Green: a friends to lovers romantic comedy

by Kayley Loring

  It could have been anyone, really. For the eleven months leading up to this actual crush with a real guy that I’d actually met, I was an Instagram boyfriend serial monogamist. I had back-to-back fantasy relationships with numerous ripped male models, a handsome fun young celebrity doctor, and finally with Josh Groban. One afternoon I realized that I was singing along to Josh Groban’s When You Say You Love Me at a stoplight on Ventura Boulevard with my window open, on the verge of tears, and that a car full of actual hot interesting guys were in a car next to me watching—and I knew that it was time to get real and get back out there. Or to get out there, since I had never really been out there before.

  I’d actually heard about Ben long before I met him. Kara, a girl I’d worked with on a crappy TV pilot the previous year, was dating him and had nothing but great things to say about his penis. She seriously talked about it all the time. My coworkers and I would say to her each morning “Hey how’s Ben’s penis?” and she’d tell us even though we had gotten really tired of hearing about it. But the day he broke up with her she started telling us what a selfish jerk he was and how he was only moderately good at cunilingus, due to his only having one girlfriend prior to her—someone he’d been with since college. So when I went in to meet with him for this job, naturally all I could think about was his above average penis size and purported average ability to make Kara’s vagina happy due to limited sexual experience. He sounded like the perfect starter boyfriend for a rookie dater coming out of a sexual hiatus! But he was cuter and much nicer and funnier than I’d imagined he would be, and he smiled at me the whole time, so voila, a crush was born.

  It felt both freeing and strangely guilt-inducing, to have a crush on someone other than my best friend slash secret fake husband. I expected to feel this way until my vagina made direct contact with Ben’s penis, at which point all inappropriate Theo-related feelings would magically vanish and I would suddenly transform into the sophisticated floozy that I was born to be. Until then, I was forcing myself to dress the part of sophisticated floozy for the night. I was wearing a new silk camisole, skinny jeans, four-inch heel mules and hoop earrings that were almost large enough to fit my fist through.

  Guests were supposed to start arriving in about twenty minutes, and I wanted to do one last check to make sure everything was where it should be. When I opened my bedroom door and stepped out, two things were where I didn’t expect them to be…Theo’s eyes were practically bulging out of their sockets when he first saw me.

  They didn’t follow a slow leisurely path down and up my body but rather they took me in, in a way that I had not been taken in by his eyes before.

  It was kind of great.

  Until all of a sudden there was a flash of something I’d never seen before in those warm brown eyes of his, and it stopped me in my tracks. It was more than appreciation. It was lust.

  Just a flash in his eyes, but I could feel it all over. A shiver followed by tingling warmth.

  Whoa.

  What just happened?

  I was either sexually aroused or having a panic attack.

  God, how I hoped it was a panic attack.

  And just like that he turned back towards the counter to grab a handful of tortilla chips. “Damn. These are good.”

  Meanwhile, I had forgotten how to breathe, but in a matter of seconds, he had made me feel sexy for the first time in ages. There was nothing for me to do in this situation, other than not act on it or talk about it. Ever.

  “Is the margarita machine all set up?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I mean, it’s not my area of expertise in engineering or drinking, but feel free to test it out if you don’t trust me.”

  “Did you test it out?”

  “I had a margarita while you were in the shower, yes.”

  “How was it?”

  “Your shower?” he asked innocently, while reaching for another tortilla chip. “Sounded good to me.” He grinned.

  Why was he grinning at me like that? We didn’t grin at each other like that. He grinned at me in other ways. I got the “you are such an adorable non-athlete” grin, the “you are such a cute non-tech genius” grin, the “it’s so funny that you hate it when I don’t wear a shirt” grin. This was a flirty grin. The kind he used on hot waitresses when he thought I wasn’t looking.

  “Try to leave a few tortilla chips for the guests.” I strode over to the living room area and angled the armchair so that it faced the sofa more than the TV. Better. That felt better.

  “Who are you all dressed up for?”

  “What? Nobody. Why, is it obvious?”

  “Obvious that you’re dressed up for someone in particular?”

  “Is it too chesty? Do I look like a Tits Magee?”

  “Let me assure you that there is no such thing as ‘too chesty,’ and I’m not exactly sure what a Tits Magee looks like. Do you have pictures?”

  “I’m changing.”

  “No. Don’t go changing. You look…tasteful. Like a high-class prostitute at a cool club in Miami. Who’s the guy?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “I could kill you.”

  “I’m just kidding. You look good. Who’s the guy?”

  “There’s no the guy. I’m gonna put on a cardigan.”

  “I mean. Your milkshake will still bring a few boys to the yard if you just throw a cardigan over that little piece of material. Maybe a turtleneck?”

  “Theodore! People are going to start coming soon! Oh my God I’m just going to change.”

  “I’m totally kidding. Just stay like that. You look great. Have you been working out?”

  “Shut up.”

  “I’m serious. You’re a lot more toned than you were the last time I saw your bare arms, which was like, never ago. Don’t tell me you’re doing strength training.”

