Hope Entangles: A New Adult Romantic Comedy (Book 2 of 3)

by Alice Bello

  Was that all the woman ever did?

  While she was bent over I just happened to notice how nice she looked… I mean, the woman really dressed well. A clingy silk button down shirt, and a form fitting skirt that came up a few inches above her knees. Between that and the stilettos, and the way she was bent over, she made quite a moving picture.

  Practically a pin up.

  I shook my head.

  What the hell was I doing?

  I was obsessively stalking one woman, and ogling another.

  Maybe there was a twelve step group out there for dating-confused men.

  I watched as Bette pulled her loot from the trunk and then slammed lid back into place. She jiggled in all the right places…

  Another mental head shake. I had to stop this. I was still distraught—dear god, I just thought the word distraught! What was I, a prissy lawyer or accountant whining about my problems to an overpriced therapist?

  Sometimes I really wished I hadn’t had a high school business English teacher for a mother. I had to be able to type my term papers perfectly, without misspelled words or grammatical errors, by the seventh grade.

  Norma had insisted.

  I took a breath and tried not to stare too much as Bette clacked her feminine whiles across her driveway and then up the front porch steps. Her hips swayed back and forth as she ascended the steps.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Hope emerge from the back of the asshole’s house. She still looked glazed over, but she looked less stressed—which didn’t make me any happier.

  She was carrying a plate with some sort of loaf of bread on it, covered in plastic wrap.

  Holy crap, the asshole had baked for her! I knew her relationship to food, and if he could whip up food for her…

  Shit, shit, shiiit…

  Hope loped up her front steps and into the house, shutting the door with a muffled bang.

  So there I was, sitting parked in front of her house… well, her neighbor’s house, spying on her like a stalker in a bad movie of the week, and Hope was traipsing over to the new, too damn handsome for my liking, asshole neighbor’s house for breakfast bread and probably coffee.

  And probably a whole lot more…

  I bit down on the inside of my mouth. I wasn’t going to think about that possibility.

  Not that I wanted… or even had a right…

  It had only been the one night—and all those mini dates. But I’d felt so much more than just some primal attraction to her.

  Hell, I’d had a crush on her since high school. She’d been skinny and gawky, and smart—the artistic type. And she hadn’t given me a second look. Not until she walked into Wal-Mart with her dead Taurus and turned my world upside down.

  It was still depressing that she hadn’t noticed me so thoroughly that she didn’t remember me from then at all.

  But what did it matter. I’d broken up with her, hadn’t I?

  Yeah, I did.

  Did I?

  Had the words “We’re through!” passed my lips?

  Or had I just stormed out when I’d found out what she’d done?

  And what had she done?

  What had she done!?!? She betrayed me. The crazy picture she somehow took of me when we were having sex… remember?

  Yeah…

  But what did I care about some stupid picture?

  You don’t. You care that she did what she did behind your back… like Janie. I’d really liked Janie.

  We’d married only because she was pregnant… or at least that’s what she’d told me. A few weeks later she’d dropped the bomb that she had been mistaken.

  I’d never asked if she’d gone to the doctor. She had only told me that she’d taken a home pregnancy test and that she was pregnant. We’d used protection, but I knew even the greatest condom on earth had its risks.

  She’d gotten bored with me, and disappeared not a week later. I only saw her one more time. That was two months later when her parents strong armed her home to sign the divorce papers.

  A month later she was married again, and I’ve only heard tales of her travels since then.

  Placed side by side, I guess the two instances didn’t come close in severity, or twisted plotting.

  But they both stung.

  I cleared my thoughts, turned the key in the little Escort and started to pull out from the curb. I needed to get out of there, and back to work, and forget all about Miss Hope Jones and her carnival of weird and crazy.

  I hit the brakes not twenty feet later. Standing on her porch, one hand pulling her sunglasses down to let me know she was looking straight at me, and the other hand wagging a finger at me in admonishment, was Bette.

  Holy fucking shit! The woman didn’t miss anything, did she? She was worse than the FBI, a tabloid reporter, and a sleazy Private Investigator all rolled up in one.

  She smiled; she had one hell of pretty smile, with cute little dimples. It suddenly hit me that she was a young, redheaded version of Dolly Parton.

  I gulped just thinking about the ample bosom she had stretching the fabric of that little silk blouse.

  I closed my eyes for a beat, defeated and humiliated and confused—and turned on… and then I gave her a half-hearted wave and slowly rolled the little car away down the street.

  I had to stay away from this street, Hope… and Bette. I just had to.

  Chapter 10 :Hope

  I was amped on adrenaline and desperation. I took almost every spare shot I had on my laptop and loaded it into my trusty GIMP program. I filtered, I brightened, intensified contrast, colorized them in black and white, scarlet, azure, jealous green, caramel, and added shading and wispy lines of fuzziness. And then typed “Your Title” and “Your Name” in the appropriate spots with color matching fonts.

  All this so I’d have a nice little slide show of unpublished covers to show off on one of the TV screens they would no doubt have at the Hilton ballroom.

