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

by Ellie Hall

  My old mattress was too heavy and awkward to bring to my new place, so I bought one of those foam mattresses that come rolled up in a box that’s easier to manage. After Max and I decided to live together, we called our landlady back and worked it out. I don’t have to pay rent until Max moves out. It’s a good deal financially, but a weird deal overall. This is not how I pictured my first day in my dream home.

  Still, I’m going to make the best of it. Max goes back to working on the kitchen and I open the back door of my box trailer, staring at all the contents. I downsized a lot to move here, selling all of my furniture and any big possessions, so I wouldn’t have to move them. I could have hired movers, but I wanted to do this on my own. It’s a fresh start.

  I take a deep breath and reach for the box with my mattress in it.

  “Let me help,” Max says, his voice so sudden and unexpected that I yelp and hit my head on the short trailer roof.

  “Sorry,” he says, somewhat bashfully. “Is your head okay?”

  “I’m fine.” I roll my eyes. “I don’t need help.”

  I go back to the mattress box, grabbing the perforated handle and dragging it out of the trailer. Max stands in the driveway, watching me. “What?” I say, standing up straight and trying not to let it show that I’m out of breath after only a few seconds with that box.

  “I don’t mind helping,” he says.

  I shake my head. “Don’t you have renovations to do?”

  He holds up his hands in surrender, and I feel a little bad. I have to remind myself just because the last man in my life was a complete lying backstabbing jerk, doesn’t mean they all are. But I still don’t have to be nice to this guy. His mere presence is ruining my new life adventure. I wanted to do this alone. I was supposed to do this alone. He just needs to go away so I can stand in the driveway and pout a bit.

  I watch him head back into the house. Once the sound of his power tool cranks back on, I lug the mattress box up to the front porch and then drag it inside, sliding it all the way down the short hallway and into my bedroom. This small cottage has my room on one end, with the bathroom next door, then a hallway to the living room/kitchen open space, and then the small studio space and laundry room on the other side of the house. That’s one bit of good news—Max will be sleeping as far away from me as you can get. Good.

  I break a sweat carrying in all my boxes and bags of clothes, but I managed to load them up all by myself and I manage to bring them into the house all by myself. Girl power, I think as I wipe sweat from my brow. All I have to do is pretend that Max is a piece of furniture that will be leaving shortly. No big deal. This can still be my dream house and my big new start.

  In my bedroom, I look around at Max’s completed handiwork. The walls are a beautiful denim blue with crisp white trim around the windows and flooring. The original listing online featured boring white paint throughout the house, so this is definitely an improvement, but would have been even better if my landlady had told me about it.

  The wooden floors are shiny and clean. I picture rolling out a plush rug under my bed frame to keep the chill off my toes on winter mornings. Of course, I’ll need a rug, and a bed frame. For now, it’s just a mattress on the floor until I find a bed to buy and have delivered locally.

  I open the box, roll out my mattress, and watch in awe as the foam fluffs up to its full size. I unpack the rest of my stuff. I have a couple boxes of home décor items, which I keep in the hallway, but everything else is for my bedroom and office. Since my office will be delayed until Max moves out, I leave those boxes in the hallway too. For now, all I need to write my books is my laptop, day planner, and the gorgeous view outside.

  With my clothes hung up in the closet, and my IKEA dresser and nightstand put back together, I make quick work of unpacking everything. My bed is made even if it is just a mattress on the floor right now. The TV is meant for the living room but since that place is a construction zone nightmare, I’ll just set it up in my room for now.

  “Knock knock,” Max says from the hallway.

  “Come in.” He’s a piece of furniture, I tell myself. Don’t let his crazy good looks get you all flustered.

  “I … can’t.”

  I glance up from behind my dresser where I’ve just plugged in my television. The hallway is filled with boxes and garbage bags full of clothes, stacked so high Max can’t get around them.

  “Just kick that black bag out of the way,” I tell him.

