Seven Books for Seven Lovers

by Molly Harper, Stephanie Haefner, Liora Blake, Gabra Zackman, Andrea Laurence, Colette Auclair

  I haven’t spoken with Bradley or Tonya. Ellie’s still at the agency, although she’s looking for a new job, and says things are tense. Bradley’s keeping a low profile and working around the clock, Tonya’s working for the competition and very pregnant, and Clive’s working through divorce number two. A prenatal paternity test has been ordered.

  “There’s the Empire State Building,” the woman in the middle seat says, leaning over. “They have it lit up for Valentine’s, see?”

  Where? Wait, there’s a tall building with pink and white sparkles near the top. “Is that it?”

  She smiles. Guess I was expecting the heart like in the movie. My ears pop again as we drop altitude, then the plane banks. Ugh, I’m really not a good flyer. My stomach rolls.

  Closing my eyes, I distract myself by picturing the map the way they did in Sleepless in Seattle. The camera zooms out and I see dashed lines appearing from Indianapolis, arcing high across the states and dropping to the airport below. Not as dramatic as in the movie, we’re not that far.

  Too bad I still have to zigzag through Midtown in a taxi. The Empire State Building is less than ten miles from the airport, but with traffic it could take between twenty and forty minutes. I Googled it.

  My luggage is only an extra tote bag to save time, and I bought an express pass online for the 86th-floor observation deck, to avoid both ticket and elevator lines, but I know there’s a security check, so there’s also that wait to consider.

  What if he thinks I’ve changed my mind?

  THE TAXI DRIVER SAID TRAFFIC’S not too bad, but what does that mean? All I see is endless streams of cars and people out walking. I suddenly feel very Midwestern and out of my element. On my phone I check the time. It’s 6:15. Dusk was at 5:30. I know this because I Googled that, too. I text Ellie: Still in Taxi. Flight was delayed. Freaking out!

  Oh, there it is! The Empire State Building. I lean up on the front seat and try to see the very top through the windshield. Maybe too far, I’m practically breathing in the driver’s ear.

  “Sorry,” I say and try to see from the side. Why have we stopped? We’re just sitting here. Should I get out like Annie, Meg Ryan’s character, did in the movie? My heart’s racing, I want to be racing. I should run.

  “Um, excuse me . . .” The taxi starts again. We’re moving. Okay, maybe riding’s better. It’s actually cold and a bit dreary out. Almost there! I’m bouncing in my seat, I’m so excited.

  I dig around in my bag for my ticket and cash for the driver. When he slows, I already have my money held out.

  “Thanks!” And I’m out and off in a power walk. The air is damp and cool, the kind that gets inside your bones. At least it’s not snowing or raining. Was it raining in the movie? I can’t remember. I move with the steady stream of people toward the entrance. How are there so many people?

  Okay. I’m here. Wow, this place is massive. Art Deco and marble everything, floors, walls . . . I look up: even the ceiling. American flags on either side. Elevators, where? I hold up my ticket to a man in uniform. “It’s an express, do I . . . ?”

  Glancing at my ticket, he points toward the third queue. There’s still a small line. Security is what’s creating the holdup. I head over and glance at the time on my phone: 6:30.

  What if Shane’s not there? I have his picture from college back out on my nightstand in a frame. It’s again the face I greet every morning and the one I’m desperate to see. I miss him. I love him. I never said it. What if I don’t get the chance?

  A text chimes. It’s Ellie: How close are you?

  I quickly answer: Inside. Stuck in security. STILL freaki—

  That’s all I say, because I’m next. The guard hands me back my bag and I collect my carry-on, which is really just another bag because I knew that any kind of luggage was not allowed. Yes, Googled that, too.

  “All clear?” I bounce into the elevator. Come on, come on, come on . . . We’re packed in tight, the doors close, and here we go.

  My stomach lurches with the sudden rise. A voice is broadcast over the speakers, welcoming us to the Empire State Building in different languages, but with so many people talking it’s hard to hear. The red LED numbers jump from 2 to 10. Whoa.

  Twenty . . . thirty . . . fifty floors! The guy next to me is talking about how the entire ride is only about a minute. A minute’s too long! Sixty-six . . . seventy . . . Now it shows each floor and I can feel it slowing. Seventy-eight . . . seventy-nine . . . eighty!

