An Accidental Love Story: A sweet, heartwarming & uplifting romantic comedy (Falling into Happily Ever After Rom Com)

by Ellie Hall

  I exhale.

  “Say you’ll do it. Please, Lottie. It’s been so long since you’ve worked with the hunds. It’s time to move on. Time to reconnect.”

  It sounds good on paper. In reality? “Can I think about it?”

  “I already bought Magnolia’s plane ticket.”

  “And what would you do if I said no?”

  “I’ve never asked you to help after...” We don’t speak of it. “Just this one time. Your father and I are swamped.” The lilt of her German accent mixing with the one she adopted in the Midwest puts a smile on my face despite my extreme reservations about her request.

  “I can hear you thinking.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Would it be the regular four-week visit?”

  She hesitates. “I was thinking eight to make sure everyone settles in well.”

  “I have an apartment and a job here.”

  “We need your help. This woman, Valda, does too.”

  My long sigh is extra dramatic.

  “You’ve been saying you want to get out of the city. She lives north of Boston by the water. A little town called Seaswell. Plus, we’ll pay you.”

  “The standard rate?”

  “Double.”

  I gasp. “Seriously?” I can’t very well take the money from my parents, but at fifty-thousand dollars a dog, the trainers get paid well. Very well.

  “Also, don’t mention this to your father.”

  “What?” Then I realize this is one of her charity cases. Likely, she’s giving this woman a dog valued in the seventy-five thousand-plus range. They’re trained to do everything from responding to medical emergencies to retrieving shoes, phones, wallets. I guess, I can’t fault the lady. I fear I’ll grow old and alone too.

  “I’ll call you with my answer in the morning.” But we both know I’ll be meeting the airplane in Boston bright and early on Wednesday.

  As I drop into bed, I don’t wonder what I just got into. I have no doubt it’ll be a disaster. Out the window, the city light washes the stars from the sky. There isn’t one for me to make a wish on, asking to turn back time. To tell my mother, no. Memories of the attack are buried so deep, I no longer see or smell or hear the sounds. Rather, my mind crowds with all the ways the next eight weeks could go wrong.

  But first, cupcakes and a certain handsome doctor. Then I have to tell the soft boiled egg that I need time off. Likely, he’ll fire me. After that, I have to face a dog and a lonely old lady. What could go wrong? Oh, right. Everything.

  The next day, laughter meets my ears when I step into the office with my Tupperware full of cupcakes. For once, it can’t be at my expense because I only just got here.

  “Then she was staring up at Koenig, practically in love.”

  They chortle.

  Oh, it’s about me alright.

  I fantasize about walking into the room and mushing each of them in the face with a cupcake, Hazel style. Instead, I eavesdrop.

  “It’s no wonder, he was named MVP. Most valuable physician three years in a row.”

  “More like she wants to mooch off him and quit working here.”

  Mooch off him?

  Oh, now, I’ve had it. I’m the hardest working person in this department. I step into the room. “As a matter of fact, I do quit.”

  All eyes land on me.

  Sweat beads along my hairline—as if being jostled on the subway with my arms full didn’t cause enough perspiration.

  “And you brought cupcakes to celebrate. How thoughtful.” Rogers eyes them hungrily.

  The sweat along my hairline gives way to tension in my neck then my jaw, and I see red.

  Blood red.

  Violent cupcake frosting red.

  The color of love.

  The best kind of revenge.

  But the fantasy doesn’t stop. In my mind, Dr. Koenig strides in, kisses me on the top of my head, and takes the Tupperware from my arms. He’d say, “Hey, darling. Let me help you with that.”

  Then all five sets of eyes would widen. Mouths would hang open.

  Mine would too but only for a moment before I flashed them a smug smile.

  There might be a moment of awkward shuffling between the good doctor and me since we’re new at this, but we’d soon get our bearings.

  Then I’d say, “I brought these for you.” I wink. “The whole blood thing yesterday.”

  He’d gesture to the frosting. “I gathered that. I like the mini white pearls. Nice touch. Can’t forget about white blood cells, now can we?”

  I’d reply, “Egg-actly,” because Dr. Koenig and I share an inside joke about Jim.

