Better than the Book: A Romantic Comedy (Charitable Endeavors Book 4)

by M. E. Carter

  Not as interesting was the super fangirl who asked the first Q&A question, and promptly brought up the naked photo of the leading man that was leaked a couple years ago. It was obvious he was less than happy to be reminded of the encounter, probably because it was his ex-wife who was responsible for the incident during their dramatic and very public divorce. Awkward.

  I have to hand it to him, though. He put on that actor mask pretty damn quick and told her off without actually telling her off. It was impressive. Maybe Hunter isn’t the only phenomenal actor on this show.

  Glancing at the clock on my wall, I realize I need to hurry. It’s a five block walk to the subway and I can’t chance being late. Photo ops start before the rest of the convention and I don’t want to be rushed through my time.

  Moving my partially written screenplay over, I grab my stuff, double checking to make sure not only are the tickets are tucked safely in my crossbody purse but also the “Get Up” playbill. I can’t forget that. It’s the whole reason I’m going. To get it signed and tell Hunter how moved I was during the entire show.

  Content that I have everything I need, I head out of the loft and down the street.

  It’s a beautiful fall morning and I’m reminded once again that I’m blessed to be living in the city I love working in an industry I love. I may not be rolling in the dough and my diet may consist mostly of Ramen, but I never take any of it for granted. Living here, working in theater, my soul comes alive. To me, that’s worth more than an apartment across the street from Central Park.

  Adrenaline is pumping through my veins and my stride is less a stroll and closer to a power walk as I make it to the subway in less than five minutes, which gives me a solid ten minute wait for the train I need. I don’t mind, though. This is one of the less stinky subway stops and we have a great sax player who busks everyday so there’s entertainment while I wait. Someday I’ll work on a show that needs his skills and you better believe I’ll come back and encourage him to audition. The emotion that comes through his instrument, the way his whole body just syncs into the music—it’s all just mesmerizing.

  Sinking onto the bench, I flip open my notebook and double check my calendar for the day.

  8:15 – Arrive at con. Browse vendor tables.

  9:00 – Get in line for photo op in Conference Room 1. Try to be first.

  9:30 – Photo op begins. Try not to sniff Hunter Stone.

  10:30 – Q&A with cast members in main ballroom

  12:00 – Break for lunch

  I have a plan to maximize my enjoyment for today and it’s all outlined right here in front of me. No deviations. I am going to have a great time today. I just know it.

  Or maybe not.

  I look at my watch and realize the train is already a few minutes late. That’s weird.

  Leaving my perch, I get closer to the flashing sign that suddenly shows…

  “It’s delayed?!”

  You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

  It’s okay Celeste. Deep breaths. It’s just a one-minute delay at this point. I wait.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  And then it happens. The sign changes again to just “delayed.” This isn’t good. Not at all.

  Quickly, I grab my phone and pull open the app to see if I can get any more information. But of course all it says is “delayed indefinitely.”

  I clench my fists and my jaw in frustration. This is not what I need this morning. The longer I stand here waiting, the more I’m eating up the time I should be spending in line for my picture.

  “Think, Celeste,” I say out loud to myself. “Deep breaths and think.”

  The ferry! I can take the ferry across the river and grab the subway from there. Maybe I’ll get lucky and the delays are specific to Brooklyn. It’s worth a shot.

  “Excuse me! Excuse me!” I shout as I try to race past all the other patrons who are probably heading for the river as well. It’s not as slow going as it would be during rush hour, thank God for small miracles. But it’s painful for my boobs. I went for a less supportive bra today because it looks so much better in pictures. In hindsight, I should have brought it with me and changed when I got there.

  The race to the pier is about half a mile away. Even at a quick pace it takes a while to get there. And of course as soon as I get there and find the right landing, it’s pulling away.

  “Dammit!!” It’s an hour and a half wait for the next one. By the time I get to Midtown, the photo op will be in full swing. I could take the bus but with all the stops, that’ll take as long as the ferry.