  I smirked at him. Take that, Walker! “Okay, I won’t.” I crossed over to the kitchen, past where he was leaning against the counter in his two hundred dollar jeans and simple grey T-shirt, so he could get a better look at my toned arms and décolletage and a whiff of my new perfume.

  “You’re doing strength training? You. Not just lifting giant spoonfuls of ice cream into your mouth, but lifting actual free weights?”

  “I’m doing yoga because it keeps me calm and centered!”

  “Seriously? Since when? That’s awesome. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I don’t know. Help me get that big bowl from the top shelf.”

  “I’d go to a yoga class with you.”

  “When? You’re never here. I need that big bowl from the top shelf.”

  “I’ll go to a yoga class with you when I’m here. Do you wear actual yoga pants?”

  “No, I wear virtual yoga pants—what is that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m just suddenly thinking about my next line of fitness clothing.”

  “I thought you were going to focus on the treadmill thing next.”

  “I was, but this way we could work together. You could be my model and my muse.” He was all smirky and flirty and still eating the tortilla chips.

  “Just get the bowl down hurry up.”

  “Who do you go to yoga class with?”

  “Nobody, I just go. Why are you taking forever to do this one simple thing?”

  “Wow, you’re so much more patient and tolerant now—Namaste!”

  “OH MY GOD I HATE YOU!”

  “Here.” He rested one hand on my shoulder and leaned against me, reached up over my head, for the big bowl on the top shelf, then calmly placed it on the counter in front of me. I had to hold my breath, because he smelled so damn good I wanted to plant my face in his chest and just live there for a few hours. “Why are you so nervous—who did you invite?”

  “I’m not nervous. Three friends.” I took a deep breath and shook off the tension. “Work friends. Who did you invite?”

  “A few interesting acquaintances. Colleagues.”

  “Groupies
?”

  “I would if I had any.”

  “Guffaw.” I bent over to grab the second big bag of tortilla chips from under the counter, and noted that Theo did not glance over to check out my cleavage.

  “I don’t—who’ve you been talking to?”

  “Your Instagram page.”

  “I don’t actually know most of those people who comment on my pictures.”

  “What about the ones who send you private messages?” I batted my eyelashes at him.

  “I only respond to business-related messages. I’m not one of those male models you follow.”

  He actually had more followers than many of the male models that I followed, and just as many women commenting on the occasional selfie that he posted. Not that I Insta-stalked him. And we never commented on each other’s Instagram posts, but we did comment on our private personal Facebook pages now and then, in case we would ever have to use our social media accounts as evidence in a marriage fraud investigation. But there was little chance of that happening. On paper, we were clearly a real marriage.

  In a few days he would become a naturalized American citizen and our marriage could end, and so would this unique form of torture.

  But first, I needed to change out of that camisole, because if Theo kept looking at me like that all night I would either run away screaming or hump his leg. Or both.

  5

  Theo

  For those first few months after Gemma and Andrew had broken up, Ethan was always making comments, in her absence, about how she shouldn’t get involved with anyone yet because it was too soon. “She needs to have a grieving period.” I assumed he was just voicing his wife’s opinion, because Ethan tends not to have opinions on anything beyond architecture and music. I never saw much evidence of grieving on Gem’s part, and I didn’t ask her many questions because I’ve always given her space where Andrew was concerned. I never voiced my concerns about him when they were together. He was there first. She’d known him her whole life. Family friend, blah blah blah. I didn’t even say “I KNEW IT” when I found out that he’d been cheating for years, because what if they got back together?

  I didn’t think she would be dumb enough to get back with him, and I would have tried to keep it from happening, but you never know. Still, I couldn’t help but reminisce about those simpler times—when Gemma was spoken for and I never had to wonder what her single status would mean for our marriage and impending divorce…That was a weird sentence.

  Regardless, I hadn’t been inviting any of my LA buddies around since she’d become single, especially the ones who’d always asked me what her deal is. Last thing I needed was for one of my friends to start hitting on her, especially after that little moment we had the night I brought her home from the airport. Which was why I didn’t invite any of them to our little party for Ethan and Chloe. Even though it had been a year, I was still skeptical about her being ready to deal with a bunch of horny twentysomething L.A. guys. She still seemed so raw and on edge.

  Ever since that night of the almost-kiss, she’d been in a bad mood every time I was home, complaining about everything I did. If I hadn’t found it so adorable and amusing it would have been pretty annoying. “Put your shirt on—you’ll catch a cold.” “Oh my God you’re a freaking millionaire now—can’t you afford a shirt?” “Stop laughing at me this is serious—the fact that you refuse to wear a shirt is just insulting to people who can’t afford shirts!” She was obsessed, and it certainly didn’t help that I steadfastly refuse to wear a shirt if I don’t have to. Ask any runner who’s experienced nipple chafing—when the opportunity to free your nips arises, you just take it. She used to be fine with my rampant at-home-shirtlessness before the break-up. I figured she was just uptight because she hadn’t gotten laid in a while.

