Northwest Romantic Comedies: Boxed Set Books 1-6

by Lia London

  “Adulthood? Is that what we’re doing?” Charlene reappeared brandishing her phone. “Anyway, as I—oh! The lights!” She slipped back inside, and a moment later, the interior went black. Flustered, she returned. “Oh my gosh, could it take us any longer to get out of here tonight?”

  “Probably not.” Amaya locked the door. “If you forgot anything else, you’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

  Charlene danced four counts of the routine they had just taught the teens before bowing. “Oh my gosh, I forgot to tell you the good news!”

  “Can we walk already?” Amaya pointed down the street. “My coat. In car. Freezing here.”

  Charlene bounced somewhat as she walked, something common to the dancers Amaya knew. She’d seen bouncers, gliders, strutters—all sorts—but none of them ever plain walked. Amaya categorized herself more in the waltzer group, those who moved with purpose and grace in a fairly predictable way.

  Amaya squinted past a large van near the corner, searching for her little green Civic. Her heart began pounding a little faster.

  Charlene stopped in front of Amaya, grasping her arms in her hands. “Guess who’s been nominated for Best Teacher? I may have been in Jenelle’s office and accidentally saw the list.”

  “Um.” Amaya’s brows furrowed. “What the—?”

  Charlene shook Amaya. “You, silly! Voting starts next Monday, and—what’s wrong? Aren’t you excited?”

  “Where’s my car?”

  Charlene squinted with obvious confusion. “Your car? What does that have to do with anything?”

  “My car. The one that was parked right here?” She pointed at the expired parking meter and her heart lurched into her mouth. “Oh no.”

  Spinning slowly in place, Charlene scanned the street. “Wait, isn’t that it over there?”

  “Where?” Amaya hoped she’d just forgotten where she’d parked, but then she saw her little Civic, nose up, draped in caution lights and dangling behind a tow truck a block away. “No!” She bolted, running after the truck until traffic forced her to stop at a crosswalk. Clasping her head in her hands, she yelled, “This cannot be happening to me!”

  “Pick-Me-Up Towing,” said Charlene, squinting to read the side of the truck as it rounded the corner. “I’ve heard of them. Predatory. They send scouts out to find every expired parking meter and nab the car fast.”

  “Terrific.” Amaya ground her knuckles in her eye sockets. “If I’d gotten there five minutes earlier …”

  Charlene winced. “Oh Amaya, I’m so sorry. This is my fault for taking so long to shut down.”

  Amaya rubbed at the goosebumps forming on her arms. “Guess who gets to pay for the MAX ride home?”

  Charlene sighed. “Yeah, I deserve that. Come on. We’ve got a few blocks to walk.”

  “And a few calls to make. I need the car back if I’m going to make it to understudy rehearsal tonight.”

  “Yeah.” Charlene gave her a weak smile. “At least you might win Teacher of the Year.”

  “Does that come with a bonus that’ll pay the towing charges?”

  Charlene shrugged. “Do dancers or teachers ever get paid bonuses?”

  Amaya snorted. “Too bad I’m not dating a pharmacist.”

  Frank stared down at the memo on his desk and winced. “When did Becki call?”

  His frazzled co-worker in the cubicle grunted and continued typing slowly with one hand while she spooned microwave mac and cheese into her mouth with the other.

  Frank waved the pink memo in front of her. “Laura, when did Becki call?”

  She looked up as if noticing him for the first time. “What? Oh … ten minutes ago? While you were fussing with your hair in the bathroom, probably.”

  Frank bristled. “I—”

  “You’ll never get the Clark Kent thing down if you insist on avoiding a weight room, you know.”

  Frank wouldn’t dignify that remark with a response. He did go to the weight room. Fashion demanded he be well-built, not simply beefy.

  The way that Laura glared at her monitor warned him that her tolerance with his mere presence had run out. She might be cute and vivacious to everyone else, but she remained catty with him.

  Frank muttered to himself as he straightened his desk, passive-aggressively pestering her as retaliation for her snide comment. What if he spent time grooming during his lunch break? What criminal statutes existed prohibiting the cultivation of an attractive but aloof mystique?