  The doors open. I’m out! Straight ahead is a huge metal sign welcoming us to the observation deck. My eyes are desperate for Shane. I scan faces. Where is he? Quickly, I work my way through and around the inside behind the glass, then I get into the line for outside and . . .

  Oh, wow.

  I’m momentarily distracted by the twinkling lights, so many lights. I wedge myself between two people and lean up on the cement wall to peer over. It’s foggy but you can see across the river all the way into Jersey. The gentleman next to me points out the Chrysler Building to his wife. A helicopter in the distance is actually below us. It’s strange, but other than the chatter, it’s quiet, almost peaceful.

  Shane.

  I spin and start circling the deck. I text Ellie: I’m finally up here, but I don’t see him!

  Where? Man with dark hair . . . I walk fast and . . . not him. I’m halfway around, and no Shane. So many people . . . It’s really crowded and a lot bigger than I expected. When I’m back to where I started, I loop around again. Dread creeps up my spine.

  Again, I text Ellie: I don’t see him! Gone all the way around.

  She answers immediately: Stay put. Maybe by elevators?

  Oh, that’s a good idea. I work my way back to the main doors, where visitors first step outside. This way I can see new arrivals or anyone leaving. Tugging my collar up, I cross my arms and tuck my chin in against the cool air.

  A couple holding hands walks by. Well, lots of couples holding hands. It’s Valentine’s Day. Maybe he really did change his mind? My insides twist at the thought. I don’t think I could bear another Valentine’s letdown. I glance at the time on my phone again. It’s so late. I’m so late.

  A crackle pops from above. I look around just as everyone else does. What is that? It’s coming from loudspeakers. It’s . . . it’s music and . . . Tom Hanks’s voice? “It’s you.”

  “It’s me.” That’s Meg Ryan.

  “That’s Sleepless in Seattle!” I say loudly. The woman next to me eyes me strangely, but then repeats it to her friend.

  They’re playing the movie over the PA?

  “I love that movie,” says another woman.

  “Maybe it’s a Valentine’s thing they do,” someone else says.

  People are looking at each other, talking about what they think is going on. My eyes are wide, looking from one person to the next. But nothing’s happening except the movie’s playing crisp and loud through the speakers.

  “We better go,” Sam, Tom Hanks’s character, says. “Shall we?” The familiar song “Make Someone Happy” starts with its plucky bomp bomp . . . bomp bomp to end the movie. It swells louder and . . . bomp bomp . . . bomp bomp.

  Now everyone is really craning their necks and looking around.

  It’s so important to make someone happy . . .

  “Oh!” The whole crowd gasps.

  I lean out to see. Two couples have spontaneously started dancing. Another couple starts spinning. Another.

  “It’s a flash mob!” Several voices shout out.

  I’ve never actually seen one. The entire observation deck seems to have been staged with dancers of every age. More dancers start twirling and dipping in sync to the iconic song.

  Make just one someone happy . . .

  I laugh and back up to make room. This is really cool. I wish Shane were with me to see this. People have their phones out and are recording. Maybe I should—

  Did I hear my name? I turn, but I don’t see anyone. There it is again. I step out, shifting a
round to see through the dancers. They swirl to the side, and walking down the middle in perfect view is a little boy: red coat, dark hair, red-and-yellow backpack.

  No way.

  He stops and tugs on a smiling lady’s coat. “Excuse me, are you Kensington?”

  My heart slams my chest. I didn’t hear that right . . . did I? My eyes are already prickling with tears. They’re at the ready. Really no way.

  He faces the other way, and I have to duck to see between the performers. He’s talking with a woman with short dark hair. I can’t hear them but I see her shake her head. Everyone’s watching him, smiling, commenting. The dancers weave to the music around him, almost with him.

  Now he’s walking . . . oh my gosh, he’s walking toward . . . me. “Excuse me, are you Kensington?”

  My eyes are round. I can’t get the words out so I smile and nod. I hear whispers around me. That’s her. That’s the girl. My chest is tight. I glance around as everyone watches.

  “Then what’s in my backpack is for you.” He turns.

