by Archer, Amy
I shook my head. “Never.”
Ben knelt on the grass. I thought for a moment he was tying his shoe, but then he looked up at me, opening a ring box I hadn’t spotted until this very moment. I gasped.
“January, I know we’ve only been back in contact for eight weeks. But I fell in love with you fifteen years ago. I don’t think I ever stopped loving you. And these past few weeks together have only shown me how right I was way back in high school when I chose you. I never should’ve let you go then, and I’m not going to now.”
He took a breath. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. January, will you marry me?”
The words were hardly out of his mouth before I yelled “Yes!” Ben slid the ring onto my finger and I caught only a glimpse of the beautiful, pale yellow diamond before he jumped to his feet and lifted me high into the air, pulling me into a huge hug and spinning us around together.
“Oh good,” he said, setting me down. “I was worried you’d already had your fill of marriage proposals today.”
I laughed, and then the two of us were laughing and tearing up together, holding each other tight.
And then he leaned toward me, inch by inch, until his soft, warm lips were on mine. This time I grabbed him and kissed him roughly, pulling him into me and not letting go, and we explored each other’s mouths feverishly, pushing our bodies into each other.
I couldn’t imagine a more perfect proposal. The man I loved looking out over the city I loved. Ben was all I needed. Hand in hand, we watched as the colors in the sunset faded to gray and the last wisps of clouds disappeared into the night sky.
Two days later, as I sat down with Ben for an early happy hour at the same bar where we’d first run into each other eight weeks before, my phone rang. I’d moved back into Ben’s house quickly and bought a new dresser for my clothes. We’d decided to make my old room into a lounge area, and we were officially sharing his bedroom. I was content and happy, and maybe that was why, after forty-eight hours of ignoring unknown numbers on my phone, I answered.
“Is this January Burleigh?” an unfamiliar female voice said as I moved to a corner of the bar near our table to talk.
“It is.” I thought of Maria, the Mr. Right producer, calling me all those weeks ago to warn me not to be seen on a date again, and I started to tense.
But no. It was an executive from a major perfume house, one of La Joie’s biggest competitors. What on earth could she be calling about? I wondered.
“We’d like to meet with you to discuss your interest in working with us to develop a custom fragrance,” she said.
At first I was confused. “A custom fragrance?” Was she trying to sell me something?
“We understand that you’re not a celebrity on par with most who have released fragrances, but there’s certainly been a lot of buzz about you this summer,” she explained. “And given the fact that the public already knows about your interest in perfume development, we believe this may be a good time to introduce a branded fragrance into the market.”
I was stunned. “You want to — you want to sell my perfume?”
“We’d like to discuss it. If you’re interested.”
I almost choked. All these years, I’d been dreaming about developing a fragrance for a big-name perfume house, something that would never be identified with me personally. I’d thought I was back to square one, maybe even square zero, after the show. But now I was being offered a contract not only to develop a perfume, but to brand it as my own, presumably make royalties for years to come? It was a dream come true — a dream so wonderful I hadn’t even dared to dream it. “Of course — yes! I’m very interested in discussing that. But…” I hesitated. “Do you really think people will want to buy my perfume? I’m not exactly — I mean, I was kind of the villain on Mr. Right.”
“America loves its villains,” she assured me, her voice syrupy. “We can work with that. Maybe we’ll call it ‘Villainess,” something like that.”
I laughed. The waiter wound his way toward our table, and I mouthed to Ben to order me red wine. “‘Villainess’ would be fine with me,” I said. “I can embrace it.”
“Wonderful. I understand you’re currently in San Francisco?”
That’s right; I remembered now that her company was located right here in town. I confirmed that I was.
“Great. I don’t know what your plans are going forward, but if we do work together we’ll need you to be able to come to our office on a fairly regular basis over the next few months. Will that be a problem?”
I glanced at Ben and felt my cheeks turning pink with happiness. “Not at all,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
We arranged a time to meet the next week, and I hung up, giddy with excitement.
“Who was that?” Ben asked curiously.
I gave him a big hug, standing beside him as he sat, and kissed the top of his head. Then I sat back down and filled him in on what the woman on the phone had said.
