Pleasantly Popped: A Sweet Romantic Comedy (Love & Alliteration Book 3)

by Holly Kerr

  “I really don’t know you.”

  “No, but you’re curious about me, aren’t you?” I raise an eyebrow. “Regardless of what Flora might have said about me.”

  “She didn’t say anything about you.” My face falls with surprise, but Trev is quick to relent. “Dean said a bit.”

  I wriggle on the seat with delight. “What did he say? I like Dean a lot, and I think he’s great for Flora. And I’ll even say that before you told me what he said about me, even if it’s mean.” I lean closer. I love talking about myself, as long as it’s good stuff. I’d do well with a therapist if we would only keep it to light and fluffy things.

  “I’ve known Dean for a while and I’ve never known him to be mean. He’s the classic stereotype of a decent guy.”

  “You make it sound like he’s boring.”

  “I never said that,” Trev says.

  “You implied it. What do you think of Clay?”

  “Clay’s a good guy, too.”

  “But not decent.”

  “He’s decent.”

  “Your tone implies there’s a difference between the two of them. Don’t try to argue—I’m incredibly perceptive.”

  “And there’s that modesty again.”

  I raise my nose in a pretentious manner. “Modesty is overrated,” I say in an affected voice.

  Trev laughs. Why am I worried about awkward silences? Why am I worried about anything?

  Trev

  “I have another question for you,” Ruthie says as the waitress arrives with a basket of wings and fries.

  I can tell the wings are hot just from inhaling. “You got hot wings.”

  “I did. You heard me order. I said hot.” She glances at the waitress. “You heard me say hot, didn’t you?”

  She nods. Women always stick together. “And extra-crispy fries.” She peers in the basket. “They look okay.”

  Ruthie holds up the basket to the waitress. “Want to try?”

  She laughs. “I’m good, thanks. If I have one, I’ll only want more.”

  “I know, they’re so good.” She grins and pops a fry, which does look very crispy, into her mouth. “Can you bring a couple extra dipping sauces, please? In case someone doesn’t do well with the hotness.” She shines her smile on me, wide and beguiling and I can’t help but return it.

  “Coming right up. Another round of drinks?”

  I glance at my beer. So caught up with Ruthie, I haven’t even noticed I’ve been steadily drinking.

  I nod my consent. “That’d be great, thanks.” I hesitantly take a wing from the basket. I can eat hot wings, but I always have an issue with my nose running, so I prefer to keep things on the medium side in public. And I honestly didn’t hear Ruthie order them.

  What else did I miss?

  “So, what’s your question?” I ask, the smell of hot sauce already making my nostrils quiver.

  “Why were you at the movie today? You don’t seem like the romance type.”

  “Are you saying I’m not romantic?”

  “I honestly have no idea, but if I had to guess, I’d say Last Christmas isn’t your first choice of movie. Did you go on a dare or something? Get stood up?”

  “No, I didn’t get stood up,” I say stiffly.

  “So what brought you to that particular movie today?”

  “I’m on Christmas break. I’m a teacher.”

  “But that doesn’t explain why you were in a darkened theatre watching what is commonly referred to as a chick lit movie by yourself? Not that it’s unheard of that men enjoy them too, just uncommon.” She stares at me expectantly. “You didn’t even know the girl from Game of Thrones was in it.”

  “Why did you go to see it?” I counter.

  “I love those kinds of movies. I’ve wanted to see this one for a while, but never had the chance until today.”

  “Busy woman.”

  “Uh huh. And nosy.”

  “Clearly.” I surreptitiously swipe the back of my hand against my nose, wondering what to tell her. I was bored and didn’t feel like going home? That she was right about my lack of spontaneity and I was trying to be impulsive?

  I don’t think Ruthie needs to know she was right.

  I watch her set down the gnawed-on wing and lick her fingers clean. She stares at me expectantly, and I have a feeling this won’t end until I answer.

  “Research,” I say, finally. Given the choice of the truth or an easy white lie, I instead veer off into uncharted territory. Since when do I tell anyone about my writing?