  The raspy voice of Jimmy Durante sings on about love and clinging to that special someone. I’m at the top of the Empire State Building on Valentine’s Day, talking with, well, Jonah. This is surreal.

  I look around again and the couple beside me nudges my arm. “Go ahead, see what’s inside.”

  I wet my lips, take a long breath to steady my nerves, then slowly lift the flap. Oh my gosh. It’s the pig-monster. I laugh and pull him up to murmurs and laughs. There’s a snap-flash of a camera. Then another.

  Then a gasp, “His neck!”

  My gaze drops. Threaded on a candy-disk necklace is a ring. Tears completely blur my vision. My hand covers my gaping mouth and the moisture runs over my fingertips and seeps through them. There’s a ring.

  I look up. Where is he? Where?

  The dancers part, and waving like crazy is . . . “Ellie?” Oh my God, “Mom? Dad?” I’m beyond surprised. Ren leans out from beside Grayson, points to the monster, and grins. Aunt Greta smiles with tears, camera in hand. Another snap-flash.

  My whole family is here. They’re all here. My heart’s swollen with happiness. He did this all for me. But where is—my family steps to the side.

  Shane.

  Dressed in jeans, gray cable knit sweater, and coat, he looks like he stepped out of a magazine. The corners of his eyes crinkle with his smile, and that’s it, I’m a mess. Tears fall so fast, even as I wipe them, I can’t see.

  “Here, honey.” Someone hands me a tissue.

  I stifle a laugh, and dab. It’s no use. I’m wrought with emotion. My teeth lock hard, and I suck in a fast breath, hugging the pig-monster with a hand over my mouth.

  The little boy is still beside me as Shane approaches. The music fades and a hush follows. I swear it’s so quiet, it’s as if the whole world is holding its breath.

  Shane drops to his knee, igniting a united “Awww . . .”

  His jaws are clenched trying to keep it together. His eyes have a glossy shine. Oh, I’ve missed his face.

  “Marry me?” That’s all he says.

  My God, that’s all he needs to.

  It’s better than any movie speech or line.

  I smile with my whole heart and whisper, “I love you, Shane.”

  Cheers erupt. Aunt Greta’s hugging Mom as she dabs her eyes, smiling. Dad’s beaming. Even Grayson’s eyes are moist. Ellie and Ren are crying and laughing.

  I gaze into copper-brown eyes, filled with a warm, hopeful glow, and see our whole story unfold.

  It’s how Shane met Kenzi.

  The magic of boy meets girl, the angst of catch and release, the serendipity of meant-to-be. It doesn’t matter if a romantic comedy follows a predictable course, we respond because it’s rooted in truth. In magic.

  Does that mean a perfect happily ever after? No, in fact, I don’t want perfect. I want the bumps. At least, the unexpected one set to arrive in about six months. I smile at Shane. Bet he’s not expecting that.

  Everyone applauds as he sweeps me high into his arms followed by the sweetest kiss. A movie kiss. A kiss that ends our Love Like the Movies list and starts our new life.

  A life like the movies.

  Real-Life Shining Stars

  THANK YOU TO MY critique partner and friend, Kaci, who has rallied behind this story from the very first draft, and heartfelt thanks to my amazing critique and beta crew: Cristin, Amy, Stacey, Sharon, Claudia, Rox, Andrea, and Nicola. I adore each and every one of you.

  Special thanks to my super-agent, Jenny Bent, for believing in this story and taking me under your ever-impressive cape. To my fabulously funny editor, Abby Zidle, and to the entire cast of people behind the scenes, who not only put this title up in lights, but made sure it sparkled.

  And of course, thank you to the readers! Just like Kenzi, I think we all want a life filled with big, magical moments. Love Like the Movies has certainly been one of those for me, and I hope through reading, you’re reminded to live yours on purpose and center stage.

  Last, but never least, I thank God, the big director in the sky, for proving that when life pitches unforeseen plot twists, there’s always another path to happily ever after.

  Want even more deliciously sexy, laugh-out-loud contemporary romances?

  Keep reading for a sneak peek at five more saucy, hilarious, and hot-hot-hot reads!

  ONE

  LIP SMACKIN’ DELICIOUS flickers in red neon above the diner’s door.

