An Unlikely Love Story : A sweet, heartwarming & uplifting romantic comedy (Falling into Happily Ever After Rom Com)

by Ellie Hall

  I can navigate the ups and downs of the stock market, high-risk investments, and business mergers better than most, but this is all new territory.

  “You have good aim.”

  “Like Cupid.” She strings an invisible bow. Then her face falls slack as though suddenly embarrassed. “You know, like Galentine’s Day, er Valentine’s. Never mind.” Hazel presses her gloved hands over her face. “I’m not usually like this,” she mumbles.

  I peel her hands away, once more feeling warmth at our connection. “Like what?” I ask.

  She peeks up at me. “Like my blood sugar is low or like I need coffee or like I’m tripping over my thoughts, words, and my own two feet.”

  I smirk. Goodness, she is adorable. “You have nothing to worry about.”

  She shifts slightly as if she’d like to argue that point, but then she’d reveal her hand, her strategy. And if I’m reading her right, and likely I am because I’m no stranger to poor attempts at a poker face, she’s as confused about this as I am. Whatever this is.

  When we step back into my place, the lights flash to life then go dark again.

  “I was about to cheer with joy,” Hazel says in a tone that suggests the opposite.

  “At least they’re working on it. I had a meringue in the oven. I’d better unplug the thing because there’s no telling when the power will come back on. Don’t want to wake up in the morning to burned egg whites.”

  “I’m worried about Mew. He’s over there all by himself.”

  “Do you have a hidden key?” I ask. Poetry about keys to hearts flutters into my mind.

  “No. I meant to stash one but hadn’t gotten around to it.”

  “Do any of your friends have a spare?”

  She shakes her head. “And if they did—” She pats her pockets. “My phone is—” She thumbs over her shoulder. “I’ll have to call the building super.”

  “I have his number.” I make the call and leave a message. Likely, he’s handling numerous requests about the power outage.

  We move to the kitchen where Hazel holds the phone light while I fuss with the power cord. “The kitchen is a mess, but I’ll have to clean up later. In the meantime, how about a slice of spiced pecan and apple upside-down pie?” I straighten and walk over to the counter where I had it cooling.

  “You went from basic chocolate chip cookies to that?” she asks as she shines the light on the creation.

  “Yeah, uh, I guess I got all mad scientist up in here.” I chuckle. Or using my newfound hobby as a way to allay my growing feelings for the woman who appeared in my kitchen, lured by the aforementioned hobby. I suppose I did this to myself.

  We settle in the living room with the pie and I light a couple candles.

  Hazel is quiet for a few long minutes. The light flickers, illuminating the smooth slope of her nose, the brush of her lashes, and the delicate motion of her mouth.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t warm it up.”

  “Hot. Cold. Whatever. This is divine. Better than the crazy-roni I ate last time I was in a power outage.”

  I get a little hit of serotonin from her compliment. If this were a social media post, love hearts would be going up. Then what else she said catches up with me. “Crazy-what?”

  “When I was a kid, and we’d move to a new place, my mom would always make this crazy macaroni and cheese thing on our first night. I called it crazy-roni. It would be whatever we had left over from our fridge like condiments and added to a pot of macaroni and cheese. Hot sauce, my emergency stash of chocolate chips, canned peas, whatever.”

  “Do you prefer shell or elbow-shaped pasta? This is very important to my nieces and nephews.”

  “Can I say both?”

  I chuckle. “Of course, you’d say both.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because you’re Hazel. Hazelnut.”

  She cocks her head. “And who’s that?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  We spend the next few minutes talking about our favorites. I have definitive likes and dislikes whereas it seems like she prefers both.

  “Chocolate or vanilla?” I ask.

  “Both.”

  “Beaches or mountains?”

  “Both.”

  “Summer or winter?”

  “Both.”

  We go back and forth, getting more diverse and complicated. She always says both. It works. Seems true to her.

  “Skiing or snowboarding?” Hazel asks.

  I scratch my chin. “Snowboarding. I used to ski, but my brother got me into snowboarding.”

