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

by Ellie Hall

  My breath shudders. I should just tell him the truth. That I write about Rosa Ramirez, the anti-romance private investigator who takes down crappy men one at a time. I should tell him how much I hate romance. Hate relationships. How much I refuse to ever be caught in one again.

  But my words stick in my throat and all I do is shrug. “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “I just need to find a way to get through this interview without looking like a total loser.”

  “No one will think you’re a loser,” he says, squeezing my shoulder. “You’re amazing.”

  All those same magical feelings from the night on the porch come back, manifesting themselves in the space between us on the couch. The hair on my neck prickles to life. My lips get all fuzzy and warm and desperate to kiss him. He looks impossibly handsome from the glow of the lamp in the corner of the room. His dirty blond hair is messy and practically begging me to run my hands through it.

  I swallow.

  “Can we talk?” he says quietly, his eyes telling me everything I need to know.

  I shake my head. “I’d rather not.”

  He frowns. “You know what I want to talk about?”

  I nod quickly.

  “The thing we haven’t talked about?”

  I nod again. “I can’t talk about it.”

  He chews his bottom lip and then looks up at me. “We kissed, Julie. We kissed. And it was nice. Really nice.”

  A deep blush creeps up my cheeks.

  Max’s cheeks look a little flushed too. “I was hoping to do it again.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. My voice sounds so far away. Like it belongs to someone else. Some other idiot who is about to turn down this gorgeous, incredible guy. I swallow. “That kiss was a mistake.”

  “Was it? It didn’t feel like a mistake.”

  “It was.”

  “Okay. Well, thanks for clarifying.”

  “Max, I don’t mean to hurt you it’s just…”

  He shakes his head. “No worries, Julie. It’s fine. I’ll be out of your hair in the morning.”

  He walks to his room and closes the door.

  I want so badly to run to him, to tell him that the kiss did mean something. That it felt more real than anything with any man has felt in my life. But I hold back.

  It’s the right thing to do.

  It’s what Rosa Ramirez would do.

  10

  In the morning, I stay in my room while Max carries his things out to his truck. I don’t want to stay away from him, but it’s the smart thing to do. Getting over this silly crush is simple—I just have to rip him off quickly, like a Band-Aid. Once he’s gone, I can do my interview, then move on with my life. I’ll find my writing mojo back tomorrow. I just know I will.

  At least, I hope I will.

  The rumbly truck engine sound in the driveway means he’s already left. I thought he might try to tell me goodbye but then again… I didn’t tell him goodbye so I don’t know what I expect.

  I’ve been getting ready for my TV interview all morning. The producers told my agent that they’d have someone on site to do my hair and makeup, but I needed to be fresh-faced and have clean hair. And, the worst part of all, I need to dress myself. Sure, I’ve been dressing myself since I was a toddler, but there’s something much different about getting dressed today. I never know what kind of impression I want to make. What kind of author I want to be.

  In reality, I live in yoga leggings and baggy T-shirts. In the professional world? Do I wear slacks and a nice shirt? A formal dress? A causal dress?

  I’ve been up since five in the morning trying to figure it out, but eventually I settle on a nice pair of black jeans and a silver shimmery top. Now that Max’s truck has left, I emerge from my room to make some coffee.

  Only Max’s truck hasn’t left.

  He’s standing here with a backpack slung over his shoulder, looking just as surprised to see me as I am to see him.

  “I thought you left?” I blurt out like some kind of weirdo.

  “I was about to, but someone’s here.” He peers out the front window. I rush over to look and my arm brushes against his. We’re only touching for the teensiest of seconds, but it makes my whole body light up.

  “They’re here?” I shriek. I’m probably as pale as a ghost right now. I check my watch. “They’re not supposed to be here for two more hours!”

  He shrugs. “They’re blocking me in. I’ll ask them to move.”

  The TV crew arrived in a big box van thing. My driveway isn’t very big, and Max’s truck is parked behind my Jeep. Behind him, is the big van. I walk out onto the porch, watching him wave at the guy in cargo shorts and a black Clark TV shirt.