  Salivating addicts are crammed in the entryway and spilling onto the sidewalk, all vying for their Blue Plate Special fix. The chalkboard menu posted behind the register says today’s offering is the James Beard—a dish dripping with enough cholesterol to clog even the healthiest arteries. Served all day and only seven dollars.

  I elbow my way through the horde, careful not to maim someone’s toe with my stiletto. The air inside feels as heavy as sausage gravy, and smells of it, too. The sounds of my childhood surround me: forks clanking against plates, snippets of conversations, and a Bob Seger tune blasting from the Wurlitzer jukebox.

  Scanning the crowd, I search for the familiar mop of black hair that belongs to my father. All I can see are shiny bald heads, gray hair, and baseball caps as they line the stainless steel counter, obstructing my view of the kitchen. But I know my father is there. I can hear his boisterous laugh booming over the noise.

  Turner’s Greasy Spoons is my father’s pride and joy, his existence. He’s been running the joint for the past twenty-five years. The regulars have dubbed him Old Man Jack. Right now, he’s on my to-die-painfully-by-butter-knife list.

  Weaving around tables, past servers carrying pitchers and balancing dishes, I spot my father standing over the flat-top grill, flushed and grimy from oil splatters. He wipes his forehead with his sleeve. I march toward him, and when he notices me, a grin spreads across his face.

  “Folks, Lillie Claire Turner, the best damn cook in Dallas and my only child, has arrived,” he says, gesturing at me with a metal spatula.

  Swiveling around on stools, patrons nod and tip their hats.

  “Your only child wants to know why you’re not in emergency surgery,” I shout as my father disappears from view. A beat later he steps out from the kitchen and meets me behind the counter, wrapping me in a hug. I inhale the scent of hash browns and coffee. I pull away. In my five-year absence, he’s aged tenfold—deep creases around his mouth, salt-and-pepper hair, tired hazel eyes, lanky build.

  “I went to the hospital and the house, and this is where I find you?” I try to quell the frustration and anger sweeping through me.

  He furrows his brow. “Course it is. The surgery isn’t happening for another three weeks.”

  I shake my head. “You’re unbelievable.” Fishing my cell phone out of my suit pocket, I put his voice message on speaker.

  “Hey, baby girl, I don’t want to worry you, but I’m here at the doctor’s office. I’ve been feeling run down lately and my bum knee’s been giving me trouble
again. Anyway, he’s saying I need surgery . . . Ah, Doc’s back with the paperwork for the hospital. I gotta go.”

  “See,” he says. “I never said it was scheduled for today.”

  I huff in exasperation. “I called you seven times, Dad. Seven times without an answer.”

  “I got busy with the breakfast rush,” he says, then shrugs at me, as if this whole thing is a simple misunderstanding. I have a brief, out-of-body moment where I see this crazy-haired, wild-eyed woman about to kill her father.

  “You scared me,” I say, recalling my dash through O’Hare, the restless flight to Dallas, my panicked drive around town to locate him. “You made it sound like this was an emergency.”

  A bell rings and plates appear in the kitchen window. My father trays the order. “Well, listen, I’m sorry about that, but I told you not to worry.”

  I throw my hands up as a fresh wave of anger swells inside me. “You mentioned hospital paperwork, and then you didn’t pick up your phone. How could I not envision the worst?”

  “Easy there, baby girl. Calm down. It’s just a simple operation to fix me up,” he says, tapping his kneecap with his knuckles.

  “So it’s not even serious?” I ask.

  “Doc says after some intensive therapy, I’ll be shining brighter than a freshly minted penny. Now let me look at you.” My father clutches my arms. “You’re skinny as a green bean. Don’t people eat where you live? And why are you dressed like one of those stuffy lawyers on Law & Order?”

  “Because I was at work prepping for an important meeting,” I say, my voice rising. At this very moment, I should be on the thirty-eighth floor of the United Building, overlooking the Chicago River, presenting to the executive board of Kingsbury Enterprises about their product launch. I’m the senior consultant on the account, the success of which determines if I make partner. “I dropped everything to be here, and you’re acting as if I’m the irrational one.”

  “You don’t belong in that job anyway. It’s about time you came home. Five years in that frozen tundra is long enough. Now, how about some real food? No more of that bird crap you’ve been eating.” He winks, and his lips curve up into a bright smile.