  I collapsed on the photo shoot couch in my studio and tried to wrap my mind around what was happening. In a few days I was going to be neck deep in alligators… well, bestselling authors, and I was going to trying to woo them to Janine’s little ebook publishing empire.

  I was going to be pitching woo.

  But how in the hell was I going to do that?

  Personal charm?

  The radiance that is me in a dress? (Shit! That reminds me I still have to find a dress)

  Breathe. Breathe again. You have a few days. You can do this.

  No, the thing that was going to woo the bestselling authors to Janine, and ultimately to me, was my work, my covers.

  But the best one of those, the Olivia Lovelace cover, had been an accident—and a terrible mistake.

  That’s the reason everyone is coming to judge you, and mock you, and laugh at you…

  I really have to get myself a more positive inner voice. This stupid bitch is killing me.

  Hey!

  But the stupid bitch was right. They were all, in a way, coming to judge me. If they signed on with Janine and Branded Publishing, then it probably had something to do with me and my covers.

  I shook my head. Covers were great. Covers were the first thing that a reader saw, came into contact with. They were your book’s first impression. And if that first impression wasn’t good and didn’t hook the reader to click the little thumbnail link to your ebook, then the cover failed. The cover has to draw the potential reader in, to get them to read the product description, to glance or read the hopefully positive reviews, to click on the even bigger version of the book cover to read a free sample of the book.

  Nope, no pressure there…

  I took one big, clean breath and slowly let it out, leaning back against the couch, letting my back, shoulders, and neck relax. Isn’t that what I’ve already been doing?

  I got up and walked over to my laptop. I clicked on the special file that held all the ebook covers I’d done for Janine, in order of their creation. They loaded up and started a not so little
slideshow. There were literally dozens of them, in many different styles, different models, different levels of heat.

  I sat there watching, seeing how I’d improved, how each new cover got better and better, richer, sexier, more intense. They were all pretty damn good. They had helped almost all of Janine’s ebook authors to sell enough books to get them on Amazon Bestseller lists, USA Bestseller lists, and even a few to the New York Times Bestseller list.

  I was no slouch; I had shot all these covers.

  The cover with Darla and Drew came to glorious color on the screen—so damn good. But it had been rejected, and even though Janine had already used that image on another author’s book, it still stung.

  My whole body tightened up on me, anticipation like a waterfall of angst. The image of Jake appeared, glowing, luminous—the best cover I’d ever shot, the most passionate, the most artistic—it really was a work of art.

  And I’d had almost nothing at all to do with capturing it.

  But then the newest cover, the one of Billy as the Big Bad Wolf, loaded up. I cocked my head and really looked at it.

  Damn, if that wasn’t a great shot. And it wasn’t just Billy’s primal predatory pout—wow, say that three times real fast!—it was the whole thing. From set, to texture, style and composition; all the way down to the color I’d tinted it and the font I’d used.

  Just looking at the damn thing made something deep inside me stir, some base instinct, a hunger: it was a piece of art too, and I had taken that picture, no one else.

  Just little old me.

  Okay, that dilemma solved (for the time being) I needed to get back to my to-do list.

  Item number two: find a sexy dress.

  My inner calm and confidence just blew right out the window—and hell, I had central air, so my windows were closed… but still.

  Breathe. I shuddered at the thought of going out on my own to dress hunt. I’d get lost in the racks of unflattering, cruelly constructed garments, freak out and either run from the building like it was on fire or panic-buy the closest thing I could reach for, whether it was the right size or what it looked like.

  That was a really, really bad idea.

  Bette?

  Okay, Bette dressed a little over the top… well, she had her own kind of elegance, but it still smacked of show business glitter and glam.

  I’d hated the results of the makeover she’d given me a couple weeks back. I looked like unholy hell with too much makeup and hair that was way too big.

  Raphael’s sisters?

  They seemed nice, and they had been dressed nicely enough that they could have been from any social class—even though they were highly paid professionals.

  Just one very big problem: I didn’t have his phone number. I’d have to go back over to Raphael’s place again.

  I bit my lip, my choices sloshing around inside my skull like the wash cycle of my front loader washing machine.

  I picked up the phone and hit speed dial.

  Bette picked up on the first ring. “What’s up, buttercup?”

  “I need help.”

  “Help with what, sweetie?”

  Okay, here it goes. “I’ve gotta find an elegant, sexy dress—” Like how I emphasized elegant? “And I only have three days to find it.”

  I heard her breathe in, a satisfied sigh escaping her lips. “A shopping challenge… how exciting. I’ll be over to collect you in ten minutes.”

  She hung up.

  I sat there, holding the phone to my ear, stupefied.

  Ten minutes.

  Crap!

  But what had I expected? I needed the dress and soon, and Bette was not the type to sit around and schedule things. Just look at what she’d done when Darla came over to “practice driving.” She’d taken over, commandeered the afternoon, and not only taught Darla to drive like a deranged demon, but to actually pass her driver’s test—which she finagled so she could take it that day.

  I ran a brush through my unruly hair, and pulled it back into my trademark ponytail again, checked my face for grease or blemishes, and then made sure my clothes didn’t have any stains from breakfast on them.