  “Hey man, I’m sorry but you’re blocking me in and I’m about to leave.”

  “Oh,” the guy says. “Sorry about that.”

  “Wait!”

  A slender woman with long black hair walks around from the back of the van. She’s wearing a Bluetooth earpiece and has a MacBook tucked under her arm. She smiles demurely at Max. “Who are you, handsome?”

  Max clears his throat. “I’m no one.”

  The woman looks beyond him, her eyes landing on mine. She bursts into a smile and I recognize her as Tomi, the TV producer for the show. Her photo is in her email signature. Looks like the host of the show, Zoey, isn’t here right now. She probably won’t arrive until filming begins in a few hours.

  “Julie Baskins!” she says with a big grin. “Come here, babe. Let me get a look at you.”

  I walk down the porch out into the driveway, feeling naked with no makeup on.

  Tomi shakes my hand, clasping it in both of her hands as she tells me hello. She smells like cigarettes and fruity perfume. While still holding my hand, she leans in close. “Who is this handsome hunk of man meat?”

  “No one,” I say, repeating Max’s earlier words. “He’s just leaving.”

  Max nods. “Yeah, so if you could move your van, I’ll be on my way.”

  Tomi stares at him, and then at me. “So it’s true,” she says. Her voice takes a sudden sinister tone which sends a chill down my back.

  “What’s true?” I say. “He’s the guy who remodeled the house and he had to pick up some tools and now he’s leaving.”

  She winks at me. “Got it.”

  Then she turns to Max. “You stay, hon. I could use your help.”

  “I don’t know—” Max’s confusion mirrors mine.

  “I’ll pay you five thousand dollars to help my crew set up,” Tomi says. “Come on. It’ll just be an hour or two.”

  “I appreciate that but—”

  My eyes widen and I smack Max in the arm. “Take the job,” I say. “It’s five thousand dollars!”

  He gives me an uncertain look, like he’s telling me he’ll be happy to leave if I want him to. “You sure?”

  “It’s five thousand dollars,” I say again. “Do it!”

  He laughs, running a hand through his hair. “Okay then.”

  “Wonderful,” Tomi says, clapping her hands together once.

  The hair and makeup artist’s name is Josh. He’s covered in colorful tattoos, rocks a hot pink ponytail, and has an Australian accent. I feel wholly uncool compared to this entire TV crew of five people who show up in my house, set up big lights on metal stands, and rearrange my furniture to suit their needs.

  Max is put to work helping the crew set up and I catch glimpses of him between Josh doing my hair and makeup, although I’m trying not to stare. Josh styles my shoulder length hair into soft beach curls, twisting two strands of hair near my forehead back and pinning them into place like I’m a fairy princess or something. Then he does my makeup using an air brush which is the coolest thing ever, and then he gives me a soft pink lipstick and subtle smoky eyes.

  I look fantastic. I look beautiful. I look—not like an author, but like a movie star. I wish I could keep Josh forever and have him do my hair and makeup every day.

  The new look gives me confidence. I feel gre
at in my shimmery top and jeans, and comfortable enough to wear the high heel suede ankle boots that I never wear outside my house for fear of falling down in them.

  When Zoey arrives, she comes with another entourage of her own. Three women dressed impeccably, ready to rush off at a moment’s notice to fetch Zoey whatever she needs. I listen to her podcast all the time, but hearing her rich, velvety voice in person leaves me a little star-struck.

  She gets right to business. We sit, me on the couch and her on a black leather chair the crew brought for her. They’ve also moved my bookshelf to be behind me, I guess to make me look extra literary for the interview.

  “Julie Baskins,” Zoey says, holding out her hands toward me.

  “Good morning,” I say, hoping my smile looks genuine. “Thank you so much for having me on your show.” I am so keenly aware of the big, terrifying camera that’s watching me, recording me, that everything I do feels faked and awkward. Like I left my real personality in my bed this morning and now the extra professional version of me is here on the couch.