“That’s great!” he said.
“So you think I should do it?”
“Of course you should do it! It’s perfect for you. You’ll be amazing at it.”
“Thanks.” I felt like I was glowing. “And Ben — thanks for everything.”
He grinned at me. “I’m happy to stand beside you through your adventures. One of us has to stay grounded!”
I swatted at him, grinning back. “I hope I can help you through some adventures of your own in the coming years.”
“That sounds nice.”
We sat in silence for a moment, and then he said, “Bet you never thought going on that show would end like this.”
I shook my head, dazed. I thought about everything that had changed since I’d applied to go on Eight Weeks to Mr. Right. I’d moved across the country, left my job, fallen for Andrew, been dumped, reconnected with Ben, been painted as a villain, fallen in love with Ben, been proposed to twice…
None of it had happened as I’d expected. None of it. Yet it had all worked out perfectly in the end. I looked down at my engagement ring. I had an exciting new opportunity to work my dream job, a city I never wanted to leave, and an amazing man who wanted to marry me. I sighed, content. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was.
When our wine arrived, Ben and I held our glasses up, smiling at each other. “To the next episode in our lives,” he said.
“And to our new reality,” I added.
We clinked glasses, and took a sip of the wine. It tasted like tar and leather and black pepper, and it smelled like happiness.
A NOTE FROM AMY
Thank you for reading Eight Weeks to Mr. Right! If you enjoyed this book, sign up for my mailing list to receive occasional updates on new releases, discounts, gift card giveaways, and other special offers — no more than once or twice a month, guaranteed. Also, please consider leaving a review on Amazon or Goodreads. I read every review personally and use the feedback to help shape and improve future novels.
— Amy Archer
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PREVIEW: The Dog Days of Autumn
(Sophie’s story)
Just outside the restaurant, heart fluttering nervously, I gave myself a quick once-over in the reflective glass. This was it. This was the moment I was going to remember for the rest of my life. In just a few short minutes, Matt was going to ask me to marry him.
We’d been talking about coming to Les Etoiles for dinner for years now, but for one reason or another it never seemed to happen. And now here we were, and there could only be one reason for it. I could feel it all the way down to my bones: This was the night.
I looked as good as I could, I decided. My face was a little rounder than I would prefer, my eyes a little too far apart and blonde hair a little too flat, but I couldn’t change those things — certainly not right now. The dress, on the other hand, was perfect, a deep, sophisticated blue in a slightly shiny fabric that
caught the light without being over-the-top.
Taking a deep breath, I pulled open the heavy door and stepped inside. The restaurant smelled amazing, like sizzling meat and wood smoke and garlic sautéeing in butter.
The hostess was a perfect specimen of woman, of course, tall and perfectly made-up and looking like she spent hours a day in the gym. I felt short, too thin, and too bubbly by comparison, but tonight it didn’t matter.
“Welcome to Les Etoiles,” the woman’s velvety voice said while I glanced around the room, spotting Matt over by a window. “Do you have a reservation with us tonight?”
“Actually, that’s my — boyfriend over there,” I said, and the hostess nodded as I went to join Matt. I’d almost gotten ahead of myself. I had almost said “fiancé.”
“You look beautiful,” Matt said in greeting as I sat down across from him, glowing with nervous excitement.
“You look nice too.”
We ordered wine from the server, another perfectly groomed woman with the kind of body I’d always dreamed of. My own body was thin and shapeless — small boobs, no waist to speak of. Tiny, according to Matt, though Matt had never seemed bothered by it.
My brain went blank and I couldn’t think of a thing to say to Matt. He seemed nervous too. We ordered entrees, steak for him and chicken for me — he always got steak, and I always got chicken. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to eat, as wonderful as everything sounded, because my insides were so jumpy.
“How was work?”
“Fine.”
We stayed on small talk until our meals came, and I wasn’t even sure what words my lips were saying. All I could think about was the moment ahead. When would it happen? Every movement of Matt’s, I wondered if he was getting the ring. Mrs. Sophie Campbell, I thought, trying on his last name.