  “Believe it or not, I’ve never tried either.”

  “We’ll have to go some time. We’ll try both. See which one you like.” The event up north in Vermont comes to mind. It’s random. A lark. Something outside the norm and my comfort zone. I push it from my mind.

  “What if I like both equally?”

  “Sounds like you have commitment issues,” I say around a laugh.

  She drops her fork on the plate as though startled. As though I hit home.

  I clear my throat. “Takes one to know one.”

  Her shoulders drop a fraction. “I’ve got one. Do you like cookie butter or Nutella better?”

  “My sister went on a cookie butter kick once. Made me try it. Shortbread and spice. Nothing to dislike, but this is a no brainer. Nutella.”

  “I’m practically drooling over here. Both! How can you pick one or the other?”

  “Because Nutella is made of hazelnuts. Like you. Hazelnut.” I slide closer to her on the couch. “My hazelnut.”

  She laughs and pushes gently against my chest as if to say, Get out of here in a joking way.

  And just like that, I’ve decided that she’s my hazelnut. Emphasis on my.

  I don’t know if this storm brought in a gust of change or if it started sooner. Maybe it was the chocolate chip cookies. Love at first bite or something. Whatever it was, change is afoot, and I just made a very important decision that’s been heavy on my mind. Two actually. This time, like Hazel, I’m going to opt for both. I can have my cake and eat it too. Maybe.

  I chuckle. “You’ll have to make me some of that crazy-roni sometime.”

  If tonight is any indication, I have a feeling sometime will come...someday.

  But for all my confidence and swagger, it terrifies me.

  Breaking the Rules

  Hazel

  Dark gray sheets. My bedsheets are a leopard print paisley combo. Catherine says they’re garish. I like both patterns and couldn’t decide on one or the other so I got the set with both. My thoughts have a dreamy quality.

  Cookie butter and Nutella.

  Hazelnut!

  My hazelnut.

  I blink a few times.

  White curtains. I have peach drapes with lacy edges.

  I sit up. No, that’s snow out the window.

  I’m in Maxwell’s spare bedroom.

  The evening before flurries back like the snow outside.

  I flop back and snuggle under the charcoal gray comforter in the spare bedroom of Maxwell’s condo. I catch whispers of the spicy, soapy, minty, cookie smell of him. I burrow a little deeper and inhale deeply before releasing a sigh.

  I can spend all day asking myself what strange magic occurred between us last night as we stayed up talking under the guise that we had to wait for the building super to call and let me into my apartment. That we had to wait for the power to turn back on. Really, we just enjoyed chatting.

  When have I ever just chatted with a guy for hours?

  I can count on one hand. I had a best friend that was a boy when I lived in Los Angeles for a short time. He lived next door. Then there was a set of twins in high school. We bonded over our love of Shakespeare and theater. College brought with it Tyler and my other friends. We made a pact never to date because it would be the ruin of the group.

  What am I thinking? This is dangerous.

  I listen for the shower. Just the glide of a plow and h
onking cabs from somewhere below on the city streets. If the super unlocked my door, I can sneak away now before anyone loses an eye, breaks a limb, or otherwise gets hurt. That kid from LA fell out of a tree we were climbing and broke his leg. The concern is real.

  I train my ears toward the kitchen. No pots and pans clanging.

  I roll over.

  Maxwell left a note on the table next to the bed. It says:

  Good morning, Hazelnut,

  Didn’t want to wake you, but I had to go to work. The building super left your key. It’s on the counter. I encourage you to have a cookie or a slice of pie for breakfast...or both.

  -Max

  It’s sweet, brief, and non-committal, except that it exists. He signed off with a simple dash and his name. No doodle heart or Xs and Os. Phew.

  But there is the hazelnut part. Last night, Maxwell said, “My hazelnut.”

  I swallow thickly. I’ve never been anyone’s my anything.

  We both dozed off on the couch with our feet on the ottoman. As hours passed, they’d fallen together, resting comfortably, warmly, touching. Later, I vaguely remember Maxwell carrying me in here, tucking me in, and whispering goodnight.

