Lovestruck: A Romantic Comedy Standalone

by Lila Monroe

  It’s a little sparse up here today. There’s a perfectly good, very comfortable seat next to me desperate for someone to sit in it. Looks like Fate is getting pushy, so how about keeping me company? All drinks on me.

  -W

  I read the note three times and then a fourth, and still can’t summon the resolve I want. I should jot down a snarky refusal, send it back to him, and let him be the rejectee for once. Maybe simply sketching out my middle finger would get the message across? That’s all he deserves at this point.

  But if I were one of my clients, I’d tell myself to be the bigger person. Let his arrogance roll right off me. Why give him the satisfaction of thinking I’m not over past hurts? I am over them.

  That doesn’t mean I want to put up with Will’s company for the next three hours, though.

  Of course, in this particular case, being the bigger person would come with some pretty sweet benefits. My legs are already getting cramped, crammed in here between the economy seats. The woman next to me fell right asleep—and is snoring to wake the dead. And after everything this morning has thrown at me, I can’t help feeling I deserve some free booze.

  Fate is trying to set me up with a few bottles of mini-wine and a cushy seat to enjoy them in. What better revenge can there be than waltzing up there and enjoying Will’s hospitality as if the past doesn’t mean a thing to me? I bite my lip.

  Then I grab my purse and tote, scoot around the flight attendants closing the baggage compartments, and hustle to the curtain where my former nemesis is waiting.

  Chapter Two

  The tale of Will and me is as old as time: Boy meets girl, boy strikes girl as a cocky asshole until circumstances bring them closer together and she falls head over heels, girl confesses her feelings, boy reveals himself to be a cocky asshole after all. My trepidation as I stride into the first class zone is totally justified.

  Will turns in his chair at the rustle of the curtain. He smiles when he sees me, and just for that second he looks more appreciative than sly. As if he wasn’t sure I’d accept his invitation. Well, good. He shouldn’t have been.

  I settle tentatively into the seat he motions me to, which is about a mile wider and infinity more cushy than the one I had back in economy. “We meet again,” I say, and cringe inside at the Dark Lord-esque line. My nerd humor comes out in full force when I’m edgy.

  “Like I said, must be fate,” Will says, his smile turning into that heart-stopping grin, and thank the Lord, here comes the flight attendant with a glass she sets on the tray in front of me.

  “Whiskey sour,” she chirps.

  My eyebrows leap up. He remembered my favorite drink. I guess that wouldn’t have been hard considering I must have ordered it in front of him about a million times. Better to focus on: “I didn’t know they made mixed drinks on airplanes.”

  “Only in first class,” Will says. “And only if you fly with the airline so often half the flight attendants know you by name.”

  I grab the glass and toss half of its contents back—because I’m thirsty, really, not to calm my nerves—and the whisky goes down so smooth I almost gasp. I haven’t had whiskey like that off an airplane in at least couple years.

  “Fuck, that’s good,” I say, and feel my cheeks flush automatically. “I mean, thanks.”

  Will laughs. “When did you become so polite, Ruby Walters? You used to be able to put sailors to shame.”

  I wave my hand dismissively. “I mostly work with the under-18 set these days. Had to kick the potty mouth.”

  “Intriguing. Tell me more—it’s been a while, after all.”

  He’s talking as if we just drifted apart, as if there’s no reason for bad blood here. Does he think he can just pretend it away?

  Or maybe he doesn’t realize I saw the full extent of his assholery.

  Whatever. I can play along.

  “I started my own PR consultancy,” I say. “Picked up the social media slack most of the established firms hadn’t caught on was the next wave in celebrity-dom. YouTubers, Instagrammers, that sort of thing. It keeps me busy.”

  I’m hoping if I talk all casual it’ll downplay the obvious difference between us in success, if success is measured by being able to afford to sit at the front of a plane and have flight attendants bring you whiskey that good. Will just nods.

  “It’s like you to spot the gap in the market,” he says. “Professor Maldew figured you’d make a mark. Sounds as though you proved him right.”