  “You made your mark on the publishing world with your Lucky in Love series, which published seven years ago.”

  I nod, because it seems like she has more to say.

  “But then a few months ago, seemingly out of nowhere, you released a shockingly different type of novel.” Zoey holds up a copy of Love Sucks, book one in my new series. She reads the blurb on the cover. “Rosa Ramirez is a kick-butt hero saving heartbroken women one cheating man at a time.”

  “So,” she says, looking pointedly at me. “What made you write the Love Sucks series?”

  I give a little shrug. “I wanted something new. When this idea came to me, it sounded fun so I just went with it. Most of my characters in the past were damsels in distress and it’s thrilling writing a character who can stand up for herself.”

  “Hmm,” Zoey says, watching me with the untrustworthy eyes of a TV host.

  Suddenly I feel like a worm that’s been pinned to a board about to be dissected. Zoey’s eyes narrow just slightly. “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you of the rumors that quickly spread through the literary-gossip-sphere?”

  Literary gossip sphere?

  “I don’t…” I swallow, looking to the coffee table. I thought I had a glass of water. Where’s the glass of water?

  Zoey smiles. “You were cheated on, Julie. Ouch!” She sucks in air, wincing like she just got pinched. Somehow she manages to still look beautiful while making that face. “I’ve been there too, lady. Trust me. It’s no fun getting cheated on by someone you love.”

  I try very hard to look impassive. “That’s in the past.”

  “Of course,” she says, her smile widening. “You’ve become a hero to women everywhere. Women who identify with you. As your online biography says, after all, you are anti-romance.”

  I give a little shrug, glad she’s moved on from the cheating ex-boyfriend thing. Jason doesn’t deserve even one second of publicity for what he did. “That’s me. Feels good to write about something new.”

  “Do you regret the romance novels that made you a popular author?”

  I swallow the knot in my stomach. “Of course not.”

  “But you are anti-romance now.”

  “Yes.”

  Zoey’s lips press into a thin smile. A shiver runs down my spine. “Care to explain this?”

  She holds up a thick piece of paper, something like a posterboard with an image printed on it. My heart stops. It’s not a picture I recognize because I’ve never seen this. in fact, I didn’t know this picture even existed. But it’s a picture of me.

  And Max.

  Smiling at each other like love-struck dorks at Roger’s Diner. My hand touches his forearm gingerly, flirtatiously.

  The bright red light on the camera lens reminds me I’m being recorded right now. Every expression on my face will be aired for everyone to see. How does she expect me to act? Scandalized? Embarrassed? Like some kind of trollop who lies to her fans about being anti-romance and then goes out on dates with hot men?

  Well, I’m not going to give her the satisfaction.

  “That’s Max. He’s a friend,” I say with a bright, unaffected smile. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who think men and women can’t be friends?”

  “This looks like much more than friendship,” Zoey says, peering at the photo. The photo she’d had professionally printed and bound to a thick posterboard. This was done specifically to set me up. To air my personal life on camera.

  I see red.

  I realize that this is my house. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do. So I do the thing Rosa Ramirez would do. I stand up, pulling the mic pack off my shirt with a dramatic flourish.

  “You are being extremely rude and this interview is now over.”

  11

  Tomi swoops in from out of nowhere, trying to smooth things over. With a slice of her hand across her neck, the cameraman turns off the camera. Zoey sits here, back straight, head held high like she’s done nothing wrong.

  “Julie, please,” Tomi says, her earpiece looking like a creepy spider crawling out of her ear. “Don’t leave the interview.”

  “This isn’t an interview,” I say loudly from the kitchen. This isn’t journalism. This is trashy reality TV crap. I didn’t sign up for that and I don’t have to put up with it.”

  “You signed up to be interviewed and you didn’t specify any topics that were off limits,” Tomi says with a smile meant to placate that does absolutely nothing to placate me.