  He nudges it with his foot. The tall contractor-sized trash bag falls forward. The hair tie I’d hastily used to close it up slips off. The next few seconds pass in slow motion as I watch all of my underwear and bras—both the cute ones and ratty old ones that should have been thrown out years ago—tumble out of the bag and slide across the shiny, varnished floor.

  “Crap, I’m sorry,” he says, bending to start picking things up.

  “No!” I say, standing up so fast I get dizzy. I scramble across the floor, arms splayed out as if my bony fingers can somehow cover up this big, huge mess from his field of vision.

  “I’ll get it.”

  “I knocked it over, so I’ll help clean it up,” he says.

  “No!” I grab his forearms, pressing him backward into the door frame. His skin is warm, his muscles taut under my grip. I stare at his chest to avoid his eyes. “That’s a bag of my… under clothings…” I say, suddenly finding myself unable to say the words bra or panties. “You do not need to be anywhere near them.”

  He chuckles, then takes a step back. “Got it. And sorry for the mess.”

  I stand up straight, a futile attempt to hide the mess behind me because Max is so much taller than I am. Still, I have to try something. Those are my unmentionables all over the floor. And like ninety percent of them aren’t very cute. I dress for comfort, not style.

  “Do you need something?”

  He’s a piece of furniture, I repeat in my head. A talking, walking, super attractive piece of furniture.

  He scratches the back of his neck, which ruffles his slightly-too long wavy blond hair. It’s a good look on him.

  “I’ve been debating how to tile the backsplash in the kitchen,” he says. “I have a few color choices and Kelly doesn’t care how it’s done. You want to pick which one you like the best?”

  Oh, right. Renovation stuff. I wish I could reach into my own brain and slap it for being so ridiculously dumb. I am literally anti-romance now. I can’t let one guy turn my thoughts to mush. He’ll be out of here soon, and I’ll forget all about him.

  “Sure,” I say, happy to get out of this room and this hallway and far, far away from the mess on the floor.

  I’m more of a big picture kind of woman. If my house is clean and smells nice and has everything I need, I don’t really care about the details. Max rips open two boxes of tiles and holds up a sheet of each one to the kitchen backsplash, then turns to me.

  “What do you think?”

  I stand back to consider both options. “The right one.”

  “Cool,” he says, putting the left sheet back into its box.

  My phone rings from my bedroom, which makes my smart watch go off. “It’s already past noon?” I grumble, letting out a sigh. “I have three video conferences today, so I’m going to close my door to muffle all the tool sounds. If you need me,” I say, stopping mid-sentence and shrugging. “Actually, don’t need me. I’ll be busy all day. Work stuff.”

  “No problem. I’ll be quiet.”

  I head back toward my room, stopping when Max calls my name.

  “You want pizza for dinner? I can get some delivered.”

  I look at him for exactly half a second before averting my gaze. Piece of furniture.

  “Sure,” I say, because saying “Heck no, leave me alone, I’m trying to be independent” would just be rude.

  Plus I love pizza.

  4

  My best friend Annie makes gaga eyes at me on our video chat, her thick dark eyebrows going up and down suggestive
ly. “He must be really hot.”

  I roll my eyes. I’ve only told her the briefest of information about my unwanted, unexpected roommate Max. The timer on my phone says we’ve been talking thirty seven seconds. That’s not nearly long enough for her to gather that he’s totally hot, but she’s right. He is.

  “He’s just some guy.” I keep my voice low, a slight bit above a whisper. It’s just after seven in the morning here in Texas, which means it’s eight in New Jersey where Annie lives. She just got off a night shift at the hospital so we catch up in the mornings before she falls asleep for the day.

  “What does he look like?” She wiggles her eyebrows again.

  “He looks like a guy who better hurry up and finish the remodel so he can leave.”

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “So he doesn’t hear me!”

  Annie tosses her head back in a laugh. “You’re the biggest dork, Jules, but I love you.”