  It’s a compliment hidden inside someone else’s opinion, but a compliment—and a pretty nice one—all the same. Between that and Will’s smile and the intentness of his gray-green eyes just a couple feet away from me, I feel myself going slightly mushy inside.

  No, no way, shields up, full power. He’s not going to get under my skin.

  “You must be doing well, too,” I say, redirecting the conversation to what is undoubtedly his favorite subject: himself.

  He shrugs, leaning his elbow on the armrest between us. Just inches from my bare arm. I down the rest of my whiskey sour.

  “It’s taken a lot of work,” he says. “But it was important to me to develop my own properties rather than riding on the coattails of the family business. There’s a lot more I’d like to do.”

  That’s just like him, or at least the Will I thought I knew—always making sure he could fully own any credit he got, always reaching farther. He wanted to make his own mark.

  In school, in business, and on half of the female senior class.

  My gaze slips to his left hand. No ring.

  Not that it matters.

  I jerk my eyes away. “So do you work out of LA?” I say, toying with my glass and wondering if it’d be out of line to order another of those in his name.

  “I have to be on the move a lot. I can’t say I really have a home base at the moment.” He tugs at the cuffs of his jacket sleeves, a familiar gesture, and adds, “The fate thing might be a joke, but I am glad we’ll have the week to catch up, Ruby.”

  He sounds so sincere that I feel my shields collapse with a flutter of my heart. Oh, no. Maybe I’m not ready for this after all.

  “I, um, I really should catch up on some Zs before we get in,” I say with a forced smile. “Early morning, busy day ahead, you know. Thanks again for the comfy seat!”

  I pop in my earphones, snatch the complimentary sleep mask, and shut out all thoughts of Will in search of my inner Zen.

  I’m hoping to put a little distance between Will and me once we touch down, but it’s tricky separating from someone you were sitting right beside who’s heading for the exact same place you are, without looking like you’re fleeing in disgrace. So naturally we end up next to each other watching the suitcases spilling out onto the baggage claim carousel. Will’s, a subdued, wheeled leather number, arrives in the first round.

  “My car service will be waiting out front,” he says. “You want a ride?”

  Another hour of sitting next to him in close quarters making awkward conversation—or awkwardly attempting to escape it? Nope, thanks, I’ve had my fill for the next three to four lifetimes. “Don’t wait for me,” I say. “I booked a rental.”

  For the first time since I almost literally ran into him, his expression turns serious. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. The companies that operate out of here are all cons, Ruby.”

  “I know how to read fine print,” I say. “I’ll be fine. I’d rather have my hands on the wheel than trust someone else’s driving.”

  He frowns, looking as if he’s going to argue more, and in my only bit of good luck so far I spot my cherry-red polka-dot hard-shell careening from the chute. “There’s my bag!” I say cheerfully. “I’ll see you at the resort.”

  Will shakes his head. “Just be careful,” he says. He snaps up the tow handle on his suitcase and ambles off with a confident stride that makes the most of that powerfully built body. Not that I’m checking it out.

  His warning gnaws at me despite myself as I hustle
to the rental pick-up bay—he does know the area better than I do—but the middle-aged guy who directs me to my jeep is all smiles and warm welcomes. I hop in feeling more at ease. Roll down the window, engage the engine, crank the tunes. It’s time to drown out all those uninvited feelings the plane trip stirred up. I want to be wiped clean and cool as an ocean breeze before I see Will again.

  I keep the map open on the seat beside me. The first twenty minutes are smooth highway driving. But of course Will set up his “eco-resort” as far off the beaten track as he possibly could. Before long I find myself bumping along a winding dirt road with thick jungle on either side of me, feeling about as distant from civilization as Mars. My fingers tighten on the wheel.

  It’s okay. No, it’s excellent. Sweet tropical perfume in the air and the chatter of exotic birds in the trees—it’s an adventure. And Will thought he needed to protect me from this.

  I toss my hair back and laugh the way people do when they’re joyriding out into the wilderness in movies, and while I probably look slightly deranged, it gives me the surge of confidence I was hoping for.

  I wonder how they get deliveries so far out this way? That question sets off a worry that leaves me scrambling for my phone. I ease off the gas so I can navigate one-handed.