  “For what? Do you want to open a Christmas shop and have cute little elves working for you?” Ruthie laughs. She has a nice laugh, full and throaty and full of good humour, even if it’s a bit too loud. I get the sense that she can laugh at herself as well, a trait which has been solely lacking from the women I’ve dated.

  “I’m writing a screenplay,” I admit slowly, holding my breath as I wait for her reaction.

  Ruthie leans forward, her smile wide and interested. “Ooh, you’re a writer. That’s exciting. And can I say that I called it?”

  No disappointment or derision, just…delight. I exhale with a whoosh. “Yeah, yeah. And it’s not exciting if you stare at the blank page like I do,” I say wryly to hide my relief. “It’s not working for some reason.”

  “Work on another idea,” she suggests, dipping another wing into the container of garlic dill dip before licking it off. Then she takes a bite, pulling back her lips like Drogo does when he’s playing tug of war with me.

  “I want to write this idea.”

  “Now who sounds selfish? All these other ideas floating around your mind and you ignore them all? So tell me about this idea. You said you’re doing research.”

  I’m always reluctant to talk about what I’m writing but like before, Ruthie waits patiently. “It’s a love story with a spy who falls in love with his handler,” I say finally.

  “And?”

  “He fights his feelings, finally falls in love with her and has to rescue her in a big shoot-out at the end.”

  Ruthie scrunches up her face. “No.”

  My heart sinks. “What do you mean, no?”

  “It’s been done,” she says without an ounce of apology for crushing my dream. “I can imagine that writing a screenplay is tough, but getting it made into a movie is even worse. You need something to make it stand out from the rest.”

  “It will stand out,” I say stubbornly. “It’ll be romantic and funny with lots of action.” I’ve written several short stories over the years, and had a few published in literary magazines, but I’ve never attempted anything so big. And I wouldn’t, except this idea, these characters are stuck with me. I can’t not write it.

  Of course, there’s no way Ruthie can understand that.

  “Sounds like every other movie in the theatre.” Her words are brutal, cutting through me and I fight to keep my expression blank. “And trust me, I go to a lot of movies.” She picks up another wing, goes through the process of dipping and licking and eating. It’d be a fascinating thing to watch if she wasn’t ripping me to shreds. “You need it to be different,” she says through a mouth of chicken. “Make the spy a woman. Or, better yet, make her an assassin! I can see it—the first scene will be her assassing someone—”

  “I think you’re looking for assassinating,” I correct.

  “She’s in this black leather suit, skintight, but not dominatrix-like. She looks good. Maybe on a rooftop with some big gun, and she kills someone. Shows no emotion, until the end, and then there’s a flicker so you know she’s still human. And then flash when she’s at work and you get the meet-cute with the handler, who is this geeky, emotional guy who falls over his feet, but is really good at what he does. Opposites attract sort of thing.”

  “I thought they would be enemies who slowly fell in love.” I take another wing, readying myself for the flash of heat in my mouth.

  “Same thing.”

  “No, it’s really not,” I say coolly. I
hate the spark of interest Ruthie’s suggestions create. The way she paints the picture lets me see what she means. And I like it.

  I like mine better.

  “If you’re making them enemies, maybe they should really be enemies. Make her Russian,” Ruthie continues like I haven’t spoken. “Not Russian, that’s been done—Ukrainian. That’s big in the news these days.”

  “She’s American.”

  “Make her Canadian!” Ruthie bounces on her seat with the idea. “That’ll be different. Who thinks Canada has spies?”

  She might have a point. An American spy would be too Mission Impossible/Jason Bourne, but Canadian spies… “But what would a Canadian spy do? Pretty boring.”

  “It doesn’t have to be. I like my version better.”

  “But that’s not what I’m writing.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll write it.” Her phone signals a text with a few bars from a Pink song. I don’t recognize the song, but I know it’s Pink because I had been dragged to her concert last year.