  “Whatever,” said Laura, waving him away. “She wanted to see you ASAP.”

  Frank’s eyes widened. “Is she irritated with me about something?”

  Laura cast him a sideways glance. “She’s always irritated with you, but that’s beside the point.”

  Frank balled his fists at his waist. “I don’t know why—”

  “Because you’re as obnoxious as leftover lima beans, Frank. Gads! Go find out what she wants and leave me alone. I’ve got a deadline.”

  Muttering about the reference to flavorless food, Frank made his way through the maze of writing stations at The Register-Guard. He thought being hired by the largest newspaper in Eugene right after graduation two years ago would have brought him more prestige and respect, but still he had to deal with intellectual underlings. Only his editor, Becki Isaacs, rivaled his verbal prowess, but she disliked him, too.

  Squaring his shoulders, he pulled himself together in a vision of the cultured, modern Renaissance man. Men interested in as many of the branches of Humanities and Fine Arts as he was were supposed to be genteel, right? He poked his head around the doorframe into her office.

  Becki gave him half a second of eye contact before returning to whatever she was reading on her monitor. “Ah, the mighty Grumbleygut. Thanks for getting here so quickly.”

  Her relatively friendly tone would have pleased him if she hadn’t also used the ridiculous nom de plume she’d assigned him. Frank Grumbleygut, Food Connoisseur and Critic. He hated that part of the job.

  “You required my services, madam editor?”

  He caught the way she crossed her eyes before answering. “You ready to eat something better than barbecue ribs and salad bars?”

  Frank shrugged. “It would be lovely not to have to use a moist towelette after every assignment.”

  Becki pointed a finger at him, still reading the screen. “Use the word ‘moist’ in my presence again, and I shall have you summarily executed.” She gestured for him to sit. “I’ve got an opportunity for you which could prove a win-win for all of us.”

  He perched on the edge of the chair in front of her desk, flicking a speck of dust from his pressed mocha-colored slacks. “Do tell.”

  She rested her chin on interlaced fingers and narrowed her eyes at the screen. “The Portland Tribune’s main food critic is pregnant, and the smell of onions makes her barf.”

  “Ah. That’s unfortunate.”

  “For her. Maybe good for you.” Her eyes flicked to him with a smirk. “Unless you’re pregnant, too?”

  “Not likely.”

  “Then you get to cover for her. March is Portland Dining Month, and they’re desperate. Everyone is vying for reviews, and they need someone who can go up there and eat at all the fancy digs.”

  Frank frowned. “You mean work in Portland?”

  “Please.”

  “Are you trying to get rid of me? You know I’m not a foodie at heart. I—”

  Becki pressed her hands to the desk and glared at him. “Frank, don’t be an idiot. I am giving you a chance to dine in some of Portland’s finest 5-star restaurants and try out their dance floors, all expenses paid plus your usual pay for writing the columns. And your work will be printed in both the Portland Tribune and The Register-Guard. It’s great exposure and experience for you. What’s your problem?”

  Frank’s mouth went dry. “You … Me?”

  “You and me nothing. I’m staying here. You’re going to take your jar of snarky metaphors up north and build some good will between ou
r newspapers.”

  “Am I supposed to put myself up in a hotel or something?”

  “Only if you feel so compelled. But the plan was to reimburse you for mileage. Quite generously, I might add.”

  “Oh. That’s a lot of driving.”

  “You got something better to do all day?”

  Frank growled within himself. With no social life beckoning and his ability to write articles in about a third of the time as his colleagues, he had entirely too much time on his hands. At least driving would get him away from Becki and Laura’s constant disdain.

  She blinked and spoke slowly. “This is a very cushy deal for you, Frank. What are you waiting for? Why are you still here?”

  “I’m not here,” he said, standing. “I’m an optical illusion. I’m already forty miles up the I-5.”

  “Excellent. Check in with Rafe on the way out. He’s organized all the paperwork and vouchers for the restaurants you’ll need to review.” She glanced up. “You’re still here.”