  Wait. What if…

  Maybe, just maybe if I use the car I keep solely to drive home once a year because insurance is cheaper than catching a flight, I can catch the tail end of the photo op and make the signing portion. It’s worth a shot.

  I race back out of the ferry station, pulling up the Uber app on my phone as I dodge the people mingling around like they don’t have somewhere important to be. Seven minutes? How is that even possible? This is New York. I don’t have a minute to spare waiting for an Uber, so I step up to the curb and hail a cab. The only car that pulls over is not as clean as I’d prefer but it’s a sacrifice I have to make. Besides, it gives me a chance to check my subway app again which shows…

  Delayed indefinitely.

  Great. The subway is the fastest way to get around this city, so this sucks. At least it means I made the right decision grabbing a cab and not hoofing it back to the underground stairs.

  Two miles and fifteen minutes later I hand my T-shirt money over to the driver and yell my thanks over my shoulder. Keys already in hand, I jog to my car. At least I’m moving it out of this parking space. It’s been too long since I remembered to repark, and I can’t afford a ticket for leaving it in the same spot on the street. I’ll probably have to park six blocks away tonight, but it’s the only way to keep a car in the city without paying a small mortgage for an underground garage space.

  Climbing in, I toss my purse on the passenger seat, insert the key to turn the ignition and press the gas when…

  Nothing. The car doesn’t move. It tries, as indicated by the revving engine but it goes nowhere.

  Throwing the door open, I lean out and sure enough, there’s a boot on my back tire.

  “NO, NO, NO!” I yell and bang my hand on the dashboard, as if I can beat the offending device off the wheel. I can’t. Revving the engine again, I swear it moves even less than it did seconds before.

  “Please Jesus, please let me get there. I promise Hunter isn’t really an evil vampire sent straight from hell,” I pray and take a few deep breaths in through my nose and out through my mouth. “I just want to tell him he’s talented and good at his job. That’s selfless and good, right? Please?”

  I close my eyes tight and press the gas one more time.

  Still nothing.

  Dropping my head on the steering wheel, I take half a second to wallow in self-pity before running through my options. The subway is still closed so that’s out. I can go back to the ferry but by the time I get there, I’ll have to wait at least thirty minutes until the next one. And then when I get across the Hudson I still have to find a way to get to the convention hotel and if the subway is down over there too…

  The realization hits me so hard it knocks the wind out of me.

  I missed it. For the second year in a row all I have for my efforts are unused tickets, an old playbill, and shattered hopes and dreams.

  Chapter Three

  Celeste

  One Year Later: Again

  I look from the tickets posted on my corkboard down to my television.

  The television I didn’t even want until Hunter Stone joined Prince of Darkness.

  The television I only use to watch Hunter Stone on Prince of Darkness.

  The television that interrupted Prince of Darkness to warn us about an incoming hurricane. A hurricane that isn’t scooting by us, dumping a bunch of rain. Nope. It appears this one is going to
hit us head on. Now I know why its named Hurricane Chad—because this storm has douchebag written all over it.

  I shake my head in disbelief. This can’t be happening and yet I’m not surprised at all.

  Sighing deeply, I pull up my email on my phone and tap, not wanting to know and yet probably needing to know.

  And there it is. The email I was dreading.

  Dear Prince of Darkness Participant,

  We have been closely monitoring Hurricane Chad for the last several days and how it may affect the Prince of Darkness convention. Our number one concern has been and always will be the safety of our participants, staff, and stars.

  After speaking with weather authorities in the area as well as city officials, we’ve made the difficult decision to postpone this year’s convention.

  At this time, please continue to hold on to your tickets as more information on refunds or transfers will become available…

  I toss my phone aside, uninterested in anything else the email has to say.