  Actually, the concert was pretty good, but the woman who dragged me ended up being clingy and very weepy. I mean, she cried more than any infant I’ve come across.

  I’d rather think about a weepy woman than how Ruthie just destroyed my vision.

  Ruthie glances at her phone as she holds up her wing with her fingertips. “You can check,” I offer.

  “I didn’t think I needed your permission,” she says as she picks it up.

  “Some people think it’s rude to check your phone when you’re with someone.” I stop myself from using the term date because this is clearly not a date.

  It’s the complete opposite of a date.

  But it could be a date.

  She looks up and I’m caught in her gaze. “You have hazel eyes,” I blurt.

  “How you could not notice?” She clicked her tongue. “Must have been looking at something else.”

  “I’ve been trying to figure out the colour,” I say before I can stop myself. “Sometimes they look green, sometimes brown. When we came out of the theatre, they looked almost yellow, but I thought that must be a trick of the light. Very pretty, except when I thought they were yellow.”

  “Did you just say I have pretty eyes?” she asks strangely.

  “You do,” I say simply.

  Her smile is shy and very sweet and something inside me shifts just a little. “So, who texted you?” I ask, eager to change the topic, to stop this strange moment we seem to be having.

  Ruthie glances at her phone. “Colton.”

  “Who’s Colton?”

  “He’s…” For the first time I notice she has a red plastic ring around her finger that she spins around. “He’s kind of, I guess you’d call him my fiancé.”

  “You’re engaged,” I say flatly.

  It’s none of my business.

  I don’t care if she has a dozen fiancés, or even a husband.

  I repeat this in my head several times as I try to ignore the sudden thump of my heart. Or is it my stomach? Maybe I’m still hungry, the wings not substantial enough for my appetite.

  “Kind of,” she hedges. “He’s Colton Pruitt. You might have heard of him.”

  I lunge across the table to grab her phone. “You’re engaged to Colton Pruitt!” I explode, studying the screen like there’s evidence in her picture.

  There isn’t—her screen save picture is Ruthie and a man surrounded by giant pumpkins. I drop her phone. “You’re engaged to Colton Pruitt.” My tone doesn’t stop at accusatory—it’s down-right pissed off. I can’t help but remember how I saw him at the Thai place as Freyka was dumping me. He witnessed my humiliation and all I could think about was how jealous of him I was, convinced he must have been with this amazing girl. Freyka left and all I could picture was Colton Pruitt and his girlfriend.

  And now I find out that girl was Ruthie.

  My Ruthie. Here, with me.

  She’s not my Ruthie. She never has been or never will be. I don’t date girls that cheat. “Why didn’t you tell me?” My words clip as I keep a grip on my anger and disappointment. It’s the disappointment that churns in my belly. It’s not a nice feeling.

  “I really don’t think it’s any of your business.” Ruthie continues to eat, her face blank. Does she really not see? Does she not care?

  “I think you being here with me makes it my business.”

  “I disagree.” Her face softens as she takes in my anger. “Besides, I don’t know what it is with Colton.”

  “Seems to me you’re either engaged or not. There’s no halfway. It’s kind of like being pregnant.”

  “Speaking of pregnant, what do you think of Theo?” Ruthie asks, in a desperate bid to change the subject.

  “Dean said you break a lot of hearts,” I spit out, her nonchalance loosening my hold on my temper. “I guess this is how.”

  “Why are you getting so bent out of shape?” Ruthie holds up her hand. “He gave me a Ring Pop and told me he liked me. And then I left. I haven’t seen him in over a week. He’s back in Memphis, I get the odd text message and I have no idea what’s really going on between the two of us. You’re overreacting about nothing.”

  I narrow my eyes at Ruthie. Is she missing something or am I? “This.” I wave my hand in the distance between us. “Don’t you think this is strange for us to be here together if there’s someone else?”

  “This isn’t a date!” Ruthie explodes. “It’s just a friendly thing—friends eating together, watching movies. Haven’t you ever had a female friend that is just that?”

