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

by Ellie Hall

  “Kill her with kindness,” she says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Judging by what I know of January, she’ll see right through that and make my life in hell even hotter. I mean burning. No. Grrr. Nothing is hot or burning when it comes to January. Nothing at all.

  A boom of intense shouting comes from the living room. Uncle Enrique is the loudest of them all.

  “No manches. Que animal. No puedo creer.” He’s basically a cartoon character.

  “Come on,” Francesca says. “Let’s watch Ignacio drive Dad crazy with his frou frou cooking.”

  4

  JANUARY

  Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times, I bring a big fat Bluetooth speaker.

  We’re on our way to Palm Springs for the handful of appearances I’m scheduled for and I’m blasting the most angsty Taylor Swift songs I can find. It’s on the highest volume I can stand but Mr. Happy’s singing along in the most obnoxious way imaginable. It’s like he’s doing everything in his power to disarm me. I’ve never met anyone so ridiculous.

  The past couple of weeks have been a constant battle of wills. Blasting his nutty music is just one of his oh-so-charming qualities. The other day he Caged me. Not, like, with his arms or anything as if I’d been secretly fantasizing about it or something. He Nicolas Caged me. I almost jumped out of my Louboutins when I came upon the shadowy cardboard cutout sitting in the limo. That stupid thing is still sitting in the seat across from me, staring me down.

  Also, he pretends to forget my name, calling me February or March, or every single month of the year except January. And the worst part is that he does everything with the most sugary sweet, brilliantly dimpled smile.

  I officially hate him.

  Last night I Googled prank ideas to get him back, but I ended up going down a Pinterest rabbit hole. Admittedly, I’m not wired for this, so the Bluetooth speaker is my only trick. It arrived in a beautiful brown box this morning with a factory charge. Maybe Taylor Swift isn’t the best choice for the task so I switch to gangsta rap. That only gets the man to tap his thumbs on the steering wheel and I definitely do not notice how large and strong his fingers are. I mean they’re the hanging-off-the-side-of-a-building in an action flick kind of strong. I never thought those scenes were believable but I do now. Enrique would survive by the strength of two fingers. So much for my plans to toss him off the side of Daddy’s hotel.

  I switch the music to YMCA modulated in a minor key. He twitches. Eureka. But halfway through the song, the freaking battery dies. I’ll have to wait until the next stop to get the charger from the trunk. Just as well. My ears are bleeding at this point.

  I brace myself for him to retaliate with Mariachis or Def Leppard or something, but he doesn’t take the opportunity. Instead, there’s silence other than the hum of the engine. We’re in the middle of the desert now, so there’s no traffic or any outside noises. I’d say it’s peaceful but being with Enrique is anything but peaceful. Even if I were to close the glass partition between us, I’d still be acutely aware of his presence.

  At length, he clears his throat, like it’s a huge effort to say what he says next.

  “Are you comfortable back there?”

  Wow, where did that come from?

  “Uh... I’m fine. Thanks.”

  “Perfect. Well you just let me know if you need anything, April.”

  Aaaand there it is. There’s no point in trying to correct him. He knows my name. He’s just being a tool. I wish I could come up with a clever nickname for him. All I can come up with is Ricky Ricardo. But knowing him, he’ll take that as a compliment.

  “I’ll do just that... Babaloo.” I have no idea how that escaped my lips but it’s out there now. So I decide to own it with a haughty glower in his direction.

  He is nothing but amused but I don’t care. I don’t care one bit.

  “You should really shave better,” I say after a period of uncomfortable silence. “All that scruff isn’t very professional.”

  And if I’m being honest with myself, it should be illegal how well it looks on the sharp edges of his jaw—dusting over that dimple. This is ridiculous. Thomas was more like a fatherly figure from the front seat. Not sex on wheels like this guy.

  “Duly noted, December.”

  “You should address me as Miss Madison,” I say with my nose in the air just a little bit. His eyes should be on the road but a part of me wants him to look at me through the rear-view mirror so he can see the strength I’m projecting. I’m in charge here, dude.

