesn’t matter!” I protested. “Look around you; the rebrand is launching! And it’s a strong campaign. You can’t stop this!”

  My voice cracked. I couldn’t look Hunter in the eye; I knew exactly the look that would be in them, the hurt, the betrayal…

  Chuck sneered. “One little party, out in the middle of nowhere? Nothing’s been announced. All anyone will ever remember of this event and your little film school project is some sentimental slop about the old company. It’s time for a new chapter—and I know exactly which of your colleagues can help me write it.”

  The Douchebros.

  Oh God. Everything I had worked on so hard…

  “You—you—” Hunter’s fist rose, and for a terrible second I thought he was about to hit Chuck. I grabbed at his arm and the look he shot me was so poisonous I stumbled back, shocked.

  Hunter growled, and stormed from the room.

  I wanted to stay, wanted to argue the board members back around—they could be reasonable, I knew I could make them see reason—but—

  But Hunter needed me.

  I raced after him, trying not to trip in my heels. “Hunter! Hunter, slow down! We can go back, we can fix this—”

  He whirled unexpectedly, grabbing my arm. “Did you say those things?” he hissed.

  “Yes, but—”

  He let go and backed away, looking at me as if I were a snake.

  “Hunter, you have to understand—”

  “I don’t have to understand anything,” he growled. “And certainly not you.” Pain lit his eyes. “I believed in you, Ally. I believed in you and you stabbed me in the back and ruined—the, the one thing that mattered most to me.”

  I opened my mouth, tried to think of something to say. Nothing came out.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and when he opened them again the pain was gone. There was nothing there but ice. “I want nothing more to do with you. Pack your bags and leave.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  TWO WEEKS LATER…

  I knew I needed to get off the couch.

  It was just that getting off the couch seemed to require about a thousand more muscles than I had ever possessed.

  Not to mention motivation.

  I slumped back into the cushions and stared up at the dingy grey ceiling. It was a slightly less depressing sight than the melting, half-eaten carton of dulce de leche ice cream on the coffee table, or the many used tissues at my feet, or the tearstained face that would greet me if I sat up high enough to see myself in the mirror over the mantel.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about Hunter.

  His face when we had last spoken, so cold, so uncaring, so carved from stone as he told me that he never wanted to see me again—

  No, no, no! I wasn’t going to do this. I wasn’t going to wallow. Maybe I couldn’t summon the emotional energy to get off this damn couch, but I could damn well make myself forget about Hunter Knox and my stupid, stupid mistake.

  Somehow.

  Alcohol was right out of the question; even the shittiest liquor just conjured up the taste of Knox bourbon in my memory, and the taste of Hunter’s lips following that. Sugar wasn’t doing such a hot job either, not that I hadn’t tried several variations on that: in addition to the ice cream that was rapidly turning to soup, my fridge sported stale donuts, brownies, a mostly-empty tub of chocolate chip cookie dough (don’t judge), and a churro I’d bought last week that was now so tough that I probably could have repurposed it as a chew toy for a pit bull.

  I should probably throw it all away.

  But that would mean getting off this couch.

  And what use were ‘should’s, anyway? I should have never gotten drunk at that party. I should never have spoken to Chuck. I should have told Hunter right away, so he wouldn’t be blindsided, so he would have had time to forgive me.

  Should, should, should.

  It was all so fucking useless. Like me.

  After the failure of alcohol and sugar, my next step had been to buy a handful of the supermarket tabloids with the silliest headlines I could find. WOMAN GIVES BIRTH TO BAT-APE HYBRID and ALIEN ARTIFACT REAWAKENS ELVIS and all that; Paige and I used to steal these from the local Publix and laugh ourselves silly. Mom would’ve died if she’d found out.

  I picked up one of them half-heartedly, but its headlines were all celebrity hookups and break-ups—MADONNA SPOTTED IN SIZZLING ROMANCE WITH MEMBER OF SICILIAN MAFIA??, THE PRESIDENT’S SHOCKING SECRET, JENNIFER LOVE HEWITT TEARFULLY ADMITS HER HOARDING PROBLEM CAUSED WRECK OF HER MARRIAGE—and all they did to my stupid brain was remind me of my own hook-up and break-up, and how no one would ever really care about it the way millions of people apparently cared about these ones. No one would care about it except me.

  Hunter would never care.

  I let the magazine fall to the floor, to settle in with the rest of the debris of my life.

  I picked up the phone, partly out of unthinking habit, partly on the off chance that somehow its ring tone had been turned off and Hunter had called me back fourteen times, finally ready to hear my explanations and apologies.

  He had not.

  In the two weeks since he’d told me to pack my things and leave, he hadn’t called me once. And he certainly hadn’t been taking any of my calls. And I had made calls. Sober calls, drunk calls, tearful calls, angry calls. Nothing had garnered a response.

  I dug my spoon back into the melting mess of dulce de
leche ice cream and glomped it into my mouth. It tasted like nothing at all, but it settled low and hard in my stomach, like a stone, like defeat.

  Ring, ring!

  My heart leapt in agonized joy, then fell again with a nearly audible thud as I looked at the caller ID. It wasn’t Hunter.

  Of course it wasn’t Hunter. He’d made it clear he wasn’t interested in hearing from me again. Stupid, stupid, stupid to have imagined that he might have missed me, that he might have changed his mind.

  Worse, the call wasn’t even from Paige or Martha, who had been checking in with me once every few days, trying to sound offhand and casual before inviting me out to ladies’ nights at local bars, or picnics with the historical society, or brunch with just the two of us—trying to pry me out of my protective shell and get me back into the real world, offers which I had all politely—and in a few more persistent cases, not so politely—declined. Couldn’t a girl just wallow in peace anymore?

  But like I said, the phone call wasn’t from them.

  It was from my boss.

  Letting it go through to voicemail would probably lose me my job at this point, so I picked up the phone and tried to sound like I had been doing something marginally more professional than lying around on my couch crying and eating ice cream.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I know you’ve taken another sick day—” there was a contemptuous emphasis on the ‘another’—“but I need you to come in today, in an hour. Marianne is out with the flu and somebody’s got to cover her workload.”

  My heart leapt again before I could remember that Marianne was the name of the other woman in the department, and she didn’t get any great jobs either. Still, there was a tiny strand of hope left: “And the Knox account?”

  He laughed, a hard hacking sound that was only barely recognizable as mirth. “Don’t kid yourself, Allison. After the hash you made of it last time, there’s no way I’m letting you more than forty miles near that one.”

  I felt the sinking sensation of worthlessness in my stomach as he spoke. He was right. I ruined everything I touched—no! No, I couldn’t let myself think things like that. I had to fight.