  I cannot believe I have missed my chance to meet Hunter Stone for the last three years in a row. Welp, that’s it. It’s over. As his popularity goes up, so does the cost of these tickets and I can’t keep throwing cash at an event I won’t ever get to go to.

  It’s official—I quit.

  Chapter Four

  Celeste

  January in New York City is dreary at best. Not only is it typically the coldest month, you can bet any sucker it’s going to rain or snow at least half the time and win. My umbrella and old rain boots become part of the entryway décor of our apartment. Not that we have an actual entryway. But you get my drift.

  Needless to say, when Carrie invited me to her engagement party in Texas, I jumped at the chance to get out of the city and enjoy some warmer temperatures. When you’re living through constant precipitation and gray clouds, mid-60s and sunny sounds wonderful. Oh, how I was mistaken. I was not anticipating the extreme heat and humidity.

  Going from 29 degrees to a balmy 82 with 95 percent humidity is a huge shock to my system. When you have always been well-endowed plus, the boob sweat becomes real people. I had to put deodorant under the girls this morning to keep myself dry. It’s not working. Thank goodness I brought more than two bras for a long weekend. This one is going to be a sweaty mess by the end of the night.

  Carrie dances her way toward me, a huge smile on her face. Why wouldn’t she be smiling? She is marrying one of the most eligible bachelors in the world of cover models.

  Honestly, it still kind of blows my mind. I know I figured out she had a crush on him years ago, but it’s still hard to reconcile that my friend, who has often shared very specific details of her latest book boyfriend, is marrying Matthew Roberts. The man who represents many of those same book boyfriends and is the leading man in many book nerds’ fantasies. It’s a little surreal. Most of all, it’s amazing. Her fiancé is more than just abs on a cover. He’s a great dad and loves my friend unconditionally. He has even accepted her affection for narcoleptic rodents.

  Throwing her arms around me, Carrie pulls me into a giant sweaty hug. “I’m so glad you could make it. It’s a long flight from New York City.”

  “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss this shindig. I am, however, wondering how you live through summer around here. It’s so hot.”

  Her eyes widen slightly like I’ve read her thoughts. “Isn’t this weather weird? This is like the third time in history we’ve recorded temperatures this high in January. But at least it means we can enjoy the outdoors.”

  “You mean sweat my ass off?”

  Carrie laughs, and I’m wondering if part of her delight is being drunk on love. “Just be glad you have curly hair. My hairdresser had to do all kinds of magic to make sure my hair doesn’t frizz today. Matthew and I made sure to have contingency plans for rain and snow just in case, but it never crossed our minds to be prepared for a historical heat wave. So tell me—how is the screenplay coming?”

  I should have known she’d bring that up. Ever since I excitedly told her I had a plot bunny in my brain and wanted to write it for film, she asks me about it regularly. Problem is, I’ve been working on it for over two years now and I can’t seem to make it work.

  It’s not a hard plot line—an aspiring dancer trying to make it in the big city. Yes, it’s reminiscent of all those 90s movies I loved growing up, but it’s grittier. Harder. Truer to life as a starving artist who isn’t a teenager living on a scholarship at a fancy school. In my brain it’s fantastic. On paper—not so much.

  I groan in response. “I never should have told you about that. If I ever attempt something like this again, I’ll be sure to wait until it’s at least close to being finished before telling anyone about it.”

  “I’m glad you told me, Celeste. It’s your dream to get it written and produced.”

  “But today is about you, Carrie. You and your impending marriage to your dream man.”

  She glances around the outdoor space decorated with dim lights and flowers on every available surface. Sighing deeply as she no doubt takes a moment to absorb the romantic setting, she faces me with a dopey grin on her face. Yep. Drunk on love. This is the stuff romance books are made of, and it’s her real life. For a book nerd, it doesn’t get any better than this.

  “It turned out really beautiful, didn’t it? The party?” she asks, her expression turning wistful.

  “It’s absolute perfection. I’ve seen quite a few people talking about it on social media today. It’s like the hottest event in the book world right now.”