  I heave a sigh. “This is just really bad timing. I’m supposed to be working on my next novel and I’m already behind schedule. I had planned on diving into writing the second I unpacked and now most of my crap is in the hallway waiting on Mr. Fix-it to finish!”

  “When is the manuscript due to your editor?” she asks, using her phone screen as a mirror to check her hair.

  “In two months.”

  “That’s not too bad. How much do you have written?”

  I bite my lip. “None of it.”

  “What!”

  I jump, lowering the volume on my phone. “It’s just been so hard lately. Between the breakup and the move and stifling the urge to eat five gallons of ice cream each day, it’s just been hard to get started on my next book. I was supposed to move in yesterday and then immediately write and now…” I crinkle up my face and glance toward my closed bedroom door. On the other side of it is my dream home in a mid-renovation mess.

  I sigh. “I’m too stressed to write.”

  Annie frowns. “What happens if you don’t meet the deadline?”

  This is the question I’ve been avoiding for weeks now. Pushing it to the back of my mind and pretending it won’t ever happen. I had hoped—no, I had known—that once I moved into this gorgeous house on the lake I’d be fully rested, motivated, and inspired to write my next book. And now… that’s not going according to plan.

  “I don’t know…” I say softly as dread builds in my stomach. “My publisher already paid me a huge advance, which I spent on this house. I can’t think about missing the deadline because it can’t happen. I have to write this book.”

  “Well get to it, girl!” Annie smiles, flashing me her bright white teeth. My beautiful Filipina best friend is just as stunning even after pulling a twelve hour overnight shift. “You can do it. Get off the phone and go write.”

  I still have a ton of things to do, like go grocery shopping, buy a new coffee maker to replace mine that broke in the move, and order a bed frame. But the weight of this deadline is hanging over my head, so even though it’s super early in the morning, I decide to get some writing done before I go run errands, that way I can start my day off on the right foot. Maybe getting a few chapters written will help crush the weight of this deadline that’s been heavy on my shoulders.

  I sit on my squishy new mattress, laptop in front of me. I open a blank document and place my hands on the keyboard. You can do this, I think. Don’t stress about life. Just get to work.

  The jarring sound of a power tool rips through the air the second my hands land on the keyboard. My eyes widen. Seriously?

  I type: Chapter One.

  The sound continues.

  In a huff, I close my laptop, crawl off my on-the-floor mattress and step out into the chaos of the renovations. A large blue tarp is spread out on the kitchen floor. The windows are open, the back door has been propped open with a brick, and Max the handyman stands on the back porch doing some weird thing with a drill and a bucket.

  “Good morning,” I say, hands on my hips as I stand just inside the house watching him. The bucket has a chalky substance, and I can see now that his power drill is attached to some kind of metal mixing wand that’s stirring the stuff in the bucket. It’s like a cake mixer but for construction.

  “Good morning,” Max says over the whirring of his drill. He glances over and flashes me a bright welcoming smile.

  “I was being sarcastic.”

  “Huh?” he calls out over the noise.

  “I was being sarcastic!” I yell back—only he shuts off the drill in the middle of my sentence so I end up yelling the last word.

  His lips quirk into a smile. “Sarcasm this early in the morning?”

  “I’m trying to work, and this…” I gesture toward the junk on the back porch. A bucket, boxes of tile and other things that belong on a construction job site. “It’s really loud.”

  Will I ever get my dream house all to myself? This looks like it’ll take forever.

  “Sorry,” he says, wiping his brow with the back of a gloved hand. “I’m almost finished mixing the grout, then it’ll be quieter while I tile the kitchen.”

  “Great!” I turn around and go back to my bedroom.

  And then the music starts.

  I stand in the hallway watching him for at least a full minute and he doesn’t even notice. Max is dancing. He’s actually dancing around my kitchen, his feet shuffling and his head bopping to the music while he scoops out grout from the bucket and scrapes it across the kitchen backsplash.

  I walk over and wave my hand to get his attention. He grins, nodding his head at me.

  “Are you seriously dancing right now?”