  Then we’d giggle at our own complete cuteness and nuzzle our noses together.

  My former coworkers would laugh nervously, tuck their hands in their pockets, and make apologies, lamenting my departure.

  “So are you quitting because you found true love—?” Jim would waggle his hand between the doctor and me. “HR won’t approve.”

  “She’s quitting because she has a new job with her own office and a window. And her coworkers don’t tease her.” Dr. Koenig would glare—a real lasers shooting out of his eyes, ready to throw down right here kind of glower.

  Then the doctor and I would sashay out of the room.

  Too much?

  Instead, still standing in front of everyone with my cheeks matching the cupcake frosting, I blink dumbly a few times.

  There are titters of nervous laughter but more than likely at how I stand here, playing out this silly fantasy in my mind about Dr. Koenig coming to my rescue.

  “If I didn’t witness the whole thing down at the blood donation draw station, I’d say she hit her head,” Jim says.

  Just then, Monica strides in with her lips painted a garish shade of pink and her clipboard at the ready. A fluffy, feathery tassel bobs on the end of her pen. In ordinary circumstances, I’d be all about fluffy, feathery swag, but the sneer I get from Monica makes me want to tear the thing off and stuff it in her mouth. Truly, I’m not usually this violent, but it’s been a morning. Or rather, it’s been a rough few days. Month? No, months plural.

  “You can cancel Lottie’s appointment, Monica. She’s no longer under our employ.” Smug doesn’t begin to describe Jim’s expression.

  “Figures she’d get fired. What did you do this time? Flood the bathroom? Tip-over Brooks’ bowl of M&Ms. Oh, wait, that already happened.”

  My chest and head and every part of me feel like it might explode with the desire to defend myself—a child stuffed an entire roll of toilet paper in the stall before I went in. And the bowl of M&Ms was on top of a stack of papers and toppled as I walked by. It could’ve happened to anyone.

  I draw a deep breath. “Where is Dr. Koenig’s office?”

  Laughter ripples.

  Monica smirks. “Second floor, but you’re more likely to find him in the ER.”

  I breeze past them, gather the few things on my desk, and then stride out, trying to hold my head high, but the fronds of my ponytail palm plant whip into my mouth with each step.

  Forget it. I’ll just go home, eat these cupcakes, wallow, then try to find another job.

  When I get on the elevator, I bump into someone. Someone with a cast. He’s also carrying a plant.

  “Lottie, right?” asks a man with a smooth and slightly accented baritone. “How are you today?”

  I brush the palm fronds from in front of my face. “Nothing much.”

  Dr. Koenig tilts his head.

  What did I just say? “Huh? I mean you’re welcome. Thank you. Gah. I’m okay.” I roll my shoulders back. This has nothing on the complete mortification of yesterday when I stepped in dog turd or fainted into this man’s arms. Or rather, arm.

  Dr. Koenig smirks, but then his expression turns serious. Doctor-ly. “I’m certain you didn’t experience head trauma. Have you been feeling okay, anything I should know?”

  Oh, buddy, if only.

&nbs
p; “Yes. Sure. I mean, I’m fine. Thank you. I wanted to thank you for yesterday, Dr. Koenig.” I pass him the Tupperware but his arm is full. “I picked red because...”

  “Blood. Right. Got it.” He gives a curt nod and then holds up the plant and his cast. “I’m afraid I can’t bring that up to the break room.”

  “Oh, gosh. I didn’t think of that. I apologize.” Could this get worse? Never mind. I didn’t ask that.

  His blue eyes flick to mine. “Well, I’m on my way out. It looks like you are too.”

  “Yeah.” I shift from foot to foot. “I, uh, quit. Had enough of the soft boiled egg.”

  He almost cracks a smile. At least I think so. Maybe it’s more of a look of concern.

  “Okay, well, I’ll bring these upstairs to the break room?”

  He nods. “Have a good day and stay away from the blood donation station.”

  I do an awkward little curtsy thing just to really drive home how hopeless, hapless, and humiliating I can be. The elevator dings. I step into the carriage and when the doors seal themselves, a trembly little sigh escapes.