  Slipping into my trusty sneakers, I grabbed my pair of heels—I knew enough to know I needed to see what the dress would look like with heels on.

  Purse slung over my shoulder, bulging with my high heels, I rushed out onto my front porch and saw Bette coming out of her house as well. She was wearing a silky blouse that accented her ample bosom, a tight, not so short skirt that hugged her deliciously curvy hips and bubble butt, and heels so high I felt vertigo just looking at them.

  She looked prim and sexy all at the same time. Maybe this would work out after all.

  Thunder roared from down the street, and I looked up to find not a cloud in my Texas sky. The thunder sounded angry, and became louder and louder every passing second.

  I walked down my step and over to Bette’s Cadillac and stood next to her, my gaze following hers to the end of the street.

  Drew’s big white monster of a truck lurched around the corner and rocketed towards us, leaving a trail of burnt rubber in its wake.

  The great metal beast came to a screeching stop in front of Bette’s house, and not at all shockingly Darla popped out of the driver’s seat—that was after she left Drew with a minute and thirty seconds kiss goodbye that would have steamed up the windows in the truck if it hadn’t been so blazing hot out.

  Satiated and walking like a drunk for a few steps, Darla radiated health and natural beauty. She had a sweetheart of a face, with dimples to make even Shirley Temple jealous.

  She waved goodbye to Drew as he slid over into the driver’s seat of his truck, returned her wave with a dazed, happy look plastered over his handsome mug, and took off down the street like a bat out of hell.

  I took it that Drew didn’t mind her driving his prized pickup truck any longer…

  Wonders never ceased.

  Darla sauntered our way, swinging her hips like the mini sex goddess she was.

  “Hey girls,” Darla twanged sweetly. “Are we ready to shop till we drop or what?”

  Darla and Bette clutched each other in a sisterly hug and giggled like long time girlfriends.

  I felt a tiny twinge of jealousy… which was just… well…

  I shoved that feeling down into a mental sock drawer to look at later, over some wine and ice cream.

  The two turned to me, arm in arm, and they had the same look on their faces. Actually, it was a series of expressions that taken in together, shifting over the two’s faces at the exact same time, was just creepy.

  First disapproval, then appraisal, and finally twin smirks of anticipation; it seemed taking me shopping for a dress was going to be a mission of the utmost importance—I felt a shiver as they turned and gave each other a knowing look.

  Shit, I was in it deep. And Bette and Darla were the freaking alligators!

  ***

  Bette let Darla drive, so we screamed through town like the Caddy had flaming wheels and Satan himself was at the wheel. Again I had the feeling I was on a roller coaster, and when we finally stopped it took a few beats before my stomach caught up with us. And then it flipped over and played dead, my breakfast suddenly heavy and clumped at the bottom of my gut.

  “Maybe I should drive us back,” I said, hand on my stomach, feeling like I’d been literally sucked through a straw and was now splattered over the sidewalk.

  Darla looked over to Bette. Bette shook her head.

  “She drives like a little old lady with cataracts. We’ll never get home with her at the wheel.”

  They shared a smile—okay, feeling jealous again. Okay, feeling jealous and really, really nauseous.

  “Come on Cinderella,” Bette called out as she slid out of the passenger side door. “We’ve got to get you ready for the ball.”

  Darla followed suit, so I grudgingly followed, swallowing down the bile that threatened to make an encore appearance… and any tattered shred of my pride I
had left.

  This was going to get ugly.

  I just hoped I’d come out looking more like a swan than an ugly stepsister.

  I opened the car door and crawled out onto the sidewalk…

  And gaped…

  I don’t know what I’d expected: maybe a pretentious, over priced boutique, or a glamorous high-end fashion Mecca like Saks…

  What we stood in front of was a secondhand dress store. Vintage Elegance sizzled in gold letters across the store’s front window.

  I gave Bette a look. “I can afford a new dress!” I wasn’t that far gone.

  Well, maybe I couldn’t afford a dress from Saks, but still, a second hand store?

  I felt like I was walking into Goodwill.

  Which, truthfully I did on a regular basis, to search their used books. But I’d never even thought about wearing or buying clothes that someone else had worn.

  It just made my skin crawl.

  Bette took me by the arm and led me to the front door. She looked to the right and said to Darla, “Be a dear and grab Hope here a ginger ale over there at that 7-11.”

  She guided me in through the front doors—the glass sparkled and shone, so I felt a little better about the place. Not that I’m some OCD nut-job, afraid of every germ and speck of dust… but the thought of wearing used clothing just got to me.

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, steeling myself. The place smelled of cinnamon and vanilla, and silk, and cashmere, and leather.

  When I opened my eyes I was surrounded by tidy racks of high-end clothes. I didn’t know the names of the designers, but I’d seen then on the covers of some of the fashion magazines I’d prowled, looking for inspiration in the fancy photographs used for ads.

  The place was wall to wall elegance, just as the name said. There were a few mannequins dressed in silk gowns and tastefully beaded dresses.

  I gulped. No matter what Bette and Darla did to me, I’d never look that good in one of those dresses…