  “You only get one life,” he says, grabbing my hand. Before I know what’s happening, he spins me around on the plastic-covered kitchen floor. “Why not make it fun?”

  He lets me go after one spin and I put my hands on my hips. “What are you, two?”

  “I’m almost thirty,” he says, swaying his head from left to right. Now that I’m watching him, he’s getting all groovy with the music, even more than before. “Let me guess... you’re in your late twenties but you have the personality of an eighty-year old school marm.”

  “You think you’re funny but you’re not.”

  He grins. “I don’t think I’m funny.”

  I can sense his stupid punchline before he says it.

  “I know I’m funny.”

  Yep. There it is. I roll my eyes so epically that they’re in danger of getting stuck in the back of my head. I reach over and turn off the Bluetooth speaker.

  “I have to work. You want to listen to music? Get headphones.”

  “Aww, that’s no fun,” he says. “Headphones get sweaty.”

  “Ew,” I say, looking a little more repulsed than I actually feel. “How much longer are these renovations supposed to take?”

  “A few weeks,” he says to the wall as he slides the grout across it, his metal tool leaving perfect grooves in it. “Three, maybe four.”

  “Oh heck no. That is way too long.”

  “I can only work as fast as I can work.”

  I heave a sigh and look around at the mess. My deadline will be here before I know it and if this guy is going to be jamming music and using power tools every day for three to four weeks, I’ll never get a single word written.

  Then I get an idea. A spark, an inspiration. Something I haven’t had with my writing, but at least it’s inspiration for something else that matters. “What if I helped?”

  He lowers his grouting tool and turns around. There’s a small smudge of dirt or grout or something on his forehead, but he’s still so handsome it takes my breath away.

  “You want to help renovate?

  I shrug. “Anything to get some peace and quiet around here.”

  “Okay,” he says flashing me that bright smile of his. “Hope you have some paint clothes.”

  5

  I do not, in fact, have paint clothes. As part of my downsizing and moving across the state plan, I h
ad tossed anything that wasn’t in excellent condition, leaving my wardrobe made up of all my nice things. But that won’t stop me from helping with this renovation and getting Max’s stupid butt out of my house as soon as possible. I shake my head.

  Do not think about his butt.

  My phone’s GPS guides me to the nearest thrift store so I can find an old T-shirt and leggings that can be my official paint clothes. My bedroom is the only room that’s fully painted, and everywhere else in the house has only been primed. That’s a lot of walls and not much time to paint them.

  After going on a three-for-a-dollar T-shirt spree at the thrift store, my stomach grumbles loudly reminding me that I haven’t eaten anything since Max’s pizza last night. The only grocery store in Sterling is small but charming. I pop in and browse around for some groceries, loading up on orange soda, sour candies, and popcorn—my three most essential writing snacks, as well as some other essentials, like ice cream, frozen tater tots, and various junk foods. Sometimes I’m only an adult in age, not personality. But if I’m going to get anything written, I need my writer fuel: sugar.

  Back at home, Max’s music blares through the speakers, but he turns it down when he sees me walk in the front door. The kitchen backsplash looks great. He managed to get the whole thing tiled in the couple of hours I’ve been gone.

  “What’s that?” Max asks, brows pulling together as I lug in my grocery bags. I resist rolling my eyes and snapping that a real man would offer to help a lady carry groceries. Men suck, and I already know that. No point in saying anything about it. Besides, even if he had offered to help, I’d still turn him down. I can do this on my own.

  “It’s food,” I say, hefting the bag onto the counter.

  “Oh, no.” Max sucks in air through his teeth. “Did Kelly not tell you that we have no appliances?”

  My eyes widen. Sure enough, there’s a gaping hole in the kitchen cabinets where the refrigerator should be. And another space for a dishwasher and oven. Above the oven space is yet another empty space where a microwave should be mounted. I stare at the tall rectangular fridge space and wonder when exactly I fell and hit my head and became someone who doesn’t notice when very large appliances are missing!