  “I didn’t know I had to specify off limits questions! I’m an author, not some controversial celebrity!”

  Tomi’s expression shows she thinks I’m some kind of dumb kid. She opens her mouth to speak again, but then Max steps forward.

  “I don’t give permission for my image to be used,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.

  Tomi winces. “Unfortunately, you don’t get to decide that. This picture was taken in a public venue by one of our viewers who sent it in. The law states that public photos in public places are not subject to personal privacy. The only permission we need is that of the photographer, and she’s already given it.”

  “So some stranger creep took a picture of me without me knowing it and I don’t get to object?” I glance over toward Zoey, but she’s chatting with her beautiful entourage, not seeming the least bit upset that I stopped her interview. It’s Tomi the producer begging me to stay.

  “Ms. Baskins, that photo is the reason you got this interview. A concerned fan brought it our attention that a prominent author was making money off being against romance, but she was having a romance herself. Your hypocrisy makes for great TV.”

  “So this was supposed to be some kind of gotcha interview? This is crap, and you know it. Max is my friend. We’re not dating.” Even as I say the words, I know they’re only partially true. He is my friend. And we’re NOT dating. But… we kissed. And my crush on him won’t go away no matter how much I metaphorically stomp on it in my head.

  “That’s great,” Tomi says. “Totally fine if you’re just friends. Go back on the interview and explain that you’re just friends. We can edit out the previous few minutes and start over again. That photo will be used to entice viewers, but once they hear your side of the story, it’ll all be cleared up. This is actually great publicity for you, Julie.”

  “I’m only going back on the interview if that picture won’t be brought up. I’m here to talk about my books, not my friendships.”

  Tomi clicks her tongue. “I’m afraid we can’t do that.”

  “What if I join her?” Max says.

  My eyes widen and Tomi’s nearly pop out of her narrow head. “What?” she says.

  “Restart the interview. Bring up the photo. And I’ll join Julie on the couch and explain that we’re friends. She could even spin this is as something about how authors’ lives are in the public view and people try to discredit them. She can turn the interview aroun
d into something she approves of.” Max looks at me. “What do you think?”

  I don’t even realize my mouth is open.

  Tomi answers for me. “We could do that. I can’t prevent Zoey from asking the tough questions, but you can have another shot at how you answer them.”

  “Okay,” I say. My stomach is all butterflies and anxiety like I swallowed a gallon of what the heck is happening juice. One glance at Max soothes my nerves. He’s magical like that. I nod, more eagerly this time. “Yes. Let’s do that.”

  The interview takes forty-five minutes the second time around. Zoey isn’t apologetic. She doesn’t even admit that anything went wrong. She gives the interview, and I’m better prepared to rebuff the insulations that photo gives off, especially with Max at my side. Before I know it, they’re packed up and gone.

  Now it’s just Max and me.

  “Thanks for that,” I say, hands shoved in my pockets while we watch the van back out of my driveway and leave.

  “You look really beautiful.”

  My head snaps around to him. “Huh?”

  “I mean, you’re always beautiful. But today… you look really nice, is all.”

  “It’s not me,” I say with a snort. “It’s the hair and makeup guy’s talent, not mine.”

  “Hair and makeup only helps if you’re already beautiful.”

  I really hope that airbrushed foundation keeps the blush from showing on my cheeks. I could really use a coffee right now, or even a milkshake from Roger’s Diner, but after all the awkwardness with Max, I’m not about to ask him to lunch with me. For all I know, more paparazzi could be lurking around, waiting to snap a photo.

  “I can’t believe they did that to me,” I say, exhaling a deep sigh. “I guess it’s the only way an author can get fancy interviews like that. No one cares about books unless they can trash the author somehow.”

  Max shoves his hands in his pockets. He’s so much taller than I am, but right now he looks almost like a kid who has had the wind knocked out of his sails. “So is this why you didn’t want anything more to happen between us? The anti-romance thing?”