  “Rube!” my stepbrother-for-an-instant says when he picks up. Our parents’ marriage hung on about as long as the latest LOLCat, but that hasn’t stopped us from staying friendly.

  “Hey, Jake! I just wanted to check on the status of my wedding gift.”

  Jake has a knack for scaring up the most unattainable items. His best score on my behalf so far is an original by this obscure Flemish painter Brooke has been in love with since years before she got her degree in art history. She’s going to flip her shit when she sees it—assuming it makes it across the ocean in one piece.

  “Everything’s in order,” Jake says. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”

  Exactly what I want to hear. “I really appreciate it,” I tell him gratefully. “Remind me to treat you and Lizzie for dinner next time I’m in New York. That was my not-so-subtle way of asking how things are going with you,” I add, and he laughs.

  “Things are good. Great, in fact.”

  “Does this mean I’m penciling in another wedding?” I ask, and Jake doesn’t laugh again, which is about as close to a ‘yes’ as I need. Looks like the bachelor is finally off the market.

  “How’s the resort?” he asks instead.

  “Don’t think you’re changing the subject—” I start, just as a feathery hell-beast darts straight out in front of the jeep.

  I drop my phone and hit the brake at the explosive fluttering of red and yellow, and the jeep swerves on the uneven road. The suspension lurches and thumps over something hard. Then the vehicle heaves to a stop with a pathetic hissing sound that knots my stomach.

  “No, no, no,” I mutter, scrambling out. I freeze the second I set eyes on the creature that sent me veering—and then press the heel of my hand to my forehead.

  It’s a chicken. Not even that big a chicken, now that it’s strolling the rest of the way across the road rather than charging forth as if it’s at the head of an invading army.

  “You,” I inform it with a jab of my finger, “are lucky you’re not road-enchilada.” Lord knows where the hen came from. I haven’t seen anything that looks like human habitation in half an hour.

  The hen waddles on into the underbrush on the other side. Why did the chicken cross the road? Apparently, to make me look like a total idiot.

  A heavy wind whips up through the branches of the trees. It makes the leaves warble and flips my hair into my face. I peer up at the sky. Dark gray clouds are scudding across it. Time to get moving.

  My gaze falls on the wheel that prompted my quick exit from the car. The jeep has sagged, the tire already gone nearly flat.

  “You’ll pay for this!” I call after the chicken. It appears unmoved by my super-villain impression. I take a deep breath and shove my fingers back through my hair.

  I can do this. I know how to change a tire. You can’t call yourself much of a driver if you don’t. I’ll just pop open the trunk, grab the spare and the jack, and in less than a jiff—

  The trunk lid swings open, to reveal a perfectly good jack, and a whole lot more perfectly good space where the spare tire ought to be. My heart sinks. Or, to be accurate, it plummets to the soles of my feet.

  And that’s when the sky cracks open with a boom of thunder.

  Rain gushes down on me, drenching my hair and clothes in an instant. I slam the trunk closed and bolt for the driver’s side door I left open. As I raise the window against the deluge, I kick off my squishy loafers. Drops beat against the roof like I’m surrounded by an orchestra made entirely of drums.

  Let me tell you, that makes a pretty shitty orchestra. Especially when you’re soaked to the bone. My bangs are dripping in my face. I swipe them aside with the back of my hand. At least the rain was warm?

  Okay. I’m stuck in a downpour with a flat tire, miles from civilization. I don’t have any choice, do I?

  I suck in a breath and grab my phone.

  Brooke doesn’t answer my text or the call I try after. She must be busy with wedding planning stuff. Biting my lip, I try Trevor. Nope, he’s probably wherever Brooke is. Mr. and Mrs. Tanner, Brooke’s parents? Voicemail, both of them. I let out a sound of irritation and rest my head against the steering wheel for a moment.

  I could call the main hotel number, but it’s Will’s hotel. He’d find out for sure. I would rather ride a mudslide the rest of the way there than see his smirk when he has to send his car service out to rescue me after all. There’s got to be someone else here I know …

  Maggie! Brooke’s cousin and I aren’t super close, but the three of us hung out a bunch when I still lived in Philly. I look up her number, muttering a quick prayer under my breath, and dial.

