Love, Laughter & Happily Ever After: A sweet romantic comedy collection

by Ellie Hall

  January stares me down, as if she knows I use this thing for all my friends

  and relatives.

  Mr. Madison slips me a Benjamin as if he wasn’t already paying me extremely well for an exclusive contract. Maybe it’s for the added pain of letting his daughter tag along.

  “You’ll take January where she needs to go,” he says to me, almost conspiring. “We’ll have an itinerary for you once we know our schedule.”

  “Looking forward to it,” I say with the most genuine smile I can muster. I’m supposed to be driving the executives. The important guys. Mr. Madison himself. Not his bratty offspring.

  Mr. Madison gives me a formal nod, turns to his daughter with a knowing look, and heads back to the elevator, disappearing behind the sliding doors with both guards. He just bamboozled me. Did the old bait and switch. And now I’m stuck with this girl who’s eyeballing me like she just scraped me off the bottom of her shoe. I tick my jaw because it’s taking every bit of willpower I possess not to find a hose and spray her down with it, hoping the water’s ice cold. Restraint is not my strong suit. I open the door for her and she inspects the interior before sliding in.

  “You better not be a psycho,” she huffs. Aaaand that does it. I’ll probably lose this contract but I can’t help letting one thing slip out before shutting the door on her face.

  “And you better not be a pain in my ass.”

  2

  JANUARY

  Worst. Day. Ever.

  I’m still reeling from the insanity of my ex threatening a lawsuit which apparently isn’t enough crazy for my morning because my bodyguard has turned into a psychopath. Dad has me locked up in his tower like (a less artistic) Rapunzel and the only way I can get away from it all is to tell him I have an important hair appointment. Which I actually do, but that’s beside the point.

  But oh joy. Our new chauffeur is a hot, scowly grump. Emphasis on the grump.

  And the hot. Ugh! No, no, no, no, no.

  I miss Thomas. Couldn’t he have waited a year (or ten) before retiring? I guess I’m still salty about losing him, too. I’m glad he got the Bentley, though. He deserved it.

  Presently, hot grump has murderous eyes on me by way of the rear-view mirror. If they discover my body in a ditch somewhere, I’m going to be a really pissed off ghost.

  “Well?” I say with extra sass because that’s the kind of day I’m having. Why isn’t he moving?

  He brings his arm up across his seat and cranes his neck around. “A destination would be nice,” he bites. He’s such a treat.

  There’s something about those black eyes that sends a shiver across my skin. I should have taken my dad up on his offer to bring along one of his rent-a-cop security guards. Then again, they’re pretty much useless.

  Breathe in. Find your happy place.

  Why does this guy not have the GPS already programmed? I picture swinging my Jimmy Choos where the sun don’t shine. I get a little thrill from the thought and bask in my anger for a spell. It’s surprisingly therapeutic. Sighing, I rattle off the address and add, “Did you get all that, or do I need to say it slo—“

  I’m cut off by the swish of the partition window closing. Grrrr. It’s heavily tinted and looks to have an air-tight seal. One thing it’s not is soundproof. I know this because Beatles music blasts from the front.

  “Turn that down,” I cry. I know he hears me. “You are the worst driver I’ve ever known. And we haven’t even left the parking lot yet.”

  This is an exercise in futility. Tomorrow he’ll be gone and maybe Dad will have relaxed his hold on me by then. I understand he’s just worried and it’s not like I’m cut off from every luxury imaginable, but it’s the feeling of being trapped that gets to me.

  Breathe out. I’m in a flower-covered meadow. No. I’m shoe shopping. Yes.

  We’re on our way now and whatever sunlight filters through calms me enough to get on with my socials. I open Instagram and decide to go for a ‘before’ post. I click a selfie and put it through a filtering app. I’ve got my hashtags ready to go in my notes app. Copy. Paste. Caption.

  On my way to the fabulous @chezmariesalon for her VIP treatment. Stay blonde or go darker?

  Likes and comments flood my post almost immediately.

  “Please stay blonde.”

  “Go red.”

  “I want to be just like you January.”

  “Follow me to gain thousands of follows.”