  “You think?”

  I look at her like she’s lost her mind and point at the couple Matthew is talking to. “Your cover model boyfriend, sorry fiancé, is chatting up best-selling author Donna Moreno and NANA award winning narrator Hawk Weaver. Yeah. I’d say this engagement party is a big deal. By the way, why are the guys wearing those weird shirts?”

  Both Hawk and Matthew have on black T-shirts that are covered in what looks like pictures of boutonnieres. The only difference is Matthew’s says, “I am the groom” and Hawk’s says, “I am not the groom.”

  “That’s Hawk’s thing.” Carrie stares longingly at her fiancé. It’s kind of nausea inducing, to be honest. If she really does eat him up like her face indicates she wants to, I’m outta here. “He buys these ugly shirts for charity or something, and since Matthew loves charity as much as the next guy, he always requests one whenever they see each other.”

  She giggles. Carrie actually fucking giggles. People in love are so weird.

  Suddenly she gasps and grabs my arm. “Did you see what Matthew got me for our honeymoon? Tickets to Australia! Can you believe it?”

  “I actually can. I’d have to put a stop to this relationship if he didn’t realize it would be the perfect place to spend a couple weeks consummating your new marriage.”

  Carrie’s face turns a bright pink and my eyes widen.

  “Carrie Myers, you bad girl,” I chide playfully. “You gave up the goods already.”

  She flips her dark hair over her shoulder and tries to play off her embarrassment. “We are engaged. It’s almost like being married.”

  “Oh no, it is not,” I say with a laugh. “But I’m not judging you. The whole point of your celibacy was to make sure the next man you were with was completely and utterly serious about you, no matter what. I think waiting for over a year to get in your pants and publicly humiliating himself to propose means Matthew’s pretty solid.”

  I shudder when I think of the dance I watched him perform for his proposal. He may be a decent dancer in pants, but in heels? Not so much.

  “Yeah. Oh hey,” Carrie blurts out shifting gears, “did you get your tickets for the con sorted out?”

  Taking a sip of my wine, I shake my head. “Nope. By the time I stopped getting glitches on their website so I could register for the events I wanted, they were at max capacity and gave me a refund instead.”

  Carrie gasps. “Oh no! Did you email them? Figh
t with them about it?”

  I shake my head, mostly in frustration from even thinking about the shitshow this convention has become to my life. “I didn’t even bother.”

  “Why?” she whines. “You’ve been trying to get there for three years. You deserve to go.”

  “Exactly. I’ve tried for three years and something always stops me at the last minute. Clearly the universe is trying to tell me something and I don’t have it in me to be disappointed again.”

  “Disappointed about what?” a deep voice asks, interrupting our conversation. I guess I should give him grace. He is the groom-to-be.

  Carrie wraps her arms around her man’s waist and proceeds to answer for me. “She’s been trying to go to the Prince of Darkness con for a few years and every time she buys tickets, she ends up having to cancel last minute.”

  “Because the universe doesn’t want me to go,” I insert, not that I’m bitter or anything. I’m more like trying to keep a silver lining or something.

  “Or it could be coincidence,” she argues back and turns to look up at Matthew. “She’s been a huge fan of Hunter Stone since she saw him in some off-off-Broadway show.”

  “Hunter Stone?” Matthew sounds confused, but I’m not sure why. Hunter is practically a household name these days. “I just had that cover shoot with him a few weeks ago. We hit it off. I bet I can just ask him for some passes.”

  He looks down at his phone, completely oblivious to the fact that my jaw has just hit the floor. Matthew knows Hunter? My blog partner’s fiancé is friends with my celebrity crush? How is this happening? More importantly, how did I not know this sooner?

  “Oh, I forgot about that!” Carrie announces, and I throw my hands out.

  “You forgot? How could you forget about something like that? That’s like me forgetting that, that… that you have that weird squirrel or something.”