  It wasn’t going to be easy for me to stay chipper all night either, seeing her all dolled-up, knowing she must have been doing hundreds of squats and lunges and plank poses in my absence—who was she getting in shape for? When did she get the ass of a Brazilian supermodel? Was she getting spray tans now? When did her hair get so long and was she using a new product to make it all bedhead-y?

  I mean, I’d seen Gemma in a bra before. I had her beta-test the high tech sports bras for my new line about nine months earlier (because she’s my go-to non-athlete beta-tester). The bras are equipped with sensors that transmit data about heart rate and energy output to an app. She looked great back then, but she definitely wasn’t working out. She complained that the first design gave her uni-boob and the material smelled like a high school gym shower. She complained that the second design let her boobs bounce around too much. I made her run in place to demonstrate. I was in work-mode, so there was nothing sexy about it, especially because she was so grouchy. She loved the third design, praised the lack of scent from the moisture-wicking material, and said that the comfortable flattering style was “almost enough” to get her to start exercising more—“but not quite.”

  Something or someone was enough to get her to start exercising more. Nobody starts to work out for no reason. And I knew I wasn’t the reason. I had tried endlessly to get her into running and she just hated it. It’s not that she needed to lose any weight, it’s just that now she was all toned up and her posture was better and she looked more confident and it was just the way she was carrying herself. She seemed different. She was blossoming, and I wasn’t the one who had forced the bloom.

  I didn’t even know why I cared about this so much.

  As her best friend, I should have been happy that she was finally ready to move on from Andrew.

  Still…So much about her had changed physically since I last saw her, I couldn’t help but wonder what else had changed for her. And how it would affect us.

  Had I thought about making some sort of move to take things to another level with Gemma lately?...I think about everything. All the time. From many different perspectives. Of course I thought about it.

  Here’s a good example of how I saw it: With some things, you just don’t know if they’re going to convert successfully from one form to another and it’s just not worth it for me to risk being disappointed by a potentially life-altering event by experiencing it in the wrong way. Like, Avengers: Infinity War. The big question was—should I experience it in 3D and IMAX? You’d think it’s a no-brainer, because it’s a big event movie, so you should see it in the biggest, boldest manner possible, right? But—Avengers: Infinity War was not filmed using a 3D camera. It was shot with the most advanced IMAX camera. So I knew it would look amazing in IMAX, and there was a good chance that it would have converted well to 3D—but I didn’t want to risk it. I saw it in IMAX 2D. Will I always wonder if it would have been more astounding in 3D? Maybe. But at least I wasn’t disappointed by the lack of extra dimension.

  My friendship with Gemma was, in my life, a thousand times more important than a Marvel movie event of a lifetime, so I didn’t want to risk feeling disappointed and nauseated by a poor conversion. I didn’t want to mess up a great thing. I just wanted more of the great thing that we already had.

  Half a year earlier I’d started spending a lot of time in Palo Alto and Portland, then traveling around the country, talking to trainers and athletes, because my company was gearing up for the launch of our first line of wearable sports technology. Meanwhile, Gemma had been on set a lot, so we’d only really spent time together a few days a month. Our last year of marriage had flown by and I was feeling ripped off. But now we had launched. That crucial first week had passed and we were hesitantly optimistic, so I’d planned to stay home for the next week to grab some down time, and hopefully some much-needed Gemma time. But it looked like the only Gemma time I’d have was that weekend.

  When she emerged from her room, she had changed—into a tight black tank top—and even though there was no exposed cleavage or navel, she somehow looked even sexier because…Shit. The curves and the tight little waist on this woman. What is happening?

  “What?” she snapped, when
she saw me staring. “Too tight?”

  I shook my head and started to say something, but apparently I no longer possessed a voice.

  She looked at me funny, then shook her own head because she didn’t have time to contemplate me and the look on my face—she had to ensure that every throw pillow was in exactly the right place at exactly the right angle before people started arriving and sitting on them or moving them out of the way.

  I cleared my throat. “Dude, you need to relax.”

  “I will later.”

  “No, you seriously need to relax now.” I grabbed two beers from the fridge, twisted one open and placed it in her hand. “Drink.”

  She held the bottle like she had no idea what to do with it.

  I twisted off my cap, clinked the bottom of my bottle with hers, and then raised it up in front of her tense little face. “To Chloe and Ethan. May we calmly remember that this laid-back but entertaining party is for them.”

  I watched as her shoulders lowered several inches and she started breathing again. “Right. To Chloe and Ethan.” She took a swig of pale ale, licked her upper lip. “Where are they?”

  “Downstairs, I’d imagine. They’ll come up when they’re ready. I’m not gonna tell you to chill because I know you hate that. But, you know. Chill.”

  She inhaled deeply and shook off her jitters. “Yeah. Chill. I seriously don’t know what’s wrong with me.” She chugged about half the bottle.

  “Whoa there, Nelly!” I reached out to touch her beer-guzzling arm and she flinched.

  “What?”