  I block the troll and smile at the rest, liking a few. People go nuts when a celebrity likes their comments.

  I’m so lost in the land of perfectly pretty snapshots of people’s lives that I don’t notice at first we’re stopped. He cut the engine and is just sitting here in the silence. I look out. We’re in the right neighborhood but my stylist’s residence is still half a block down the street. Is he lost?

  I tap on the glass.

  “Hello.”

  tap tap tap

  “Hey Ringo. Why are we stopped?”

  It’s quiet for a while and I’m just wondering if he’s ever going to answer me when the partition window slides down.

  “We’re here, Sunshine.”

  He doesn’t turn around to face me this time but I feel his eyes on me through the rear-view mirror, even if I can’t see them past his aviator glasses.

  “No we’re not. The house is down there.”

  I point but he’s not paying attention anymore. I hear a bleep bleep. Then the sound of celebration balloons indicating he just typed “congratulations” on Facebook.

  “Are you kidding me right now?”

  This snags his attention back to the rear-view mirror and I detect a sliver of a smile as the glass slides back up.

  He’s quiet for some time and I’m thinking he’s just going to sit here forever. I’m fuming... justifiably. But then he charges out of the car and has my door open in a flash of fury. Like a Titan or something. I can almost imagine flames in his eyes but it’s probably just the reflection of the sun off his mirrored glasses. And why do I find this so hot?

  Gah. Breathe in.

  For a thousand seconds, or what feels like it, we stare at each other. It’s a staring contest to the death, apparently. And I don’t like to lose. I figure my sitting position puts me at a disadvantage here so I slide out of the car, standing as tall as I can. I’m not a short woman, especially in these heels, but he still towers over me and he seems to enjoy every second of this weird stand-off.

  “You think you’re hilarious, don’t you?”

  He smiles. Dimples form like deep trenches of warfare. One is slightly larger than the other which is only accentuated by the two-day stubble all over his jaw. Didn’t this guy think to shave on his first day on the job?

  “A sense of humor will take you a long way,” he says.

  I snort. “Like all the way to my stylist’s house maybe?”

  He glances briefly down the street and back to me. He just shrugs — and even that gesture drips with sexy confidence. “Maybe.”

  Breathe out. I will not give in. I will not.

  “It is your job to take me to my destination. Door to door.” I cross my arms, projecting dominance. Who’s the boss? I am, fools. Mic drop.

  He doesn’t need to know my dad is the actual boss, here. This seems to do the trick because he kinda nods. Very tiny nods, mind you. Then he gets back in the driver’s seat and starts the engine. Starts the engine! With me still standing outside. Clearly he’s not getting the door for me.

  I scramble inside, shutting my own door. I really hate this man.

  We go about four hundred feet and stop. He cuts the engine.

  Seriously?

  At least he doesn’t keep me waiting this time. He gets out, adjusting his chauffeur hat just so, and opens my door. He even makes a grand point to sweep his arm out.

  “Madam,” he says, all proper with a slight bow.

  My stylist’s house is four houses down. I can see it from here. It would be ridiculous to start the car
back up only to drive another hundred feet but that’s not the point. This man is purposefully making my life difficult. Just like my dad. Just like my ex. Just like every other man in my life.

  “Why are you doing this?

  He doesn’t answer. He just stands there with his arm out like an invitation to whatever game he’s playing.

  “Ugh,” I growl. “Fine.”

  I collect my purse, put on my poise, and exit the limo. His head is still bowed but I can see that smirk on his scruffy face. I have a sudden urge to touch it, feel the sandpaper of his whiskers under my palm. Poke my finger in that infuriating dimple.

  Poke poke.

  But no. I’m a butterfly over the meadow. Petals of a dandelion floating in the breeze. My therapist would be so proud. Let go of the anger. Be one with nature.

  I lift my chin and straighten my spine, giving that horrible man my power-look before making a sweeping departure from his presence.