  I practically kiss the phone when Maggie’s husky yet upbeat voice answers two rings in.

  “Hey, Ruby, did you just get in?” she says.

  “Uh, not exactly,” I say, and lay out my current disaster as briefly as I can manage. To give her credit, Maggie only laughs a couple times, when I actually intend her to.

  “Look,” she says, “it’s pandemonium around here right now, but I know I can find someone who’ll come grab you. It sounds like you can’t be more than a few miles from the resort. Just hold tight, okay?”

  “Thank you so much,” I say, and sink back in my seat with a sigh.

  During my frantic calls, the rain has lightened. It’s more a faint tapping than a stage full of drums now. Almost peaceful, if you go in for that sort of thing. I inhale deeply, count to five, and exhale the way the instructor guided us in the yoga class I tried for about two weeks before throwing in the towel—literally.

  That was back in college. Back when it was totally natural for me to mention that I’d quit to Will the next day. I can still remember perfectly the way he shook his head and tapped me lightly on the sternum like he often did, totally unaware—I hope—of the effect that gesture had started to have on me. “How is it that you’re so tenacious about everything you get it into your head to do, except when it’s letting go?” he teased. “I think you’re a stress addict, Ruby Walters.”

  He was kind of right. He knew me pretty well back then, as much as it hurts to admit that. I still don’t know how to align that fact with the way our friendship ended, or with the guy I sat next to on the plane who was totally familiar and also a total stranger. I thought I’d let go of caring. Apparently I was wrong.

  Well, as long as I don’t let him see that, I’ll be fine.

  The rain has stopped completely when the growl of an engine reaches my ears. I comb my hand through my still-damp hair and step out of the jeep to meet my rescuer. My smile stays in place for the brief moment between the SUV rumbling to a halt and the door opening to reveal the exact last person I’d want to see.

  “I hear you’
ve had a little car trouble,” Will says, with a gleam in his gray-green eyes and an “I told you so” grin that’s even worse than the one I imagined.

  Chapter Three

  Thankfully, the first person who runs up when I step into the resort’s lobby is the one I’ve most been looking forward to seeing.

  “Oh, you poor thing,” Brooke says, playing mother hen. My bestie wraps me in a tight hug even though I’m going to get her rather smashing sailboat-print sundress damp. Then she looks me up and down, tucking her light brown hair behind her ears in a characteristic anxious gesture.

  “It wasn’t that big a deal,” I say quickly. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

  She waves me off. “I just finished picking flower arrangements. Did you know it’s possible to get sick of looking at gorgeousness? It’s a good thing Trevor and I found one we really liked early on, because by the end I was ready to hand over my eyeballs and tell the florist to decide with a dice roll.” She laughs. “I’m so glad you’re here, Ruby.”

  “And in one piece, after all,” Maggie says, ambling over. She’s wearing a casual Grecian dress that, combined with her curves and the bouncy waves of her chestnut hair, gives her a goddess-like air. Her grin, on the other hand, is all imp. She holds up a key card. “You’re checked in. Come on. Let’s get you to your room and on to the pampering portion of the holiday.”

  My room—“Just down the hall from mine!” Brooke says—leaves me breathless. Gauzy curtains float where the open sliding glass door leads out onto a balcony with lounger, private jacuzzi, and a view over the sparkling turquoise water. The bed is covered with a duvet so airy I immediately want to bury myself in it and a thread count probably in the millions. A faint floral scent drifts by, so subtle I’m not sure whether it’s natural or hidden essential oils, but I’m okay with it either way.

  The bathroom features both a glass-walled shower stall with rainfall option—hmmm, might need to put that off until the thunderstorm is less fresh in my memory—and a jetted tub. “The toiletries are all natural ingredients,” Maggie comments as we convene there. She gives the same pitch for the cupcakes she makes for a living, and I can vouch that they’re pretty spectacular. Of course, that’s partly because her natural ingredients are frequently of the boozy variety.