  He chuckles unapologetically. “Oh should I? And you should address me as Mister Hot Bod.”

  “I certainly shall not.”

  “I certainly shall not,” he repeats in a whiny, mocking tone.

  “What are you, five? I don’t sound like that,” I say.

  He throws his hands up. “Hey, all I’m sayin’—“

  “Put your hands back on the wheel,” I cry. “You’re gonna get us killed.”

  He places his hands back at 2 o’clock and 10 o’clock. “My brother’s a mechanic. The alignment’s perfect on this beauty.” He’s stroking the wheel now. I scoff. Guys and their cars.

  “So,” he continues, “all I’m saying is, since we’re establishing how to address one another...” He does air quotes on the word address and I scream.

  “Wheel!”

  “Okay, okay.” He’s shaking his head like a mom at a teenager. “I’ll call you Miss Madison and you can call me Mister Hot Bod.”

  “I’m not going to call you...” I can hardly get the words out, “Mister Hot Bod.”

  “Suit yourself, October.”

  “Fine,” I spit out, searching for something to jab back at him. “Ricky Ricardo.”

  With that he explodes into laughter. He’s bellowing so hard and so long, I wonder if he’s laughing at me or if he’s delighted I’m so funny. And why does my belly warm at the idea of him finding me funny? Like if I told a joke he’d laugh and look at me with admiration. It shouldn’t matter. I don’t care what he thinks. Not really.

  “Ricky Ricardo?” he coughs between peals of laughter. “Is that why you said Babaloo earlier? Oh my.”

  Tears are dripping down his cheek and he leans over to the glove box, I presume, to get a tissue. He’s freaking me out with the leaning because his eyes are definitely not on the road now. An eagle or a vulture or something swoops in front of us and I scream, “Watch out!”

  He jolts up and I don’t know if it’s from my screaming or his shouting at me to calm down, but he swerves onto the shoulder and hits a rough spot. There’s a loud pop, the Nicolas Cage cutout flies at my face, and now I’m about to have one of my anxiety attacks. My therapist has been making strides with me, but lately with my life upside down, I’m having them more.

  Enriques growls a long string of curse words and pulls over as soon as it’s safe to do so. He storms out to check on the damage and I hear another round of cursing. Mostly English with a few Spanish ones thrown in. I recognize one that I know is the equivalent of the S word. My babysitter taught me all the fun ones at my insistence. It was our little secret.

  Enrique opens my door and slides in next to me. He’s radiating so much anger, I don’t say anything about him being in the back seat. I just slip across to the facing seat and put Nicolas Cage back in his spot. Enrique is punching something into his phone.

  “We have a flat,” he snarls. “Thanks to you.”

  “Me? You’re the one who wasn’t paying attention.”

  “I was doing fine until you started screeching.” He smashes his thumbs on the screen as if his poor phone had anything to do with his rage.

  “You were about to hit that eagle.”

  He glares up from his phone and gives me a hard look. “There aren’t any eagles out here. It was probably a crow.”

  “Well you almost hit it.”

  He swishes the hat off his head and tosses it on the seat, running a massive hand through thick h
air, causing it to poke all over the place in an unruly mess. And oh my. The warmth in my belly spreads.

  “You can’t hit a bird. They have echolocation,” he says.

  “You’re thinking of dolphins. Or bats. Birds don’t have echolocation.”

  He grunts. “They have something—electromagnetic senses—I dunno, I’m not an animal expert. But I know you can’t hit them.”

  “Um, that’s not true, genius, and I just saved your windshield. And the bird.”

  ”Do you have any idea how insurance works?”

  Great. Now he’s going to mansplain me.

  “If my windshield cracks from a flying object, I can file a comprehensive claim and it won’t go against my insurance. But if I blow a tire because I hit something,” he gestures wildly in the direction of the tire, “I could lose my good driving discount.”

  I snort. “I’m surprised you didn’t lose that a long time ago.”

  He taps at his phone, mumbling under his breath. “My brother’s an insurance agent. He’ll know what to do.”

  “I thought your brother’s a mechanic,” I say.

  “That’s my other brother.”