  Frank had paused at the door. “I’m supposed to review the dance floors, too?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “No, no. I can dance. But …”

  “Yes?” Her voice carried an impatient edge.

  “Don’t I need a dance partner?”

  “Unless you want to look drunk, it helps.”

  “Who will I dance with?”

  Becki folded her arms on the desk and sighed. “You’ll have to get a date, Frank. Is that a problem?”

  Frank blanched and flushed in rapid succession. Giving Becki a strained smile, he bowed out of the room. “No problem. I’ll go check in with Rafe.”

  “Good-bye, Frank.”

  Frank walked numbly towards the elevator, his eyes on his polished dress shoes. Becki had called this a win-win opportunity, but it felt more like exile or a set-up for failure. How would he ever get dates for each of the dining assignments in a town where he knew no one except an older cousin he only spoke to on major holidays?

  He couldn’t even get a date in Eugene where he’d lived most of his life. Women hated him, could hardly stand talking to him, and he had no idea why. His casual research left him 89% sure he was at least as attractive as most of the guys he saw on insurance commercials.

  He sighed and hit the down arrow. Maybe this Portland experience would give him the exposure he needed to advance his name recognition, up his credibility, earn some respect. The bell dinged, and the door opened. Either he faced a career break-through, or he’d slide miserably into obscurity.

  Chapter 2 ~ “You’ve Got Yourself a Deal”

  Moving the barre alone always proved a workout of its own, but Amaya had forgotten to ask her class to help her lift it back to the side of the room. Then she’d gotten sidetracked by paperwork and a phone call in the office. She grunted with each shove, frustrated that it never slid in a straight line. She tried dragging it, but then it made a screeching noise that hurt her ears. When she heard a car door slam outside, she cringed. The heavy barre partially blocked the entrance to the viewing area where the parents would sit.

  Footsteps sounded. She didn’t have time. When the students arrived, she’d have to turn on the music and start talking to the parents.

  Amaya positioned herself behind the barre for one last, mighty heave. “One, two, three!” She launched herself forward, but the barre skidded off course and into the door just as it opened. The collision slammed the door back shut and dented the surface.

  “Oh, my goodness!” Amaya scrambled to her feet and rushed to the door, pushing the apparatus a few inches to the side with her hip. She wriggled through the opening expecting to see a student or parent with a bruised nose. “I’m so, so, so sorry! I couldn’t move the barre, and—”

  “What’s the big idea?” A tall, lean man in a charcoal-gray, three-piece suit sat on the damp pavement palming his forehead.

  “Oh, sir. Are you hurt?” Amaya crouched down to assess his injuries and was met by a pair of dark, intelligent eyes that pierced right through her. “I didn’t mean to—it was an accident!” She reached for his hands to pull him to his feet, but he jerked away and stood on his own power, dusting off his pant legs fruitlessly. “Your suit!”

  He craned his neck to check his rear end and his pale skin flushed beneath a thin layer of stubble. “Great. Just great.”

  “Please, if you’ll come inside, we can get you cleaned off.” She shouldered her way through the door and yanked the barre to the side. It slid into place right where she had originally intended. With her hands on her hips, she chided, “Oh now you do what you’re told!”

  She heard the man come up behind her and turned to check his mood. Grouchy. Not a big surprise for someone attacked by a door. His furrowed brows marred an otherwise handsome face. Keen eyes and carefully tousled hair contrasted attractively with his fair skin and the soft, defined lines of his facial features.

  Amaya startled at an impulse to smooth her hands over his cheeks and ruffle his black locks. Though kinder than being knocked to his backside by a heavy metal door, she guessed his reaction to such a gesture might be the same. His was not an amiable countenance.

  “There’s a bathroom right over there if you need to wash off,” she said.

  “I’m sufficiently wet already,” he snapped. “What I need is a towel.”

  “Well, we have those, too.” She pointed in the direction of the bathroom, and he stormed across the room.

  Amaya stole an appraising glance from behind and decided she generally approved of the view. Tall, dark, and handsome was a cliché, but if there was a stuffy professor version of that, he had mastered it.