  But something on the car door snags on my purse strap, yanking me backwards. This, combined with the heel of my stiletto sinking into the grass, causes me to lose my balance and... down I go. What’s worse is it happens in slow motion. Not just in my head... but really in slow motion and all the while I’m sinking down, I can’t do anything to prevent it. And neither does the infuriating man with a Cheshire grin spread across his face. It seems to get wider with every inch I fall, until I’m on my butt. On the grass. With my skirt bunched up almost to my panties. I can tell he’s stifling a full-blown laugh, not that a guy like him would care, but he turns his head away so I can’t see his face. Then his hand appears in front of me, extended to assist me. Too late. I already made a fool of myself and I’m hoping the neighbors aren’t home peeking through windows.

  I slap his hand away, furious and mortified.

  “I can manage,” I snap.

  With as much dignity as I can muster... or as much as one can after falling on her butt, I get up, right my skirt, adjust the purse strap on my shoulder and take off down the sidewalk.

  3

  ENRIQUE

  “You said what?”

  “Nothing, Ma,” I say over my shoulder. Didn’t realize she was listening to me tell the story of yesterday’s debacle to a couple of my brothers, Nate and Ignacio. My mother has ears like a wolf.

  “You don’t speak that way to a lady,” she says, sweeping into the kitchen to grab plates for our weekly family dinner. She insists on using her fine china. With seven sons and a husband with butterfingers, I’ve told her many times to just use paper but she insists. That’s why the place settings are a hodgepodge of several sets. Mostly chipped. And mostly due to Dad’s aforementioned butterfingers.

  “Haven’t I taught you better?” she adds.

  “That expensive school I sent you to better have,” Dad shouts from the living room. Apparently the whole family’s listening to my conversation. Mom just rolls her eyes because we’ve been through this a thousand times. Dad was never on board with sending us to private school but Mom never backed down. Whenever Dad complains that the ‘elite’ school didn’t tame his wild-mannered kids, Mom comes back with, “We got a priest out of the deal.” To which Dad responds, “A priest and seven demonios.”

  They have this exchange at least once a week.

  I purposefully came into the kitchen to avoid contact with the rest of the familia. My brother Ignacio prepared the meal today and only because Dad can’t bear to leave his lucky chair while his team is winning. Otherwise, it’s Battle of the Top Chef every Sunday between them. Mom actively avoids the kitchen usually which makes me suspicious that she’s even in here.

  Dad lovingly calls her Chismosa (because it’s way more fun to say than ‘nosey’) when she finds her way into a private conversation. Now Aunt Lucy’s sticking her nose in which pretty much guarantees the whole barrio will get wind of this before we can say grace.

  “Que descraciados,” she says. “Kids these days.”

  My Uncle Enrique grunts his agreement from the living room.

  Thank you, peanut gallery.

  I was named after Tio Enrique but that’s where the similarities end. Currently, he’s on his eleven-hundredth beer so it seems. When he’s like this he agrees with anything people say and laughs at everything.

  Me: I have a hangnail.

  Uncle Enrique: Oh yes, tocayo. Ha ha ha ha ha.

  Or, he’ll try to calm someone down who’s already perfectly calm.

  Mom: Where are my glasses?

  Uncle Enrique: Take it easy. No pasa nada.

  Francesca gives me a wink whenever he does this. It’s our non-drinking drinking game.

  Nate pours himself a bowl of cereal which earns him a smack in the head from Ignacio. “Can’t you wait ten minutes?”

  “I’m hungry.” Nate shoves a spoonful into his mouth and slugs me in the arm on his way out of the kitchen. “Good luck, buddy.”

  Thanks for your support. I’ll remember this.

  I level my eyes with Mom which means I have to squat about three feet. “January Madison is a rich spoiled brat. I was just telling her how it’s gonna be.”

  She throws me the disapproving Mom face. “She can’t help being born rich any more than you can help being born with big feet.”

  “Que grande piesotas ever on a baby,” chirps Tio Enrique. “Chupacabra. Is too much.”

  Why is he even listening to this conversation?

  “I grew into my feet,” I say. “Besides, I don’t go around flaunting my feet for everyone to see.”

  I wouldn’t mind using said foot to kick January’s perfect little butt. Great. Now I have that in my head.