  Oh. I don’t know why it always surprises me when people have more than one sibling. Not everyone’s an only child like me and the primary victim of my parent’s constant bickering.

  After a few minutes he declares roadside service is on the way. Then he goes on to say that his insurance agent brother (probably a massive nerd) texted back and advised him not to file a claim.

  “You’re paying for the new tires,” he says, pinning his eyes on me. “I’ll need a full set to match the tread.”

  “Dream on, Ricky.”

  “You do know Ricky is my actual name, right?”

  I bristle. “I know that. Duh.”

  There is no way this infuriating man is going to win whatever this is. If anyone’s going to be on top, it’s me. My own betraying thoughts bring a flush to my cheeks. That sounds way worse than what I intended.

  I decide to find that Bluetooth speaker charger. I know I shoved it in one of my bags. I slide over to open the door, moving Nicolas Cage out of my way.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To pop the trunk.” I hobble out into the crisp desert air. It’s colder and windier than it looks from inside the car. I’m about to open the driver’s door to hit the trunk button when Enrique leaps out and swallows my wrist with his aforementioned large hand. He spins me around, pressing my back against the door. A devilish grin spreads across his features while his eyes unabashedly rake over me, dawdling at my chest. I’d slap him in the throat but my other arm is pinned to my side by his very hard, very muscular frame. Why can’t the man have a squishy dad bod under that chauffeur uniform?

  “I can’t let you do that, princess.”

  I take a shallow breath. “Why?”

  And if I thought his body was close to me before, he presses even closer so there’s no possible way I can slide out of his hold on me. Or cause him damage with my heel.

  “Because,” he says all gruff and grumbly. His face is so close to me, I feel the roughness of his whiskers when he speaks. “I don’t want you touching my stuff.”

  Oh heavens.

  “If there’s one thing you can count on, it’s that I’ll never touch your stuff.”

  Something of a low rumble sounds in his throat and his gaze dips to my lips. If this were a guy I was into, I’d want him to kiss me right here. Right now. On the side of the road with semi-trucks rushing by and clouds of dust and sand forming on our shoes. I’d want him to kiss me hard and hot, maybe tugging at my hair a little bit. His powerful hands would roam over my back, pulling me firmly against his form. And I’d kiss him back, devouring his glorious lips, dipping my fingers under his shirt to explore the muscles I know are hiding under there. I’d show him how good it could be, how insanely and wildly attracted to him I am.

  But I’m not. And he’s not. And this is so not happening.

  5

  ENRIQUE

  I’m pretty sure I’ve lost my marbles. I don’t know what’s come over me. Not only is January my client’s daughter, but she’s also the bride of Vlad the Impaler. She treats me like the farm boy in Princess Bride without the lovey-dovey bits, snubbing her perky little nose at me and flipping her long, golden hair in an act of superiority. I know she looks down on me and my profession and that makes me angrier than almost anything. But the way my body reacts when she’s near—the way every cell springs to attention at the awareness of her—how this chemical reaction in me stirs my blood—it makes me want to throw reason out the window and see where this attraction takes us. Because I know she’s attracted to me, too. It’s why I’ve found myself resorting to pranks and jabs. To keep her where she belongs. In the hate zone.

  But I’m only human. Actually, I’m worse than human. I’m a red-blooded man who’s been good as a boy scout for far too long. Enter January stage left and I’m in serious trouble.

  I could kiss her right now. It would be raging, heated, ferocious. Passionate. She’d pretend to fight it but it wouldn’t be long before she’d be warm and soft in my hands. I think it’s her fiery nature that’s such a turn on. And then I’d be completely ruined. She’d turn our kiss into a power play, and I’d be all in. She could use me and I’d willingly go.

  Her heart-shaped lips part. An invitation? A dare? I have no willpower. I say a silent prayer (because Catholic guilt) Lord, forgive me, and let my lips lead the way. But then January brings us back with her ice cube words.

  “You stink,” she says with a shaky breath. “Like bad tuna.”

  Good girl. Smart girl.