  I want to flee.

  I never want to leave this bed again!

  The battle within continues.

  I’ve gone against my code of conduct. Firstly, I didn’t mean to stay overnight. That’s rule number one. But that was more circumstance. I couldn’t very well snooze in the hall. Mrs. Hess would report me to the building president.

  Number two is never befriend a guy I have feelings for. My mother grew up in London, but my grandmother was from a small village in the English countryside. Every summer, she’d visit. She loved the chickens but didn’t understand why they didn’t have names. Her Gran explained it was so lads and lasses like her didn’t get attached. When they had chicken noodle soup for supper, she understood.

  And rule three? Never fall in love.

  I glance at the note again. The way he broke my fall on the roof. Warmed my hands. Maxwell is so thoughtful. So nice. But I don’t want nice. I want...

  Well, I don’t know what I want. My requirement before was just devastatingly handsome, good teeth, honest and compassionate, and agreeable to my terms: one date only.

  Maxwell meets every condition and then some. Of all the men I’ve dated, no one compares. His teeth are thousands of dollars in orthodontic perfection and pearly white. He and Mew made fast friends, and he’s been nothing but sweet to me.

  He’s tall, tanned, chiseled.

  His apartment is masculine and clean.

  He’s successful, well-spoken, and confident. Very confident but not too cocky.

  He’s a little mysterious.

  Rules one and two? Fail and fail.

  And three? Let’s not talk about that.

  As the snow continues to fall, I realize my error. We’re not dating. We’re doing something else. I don’t know what to call it.

  But I’m not falling in love, promise. Maybe except with Maxwell’s baking. That I’ll admit to loving.

  After giving Mew a lot of TLC in apology for my absence, showering, and belatedly realizing the power is back on, a long sigh escapes. It can probably be heard seven blocks down, a few streets over, and in the police station. Lock me up. Throw away the key. Save me from myself!

  But there is no saving to be had. Just spending—a lot of time with Maxwell.

  The night after the storm, he brought over a Swiss roll filled with mascarpone whipped cream and a layer of Nutella. And a Swiss roll filled with buttercream and a layer of cookie butter. Said he couldn’t decide between the two.

  I couldn’t either, but I am certain of one thing, this banker is a very talented baker.

  Bash, the Man-bun-barista and part of the Valentine’s Day Date Double Dare, has nothing on Maxwell. My guy is a gifted and skilled kitchen wizard.

  My guy.

  My hazelnut.

  Oh, dear.

  Brain, back on track.

  Or maybe Maxwell is one of those people who tries new things, excels, and then moves onto the next. That gives me pause. What if he moves on from providing me with delicious sweets? Then a tiny little voice that dwells in my chest whispers What if he moves on from you?

  Way to get ahead of yourself, Hazel. He isn’t my cookie dealer. Or my anything.

  Not yet.

  Shhh!

  The rest of the week is a nightly parade of pastries.

  Croissants. Cream horns. Cheese Danish.

  Have mercy!

  That night he brings over vanilla and chocolate truffles. Some have caramel centers, others nougat, and a few with mixed berry fruit filling.

  No, Maxwell is my chocolate truffle dealer. They’re divine. I tell him this no less than a dozen times. Twice for each truffle I devour. Then we watch a movie. I don’t know which one of us suggested it after we debated period dramas. I must be a hazelnut because at one point I thought Ryan Gosling, playing Noah Calhoun, said, “Girl, what are you thinking…?”

  Catherine’s gone. There’s no roommate or parent or anyone waiting for me with their hand on their hip ready to scold me for having a boy over. Yet it feels like something to be kept secret. From who though?

  Maxwell’s arm casually slings over my shoulder as we watch the dramatic ending. Tears roll along with the credits. I hastily wipe them away. He rubs little soothing circles on my shoulder.

  I am not this kind of girl.

  No, I’m a hazelnut.