  Distracted, I forget to push the button and the doors open again. I glimpse Dr. Koenig as he exits the hospital, but before going through the automatic doors, he glances back wearing the tiniest of smirks.

  But I can’t do it. Well, I can’t press the buttons because of the load I carry, but I also can’t go upstairs. It’s leave now or forever hold my peace...or something.

  As I bustle down Madison Avenue, looking not at all glamorous like I imagined when I first moved here, my worry increases with each step.

  Jobless, now I definitely have to follow through with my mom’s request, otherwise, I’ll end up like the woman toting the shopping trolley stuffed with trash bags, old newspapers, and a ratty blanket and standing on the corner while muttering to herself. I set the cupcakes carefully in her cart and wish her a nice day.

  Thankfully, I saved a few at home.

  I guess I’ll be training a dog for the next eight weeks.

  Unlucky Lottie is right.

  Travel and Temptation

  Rusty

  The primarily one-sided conversation with Oma late last night rushes back. But like a radio dial moving in and out of range, the encounter with Lottie breaks in. A tease of her eyes. A flash of her lips.

  I turn the mental dial.

  Anatomically, the labium superius and inferius oris are the upper and lower parts of the sensory organ, involved in creating sound and taking in food and drink. They contain muscles and nerves as well as a branch of the carotid artery. Best for me to focus on Lottie’s lips from a biological standpoint and not how kissable they looked.

  Priorities, Doctor Koenig. Don’t be tempted. Do not give in.

  There isn’t any room in my life for distractions. There are lives to be saved. However, I could really go for one of those cupcakes right now. My stomach grumbles as I empty old takeout containers from the fridge. No other options for breakfast except soy sauce packets and a container of horseradish.

  Bachelor life. Doctor life. Single life.

  But the matter of my solo status started back in grade school. I got good grades, but the teachers reported that I rarely spoke in class and appeared to be rather shy and introverted.

  I don’t like people mistaking me being quiet for me being shy. I’m not nervous around other people. Introverted, fine. Contemplative, for sure. Focused, definitely.

  It wasn’t that I was reluctant to participate in class. Talking can be tough. Communicating in a new language was a challenge, but that had more to do with moving to the U.S. and less to do with me being anti-social. There is a difference between being lonely and alone. One is isolating. The other is solitude. I’m okay being on my own. I’m good at it, actually. I’ve had to be.

  Guilt forms thick in my throat. Oma did the best she could but wasn’t equipped with the raising-a-grandson-alone manual. Sometimes I wish I could put as much effort into resuscitating our relationship as I do the hearts and organs of strangers, but she’s distant—as cold as Latvia in the winter.

  I have college acquaintances and work colleagues, but I rarely wander off the hospital-apartment track except to watch hockey games so it’s not like I have to say goodbye to anyone for the next few weeks. It’s not like anyone will miss me.

  The pit in my stomach at that thought has nothing to do with not yet eating breakfast. I click on the link to The Word Nerd Reads, my blog and one source of diversion other than hitting the gym or the rink. I update my current reading list. Usually, I have two or three books going at the same time. I glance at my editorial calendar while the page loads, checking to see if I’m up to date on reviews and promoting the authors I like. Sometimes I write up random posts about life. This is one of those times.

  I explain that I’ll be traveling and am not sure when I’ll have Wi-Fi for updates, only that I’ll be on the lookout for new books while on the road. I do a free image search, slap a globe on the top of the post, title it Where in the World is the Word Nerd? and click publish. I’ve always kept my true identity anonymous, but still have a band of loyal readers.

  Reading was what helped me become fluent in English—and escape being so different. When I wasn’t playing hockey and was busy being shy or whatever, I was digesting words, books, stories. I could be a part of the world of words but not reveal my loneliness.

  What I remember most about leaving Latvia when I was nine, wasn’t so much how many goodbyes I said, but how my grandmother insisted that I say hello, in English. She explained that it was important for me to practice speaking the new language, even though for me, at the time, speaking any language was a challenge. I felt so much loss and as a result, I also felt lost. I didn’t know what to say other than that I wanted my mother back.

  Books and hockey didn’t require speech.