  With a shimmy, she pulled off her baggy, gray sweatshirt, revealing her blue dance leotard, and let her gaze dart to his profile in the mirrors. He met her eyes in the reflection, and she saw something in his expression relax. She waved after him. “I really am sorry, sir.”

  He merely harrumphed in response.

  She bit her lip and continued to dress down into her dance attire, fastening her character shoes with taps before pulling on a gauzy rehearsal skirt. By the time she had turned on the music and propped open the door for the students, she had formulated an apology to appease the man, so he might still consider enrolling his child in the program, or donating to keeping the outreach studios open, or whatever he had come for. Three-piece-suit types were hard to predict.

  The man came out of the bathroom with his suitcoat draped over his shoulder, the bowtie removed, and the cuffs of the white dress shirt folded up a few turns. Altogether, it provided a more casual air, and Amaya found herself smiling as he approached … until he scowled.

  “I’m here about the dancer,” he announced.

  Amaya shifted. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  He gave her an appraising sneer, but she refused to shrivel under the gaze. “I called about a dancer.”

  Amaya held up a hand. “Perhaps we can address this in the office?” She indicated the cubicle.

  “I suppose.” His aura reeked of disdain, but she still felt terribly guilty for assaulting him—even if accidentally—on his first time visiting.

  With her tap shoes clattering and clicking as she walked, she led him into the tiny, cluttered office, doing her best to hide her annoyance at his arrogant demeanor. “My name is Amaya Jefferson. I’m about to teach a class right now, but I can try to get you hooked up with the right person. Did you call the main office?”

  He cleared his throat. “I am not trying to ‘hook up’ with anyone. I called about a dancer.”

  “Sir, you’re going to have to explain. This is a satellite dance studio, part of a larger network. We teach dance. ‘A dancer’ is … all of us.” She used air quotes, and when he raised a brow, she did it again just to needle him, all with a smile on her face. “What do you need ‘a dancer’ for?”

  “I am Frank Grumbleygut.”

  Amaya swallowed back a chuckle and held out her hand. “Pleased to meet you. And why do you need
a dancer?”

  With a practiced flick of his fingers, he tossed a business card onto the desk. She hadn’t even seen him take it out. “My website is listed there. I need an escort for about a week’s worth of dining and dancing—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Amaya held up her hands, her brows drawing together. “An escort? You know my students are all minors, right?”

  Frank unfolded his legs, gripping the arm rests. “But I—”

  Amaya stood. “Nuh-uh. I don’t know who you think you are, mister, but you are not dating any of my girls. That is out of the question. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “But I’m prepared to pay—”

  Amaya shuddered involuntarily. “Ew. Out!” She pointed. “Do not come here chasing underage girls. If I see you on the premises again, I will have you forcibly removed.”

  The man sniffed dramatically and drew to his full height. “You already tried that when I came in.”

  Grabbing his elbow and marching him towards the door, Amaya nodded. “I should have shoved harder. You go pick up some women your own age.”

  “Now wait a minute.” He stopped in his tracks and jerked his arm free, spinning to face her. “You are completely misunderstanding my intentions. I am not asking for a child to perform for me. I—”

  “I don’t care what you’re asking for.” Amaya pointed a finger in his face, forcing him to step backwards. “You’re not asking for it in my studi—oh!”

  The man tumbled backwards over the barre, cracking his head on the wall and slipping into the space between like a pocket knife. “Are you trying to kill me?” His voice pitched girlishly high, and Amaya couldn’t stifle her laughter fast enough. In his flustered, folded state, he looked more comical than menacing.

  She reached with both hands to help him back over the barre and onto his feet, then stooped to pick up his fallen suit coat. When she rose again, she stood closer than expected to him, and his hands were running over his scalp with obvious exasperation, pulling the vest taut across his chest.

  Amaya gulped. “Your coat.”

  He snatched it from her hands and spoke through gritted teeth. “You’ve interpreted my motives incorrectly. I am innocent of the nefarious assumptions you are making. I am Frank Grumbleygut, writer for The Register-Guard.” With a final snort of indignation, he pivoted on his heel and stormed out, almost tripping over a seven-year-old tap student who rushed in to hug Amaya.