  From what I’ve gleaned, Maxwell isn’t a dater or committer. That means he’s not emotionally available and not interested in sharing time and resources with the same woman. Not that he’s doing that now, but he’s not not doing it. Everything about Maxwell suggested he was the same as me. Date and done. Snuggling on the couch and nuzzling his foot against mine does not fit the equation.

  But it does feel nice.

  I sigh contentedly.

  Apparently, the sound gave him the confidence or permission to ask, “What are you doing next weekend?”

  I abruptly sit up. “Huh?”

  Next weekend means future plans. That’s a no-fly zone.

  “I have a thing up north. Want to go?” he asks.

  “Oh, um.”

  Maxwell lifts his eyebrows in question. Likely because my responses have amounted to guttural sounds. Huh. Oh, um.

  “I also have a thing.”

  I’m pretty sure he forces a shrug. “No biggie. I thought it might be nice to get away. Change of scenery. Fresh mountain air.”

  “That sounds lovely, but truly, I also have a thing up north.”

  My former best friend, Mew, gives me a look. Yep, cats can scrutinize people with the best of ‘em. It’s not a lie. But even if I didn’t have a thing, what would I say?

  “Where is your thing? Maybe we can meet up and tack on a day to go skiing and snowboarding.”

  I bite my lip. He’s really onto me and the both thing. I just love life and don’t want to wake up one day and realize I’ve missed it, you know?

  “My thing, uh, Birch Mountain Lodge?”

  He wears an expression I can’t quite read and pulls out his phone.

  I scramble, trying to remember. “I think that’s what it was called. Birch, beech, pine. Some kind of tree.”

  His lips quirk. Maxwell is onto me like I was onto those truffles. He knows exactly why I’m being cagey. It starts with the letter C and ends with ommittment.

  “Is Catherine coming back soon?” he asks as he continues to look for something on his phone.

  I’m thankful for the change of subject. “Well, if you keep plying me with baked goods, yes. She’s in Italy, but she’s jealous of this deliciousness.”

  “Plying you?” He inclines his head. “That would imply I want something from you.” He casually lifts and lowers a shoulder. “Just your seal of approval. Hazelnut’s opinion of my baking skills means a lot. I also don’t mind seeing you smile with a mouthful of choc
olate, cookies, pastries...”

  “That’s so not attractive.” I fight the urge to show him some of my professional headshots. Instead, I twist in my seat so I can see Maxwell. See just what I’m getting into.

  His mysterious brown eyes light up when our gazes catch.

  The strong jaw.

  The lips.

  I drag in a deep breath.

  He does the same then glances at his phone, angling it in my direction. “Funny thing, my event is at the same location.”

  I glance at the website on the screen. The Great New England Bakehouse Preliminary Baking Contest. Featuring esteemed judge and baker extraordinaire, Polly Spoonwell. Birch Mountain Lodge. Then the date.

  “Polly is one of my private yoga clients. Anytime she has an event in the northeast, she hires me for a session or two.”

  “Cool. Never heard of her though. Anyway, I’m a contestant.”

  Record scratch. “Wait. What?”

  Maxwell gives his head a little shake as if trying to rid himself of a kind of bashful smile I never expected to see him wear. “I was doing research for members of my junior finance team—mentor duties. Looking for ways to boost their confidence. I came across a website to help people pursue their dreams and goals. More of a program really. Anyway, I got it for research purposes. But I have to admit I do like baking, seem to have a knack for it, so I entered on a whim. You could say the program inspired me.”

  I swallow hard. Oh. No. No way. Never mind. Moving on from the mention of the website. There are loads for self-improvement and dream catching.

  “So, what do you say?” Maxwell asks.

  “Oh, look. There’s one truffle left.” I pop it in my mouth.

  I could’ve tried any number of other ploys I’ve used to get out of second dates. But I can’t bring myself to lie to Maxwell. Not that I lie regularly, just sculpt the truth to meet my needs.

  But what are my needs?

  More chocolate.

  Truffles. Cakes. Treats.

  But really, above all, I want more Maxwell.

  “What am I doing this weekend?” I repeat.