  “Nevertheless,” says Mom, using my proximity to sneak in a one-arm hug. “I want you to be nice.”

  She winks at me and takes the dishes out to the back patio where we have a big farm table for our Sunday dinners.

  “Why don’t you do quinceañeras? There’s lots of money in quinceañeras,” says Aunt Lucy. She clicks her tongue disapprovingly and follows Mom out.

  “I’m with you on this one,” says Ignacio, slapping my back before getting back to his cooking. It’s some kind of Indian Tikka Masala, Thai curry, Mexican fusion dish and it smells divine. But if Dad asks, we’re having mole. “She sounds like a piece of work.”

  At least I have one person on my side. I leave the kitchen to go find Francesca to ask how her concert went but have to pass the Precio testosterone convention to get to the staircase. There’s Dad and Uncle Enrique in the EZ Boys shouting at the TV and I’m almost home free when my uncle slurs, “Oye bigfoot. Da me una chela.”

  Yeah, no. He can get his own beer. I just flash him a peace sign and he sloppy grins.

  My phone pings right when Francesca opens her door for me and I sit on the end of her bed to check the email.

  “Ah, crap.”

  “Language,” says Francesca. She’s such a sweet girl.

  “Uh, I mean... oh gosh darn.”

  She scrunches her cute face in a satisfied grin. “Better.”

  She goes back to what she was doing before I walked in—restringing her guitar—but the suspense is killing her. She can never get ahold of her FOMO. She tosses her guitar on her pillow and scoots right up against me. “Are you going to keep me wondering?”

  I stretch my arm far, far away from her. She’d have to climb over me to get to my phone. It’s driving her nuts. She’s practically shaking with curiosity.

  “Ah, just some boring work stuff,” I say.

  “Lemme see. Is it a girl? What’s her name?”

  It’s about a girl. But not in a fun way.

  Francesca pokes my sides, and I hate that she knows my only tickle spot. I cave and surrender my phone. She snatches it like a hungry monkey, reading the email from Mr. Madison’s assistant: VTaylor@madisonindustriesinc.com.

  Her name’s not Judy, then. I wonder what the V stands for. Vicky? Veronica? I have to know.

  “I don’t get it,” she says. “What’s got you all worked up o
ver this? It’s just dates and addresses. And what’s JM?”

  “Give me that.”

  I snatch my phone back and smooth Francesca’s imaginary fingerprints away with my sleeve. I guess I’m a little protective of my stuff.

  “JM stands for January Madison.” Francesca’s jaw drops but I hold up a finger insanely close to her nose. “And before you say anything, I’m not thrilled about this. I was supposed to have an exclusive contract with Matthew Madison and his fancy executives but instead he’s got me babysitting his brat.”

  I swipe up to reveal the details. “Fashion show. Photo shoot. Pedicure. Bleh! Look at this. Five days in Palm Springs.”

  “Sounds like fun to me.” My baby sister winks at me with dimples that match mine. Out of all my siblings, she’s the one who looks like me the most.

  “You wouldn’t say that if you met her.”

  “How bad can it be? She’s in the back seat. Don’t talk to her.”

  Ah Francesca, ye know not what ye sayeth. Something about that spoiled rich girl makes me want to say exactly what’s on my mind, and say it right in her face. No one’s ever gotten under my skin like that. Maybe it’s the ridiculous dose of beauty God gave her mixed with the personality of a t-rex. It’s unnatural. It’s warm, gooey chocolate chip cookies right out of the oven topped with garlic paste. It’s so jarring it makes my skin prickle with an acute awareness of her every move. Anything that comes out of her mouth shoots straight up my spine. Even those pouty sighs.

  “Tried that. It’s like she’s trying to push my buttons. Yesterday after her hair appointment she had me move stuff out of her house to take to her dad’s penthouse. Heavy boxes she just had to take right away.”

  “What was in the boxes?”

  “I dunno. Gold bars?”

  “So you saw the inside of her house? What’s it like?”

  “You’re missing the point here, Panchita. The woman is a she-demon.”

  Francesca wrinkles her nose in thought. I can tell she’s trying to sympathize with me but inwardly laughing at my plight.