  “You’re not my friend.”

  She rears back like I’ve struck her. “Well, that’s good to know,” she says sarcastically. “So you think this is a date? Who’s the arrogant one now?”

  “No,” I say automatically, her words producing a tightness in my stomach that has nothing to do with the spiciness of the wings. “I don’t know. Why wouldn’t I think it’s a date? You sit with me in two movies, buy me clothes and now you insist on me buying you dinner.” I’m sliding down a big hole, looking for something to grab on to save me, because there’s no way to claw myself out.

  “I didn’t insist on you buying me anything! I invited you.”

  “It was a funny kind of invite. To invite signifies that the person has a choice.”

  I’m sliding faster now, missing every handhold.

  “You didn’t have to come with me!”

  “I wasn’t going to let you go by yourself. I’m too much of a gentleman for that.”

  Oh, no. Did I really say that?

  “Could have fooled me,” Ruthie scoffs. “I had no idea it’s such a hardship to spend time with me.” She lifts a hand and signals the waitress and my heart sinks.

  What am I doing?

  First she tells me she’s got a fiancé—not just any fiancé, but Colton Pruitt, who happened to witness my latest relationship disaster— then she tells me this isn’t a date, just when I had been beginning to think it wouldn’t be a horrible thing.

  My afternoon, which started out as depressing, just got a whole lot worse.

  The waitress appears, and Ruthie smiles like there’s no problem and asks for a takeout container and the check.

  “I’ll get out of your hair,” she hisses in an icy voice as the waitress leaves. “I’d move to another table but I don’t want to give her any more work.”

  I let her walk away. She takes the rest of the wings and walks right out of the restaurant, leaving me alone at the table.

  It’s not a nice feeling, especially since it’s the second time in less than a week that it’s happened.

  Chapter Nine

  Ruthie

  Four days later and I haven’t managed to push Trev out of my head.

  I don’t understand why he got so upset, since our outing was the definition of casual and clearly not a date. The way he acted, it was like it was a date. It wasn’t, because Trev is not someone that I would ever be involved with. He’s steady and calm and serious; h
e’s a teacher, in charge of molding the minds of today’s youth.

  I’m none of those things, nor do I need my mind molded so Trev should be forgotten.

  I shift with a wince as the sensitive skin of my tattoo comes in contact with the back seat of Dean’s Jeep. Trev would never want someone with a tattoo.

  I need to get Trev out of my head. I need to get back to thinking of Colton; of waking up with a smile, wondering if I’ll see him; going to bed with a faint sense of disappointment because I didn’t. That’s how it should be with Colton. But it isn’t.

  It really isn’t, which is another reason why it’s so impossible that Trev played the jealous boyfriend, because there is nothing to be jealous of.

  Stop thinking about him!

  It’s Christmas Eve, and that should be enough to distract me. Patrick and I are in the back of Dean’s Jeep with Cappie, as Dean drives us home to Niagara-on-the-Lake for the holidays. It’s his first Christmas with the family, and as he maneuvers the late afternoon traffic out of the city, I admit I’m happy he’s here.

  He’s a much better driver than Flora.

  I grimace as I shift in my seat and Patrick stops from his recitation of his newest favourite topic, Adam. “What?” he demands when he sees my expression.

  I point to my shoulder with a smug smile.

  “Did you get another one? Auntie, did you know Ruthie got another tattoo?”

  Flora turns in her seat with surprise. “What did you do now?”

  “I can’t resist the thought of coming home with something new to annoy my mother,” I say with forced frivolity. Not that she’ll notice; she never noticed my cartilage piercing last time I was home. I could dye my whole head green and she’d never see it.

  “How many is this?” Flora asks. I think it’s sweet how Cappie perks his ears when he hears her voice. The dog is snugged between Patrick and me and taking up more than his fair share of the seat.

  “Three tattoos, twelve piercings. I like to use my body to explore my creativity.”

  “Which is what every mother wants to hear her only daughter say.”

  I smile smugly. “Exactly.”