The perfect waitress brought out our food, and we began to eat in silence. I was used to silence with Matt, and at least this felt more comfortable than the awkward small talk. We’d been together six years, since the last semester of college, and sometimes I felt like we’d already said everything to each other that we needed to say. Matt kept to himself a lot anyway.
The food was delicious, every bite cooked and seasoned to perfection, and the wine was making my cheeks glow contentedly.
Finally, mid-meal, Matt put down his fork, took a nervous sip on his wine, and cleared his throat.
My heart jumped. This is it, I thought. I put down my fork too, trying to steady my shaky breath.
“Sophie,” he began, looking me in the eye. I smiled. “I’ve had such a great time with you these past few years. We’ve become adults together, we’ve helped each other transition from college to careers.”
This was the most perfect night. Everything was at it should be. I glanced around the room quickly, trying to remember every detail, before landing back on his face. Matt was reserved, even with me, and I knew that talking about emotions was hard for him.
“But…” he continued. But? But?! I felt alarm bells going off in my head. What was this but?
“I feel like our relationship is not continuing to grow anymore. We’ve kind of stalled out in the past few years, don’t you think?”
I just stared at him, mouth agape, no longer breathing.
“Sophie…I think it’s time we move on. For both of us.”
Time stood still for a moment, the room feeling silent and tight.
Then I burst. “What?” I said, a little too loudly, and the couple at the next table glanced over at us.
“Sophie —”
“You what?!” I hissed, trying to control the volume of my voice. “You’re breaking up with me?” The anger and surprise won out over the hurt, but I knew it wouldn’t be long.
Matt shrugged helplessly, which just made me angrier.
“I— I—” I stuttered helplessly. There were no words. I was feeling and thinking so many things at once that it was impossible to order my thoughts into any sort of logical sequence. There was nowhere to start.
“I’m sorry, Soph,” he said. “I just don’t feel like we’re going anywhere.”
We’re not going anywhere because you refuse to move the relationship forward!, I wanted to say, but the words caught in my throat in a jumble.
“How could you?” I finally managed to whisper, knowing the hurt was evident on my face. And the moment the words were out of my mouth, I began to cry — not a quiet, dignified cry, but loud, blubbery sobs. I tried to hold back, but once the dam had burst it was no use. “How could you —” I got out between sobs, trying to ignore the uncomfortable stares from fellow diners — “do this to me? Here? Why?”
“Sophie, there’s no good place for this,” Matt started gently, but I cut him off.
“In public? At a nice restaurant?” It was hard to be indignant while falling to pieces, but I thought I pulled it off well.
“Look, we’re not ending on bad terms,” he said, a bit too defensively. “I thought we could do one last thing together that we’ve been talking about doing for a long time. Do something nice as our last hurrah. Besides,” he added, sitting up a bit straighter in his seat and glancing surreptitiously around the room, “I thought that being in public would make it easier. We could have a nice, mature conversation without it turning…too emotional.”
I could’ve punched him. “Too emotional?” I said, too loudly. “I’m sorry that our relationship is emotional to me.”
There was so much left I wanted to say, but I’d been holding words back for years, holding my feelings in for years, and right here in one of the nicest restaurants in the city was not the place to change that. I already felt humiliated enough for one night, I decided. And as soon as I had the thought, all I wanted was to get out of there as quickly as possible. I felt as though I were suffocating in all that wood smoke and butter and spice.
The “nice girl” in me wanted me to be polite. Absurdly, it told me to stay through the end of the meal, or at the very least to say goodbye to Matt civilly before leaving. The nice girl in me told me to consider that maybe he was right, or at least that maybe we could have a mature conversation about this. It told me not to rock the boat, not to risk anything, not to say anything I couldn’t take back.
But there was no more boat to rock, was there?
He’ll change his mind, the voice told her. You have to be mature about this.
With all of these conflicting voices in her head and all these years of being careful to do the right thing and think of others’ feelings, I pushed down the urge that I truly wanted to indulge: to scream at Matt and tell him to go fuck himself.
But I also didn’t stay for the polite, mature conversation. Without another word, without another glance his way, I got up from the table, wiping what I knew would be mascara-infused tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand, and walked quickly out of the restaurant without looking at anyone.
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