  I pull my suitcase and a couple of bags from the closet, emptying my bureau and relieving the hangers of shirts and jeans. After stuffing a few books in as well, I stare into the depths of the closet, unsure if I should bring my skates. I have them to thank for the broken arm—a legitimate accident and not because I was being hotheaded like I used to. They’re cool in my hand as though the chill of the smooth sheets of ice I’ve spent countless hours gliding across still lives in the blades, the boots, and the laces.

  Iet. Go in Latvian. My first word. Simple, crisp, clear, so I’ve been told. Once more, it’s time to go. This is what Oma and I did, working our way west all those years ago. I heft my luggage with the strange sense that there’s no knowing whether this is the right direction only that it is a direction, retracing my steps back in a way. Back to Oma after so long.

  Toting my gear with only one functional arm takes multiple trips to my rarely used Maserati. I’ll only be gone a month, but can’t guarantee what the backwater town my grandmother calls home will have on hand. When I was growing up, Seaswell offered little other than hockey, parties, and hookups.

  That life is well behind me.

  After getting coffee and a bagel, I merge onto the highway, leaving the city behind. My stomach flutters. Worry. What ifs. I’m not an anxious guy, but Zoe didn’t lace her call with a flirtatious request like when we were teenagers. Instead, it left me with concern for my grandmother after she took a spill at the market.

  A few hours later, when I reach the seaside towns north of Boston, the afternoon sky reminds me of dryer lint. The gray light blurs the buildings making the world a black and white photograph. It’s as though I’ve gone back in time.

  My inner compass spins as I continue north, passing fields with tumbling stone fences and sleepy seaside communities. The trees aren’t much taller than I remember them even though I’ve grown. The sea, however, is the same shade of slate and just as moody as it ever was. White peaks form where the waves crash against rocks before the water sucks back into a choppy sheet.

  I peer out the window and at the dreary shops. Flyers and announcements curl away from their tape on the
windows and items for sale haphazardly fill the shelves. Seaswell hasn’t changed a bit.

  When I reach the train station, where I arranged to meet the dog trainer, I’m wrinkled and in need of water as I wait by the platform.

  A bunch of rowdy guys gets off the train with a profusion of laughter. The stern conductor shoos them away.

  They remind me of me and my friends at that age. I went from quiet loner to tough hockey god, to dutiful doctor—talk about a sea change.

  Then a woman with warm brown hair in braids, tucked around the nape of her neck, disembarks. She dabs her face with the left sleeve of her sweater. Familiar, pale blue eyes meet mine.

  My attention travels to the smooth slope of her nose and down to her mouth. Those lips. She smiles, and it slays me.

  “Hello?” she asks in more of a question than a greeting as I anticipate her uniquely and adorably scattered personality.

  People who effortlessly translate their thoughts and desires into words, which is like ninety-something percent of the population, fascinate me. But for people like me, there’s more said with the eyes, the lips, the twitch of muscles hidden beneath the skin than can ever be produced by vibration and lip and tongue.

  I haven’t dated much, but the women I have, complained that I don’t talk enough.

  Travel weary and surprised, I fail to wipe the rust from my voice. Instead, I make a caveman-like grunt.

  She plants her hand on her hip as sticky, brown liquid drips from the front of her sweater. “I knew you regretted turning down one of my cupcakes, but you didn’t have to come all this way. Lucky for you, I saved a couple.” Her voice is like little bells tinkling across the water in the harbor.

  My pulse trips. It turns out that time can slow or speed or go at a rhythm not defined by the one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand measurements of seconds, but rather the thumping of the heart.

  The train whistle blows, preparing to depart. The sound returns me to the ordinary revolution of the watch on my wrist as I glance down, wondering if I somehow stepped outside time and reason...and if the dog trainer missed her train.

  Lottie digs in her bag and presents me with a cupcake. “Sorry. It’s a little smooshed. I may have leaned on it, but I promise you that it’s still perfectly delicious, delectable, and delightful.” She smiles bashfully like she expects me to quiet her. “Okay, I’ll stop now.” She bites her lips as if to force herself to stop rambling and billows the front of her sweater, shaking the soda off it. “I guess it’s too late for this sweater to stay out of the garment graveyard.”