  I pause a hair’s breadth away from her perfect pink mouth and force a playful grin as if to say, “I’m just testing you, woman.” I picture those ice cubes in all the right places to cool my engines down because there’s steam on this train and it’s running off the tracks. And for the record, I don’t even like tuna.

  “Well then,” I say, disengaging my fingers from her wrist, “I think we can both agree you’ll keep your hands to yourself from now on.”

  She has that look on her face where she’s about to make a show of being appalled but I shush her with a finger to her lips as I take one step away.

  “I’ll pop my own trunk, thank you.”

  I reach into my pocket and her eyes grow three sizes—like a She-Grinch who can’t decide if she’s offended or aroused. I can only guess what she’s thinking but I find it immensely hilarious and satisfying to see relief wash over her when I come up with the car remote in my hand. I lift it to the space between our faces and tap the button which opens the trunk with a soft click.

  I’m rewarded with a swift shove to the chest as she shuffles off to get whatever she needs from her bags. I’m standing here wondering what just transpired between us—extremely uncomfortable in my own skin right now. Call me crazy, but if this were any other woman, I’d take her banter as flirting. Playful, even. Ricky Ricardo. Why do I find it adorable how hard she’s grasping for an annoying nickname?

  We spend the rest of the time waiting for the Motor Club outside the car because I can’t trust myself in an enclosed space with her. She must feel the same because she’s been leaning on the other side of the limo scrolling through Instagram or Tik Tok or whatever. What could she possibly be doing on there for so long? I don’t want to know and I definitely will not be checking later.

  Finally, a tow truck appears on the horizon and January perks up. I expect her to scramble back in the limo but she struts right up next to me with her hands on her hips. If she starts a fight with the Motor Club guy, I’m throwing her phone in front of the next big rig.

  “It’s about time,” she says.

  “We’re in the middle of nowhere. This isn’t Starbucks.”

  She throws me a killer glare.

  The tow truck pulls up right behind my limo and as the guy hops out, I can hardly believe my luck. Elvis Wilson (yes, his parents reall
y named him Elvis - don’t ask), a friend of my brother Dante recognizes me right away and speeds up his gait to meet me.

  “Heeeey, Kiki. I thought it might be you.” I hate that nickname, but it’s hard to outgrow these things. He only gets that from Dante who prefers to use as few syllables as possible. We slap hands and he does a double-take when he notices January. I mean, I’m sure he noticed a gorgeous woman standing here, but I can see awareness dawn on his face when he realizes who she is. I’m about to clamp his jaw shut on his tongue when January barks a laugh.

  “Kinky? Ha! I need to hear the story behind this one.”

  “Not Kinky,” I growl. “Kiki. It’s a term of endearment.”

  She doesn’t hear a word, though, because she’s laughing too hard.

  Yeah, real mature. Well, I guess she finally found an amusing nickname for me. I’m just going to let this one go.

  “Holy sh— I mean... wow, I’m a huge fan.” Elvis regained the faculties of his tongue and now he’s just tripping over it. January’s not fazed at all, though. She’s way too amused right now, and if I’m honest, I think this is the first true smile I’ve seen on her face. And it’s beautiful. She should definitely smile more often. She says hi to Elvis, and instead of a handshake, she goes in for a hug. A hug! And trust me, he’s not at all good looking so that couldn’t be the reason. In fact, I’d be willing to bet his coveralls are a few days ripe. His face is priceless, though, and he’s still wearing a goofy grin when the hug is over.

  “Oh man. No one’s going to believe this,” he says. Have you ever seen the most ridiculous people meeting celebrities? That’s Elvis right now. My teeth hurt from the cringe.

  “Do you want to take a selfie?’ January’s all sugar and rainbows now. There must be something up her sleeve. She’s not this nice in real life.

  I’m not even going to bore you with how uncomfortable this makes me. They take some selfies, Elvis asking for just one more, just one more. It’s when his hand slips too far that January cuts the photoshoot short. She’s polite about it, but firm. She’s done this a thousand times, swift and professional in the distance she places between them, all the while leaving him on cloud nine. Touched by an angel with a story to tell for years to come of that time he met January Madison.