by Jo Watson
The lights are still on in the kitchen, and I run back inside to find my guests.
After making Phil promise not to tell my mum that I’ve gone, I sneak out the front door and hop on the bus with Zara and Gary. The two of them ditch me for their swanky wine bar in town, and I get on a second bus home to Rothwell.
As I reach the set of steps up to the front door of my flat, a dark comes into view from a huddle on the top step.
I scream, losing my footing and toppling backwards onto the patch of grass the landlord calls a front garden.
The figure looms over me. “Are you okay?”
“Liam?” I peer up at him, making out the outline of his bulky leather jacket in the dark. “What are you doing here?”
He extends a hand to pull me up. “I’m being romantic.”
“Romantic?” We head back up the steps, but I push past him to insert my key in the lock. “You nearly gave me a heart attack! I’d hardly call that romance.”
“That was an unexpected side effect.”
I turn to face him as the door opens. “What did you think was going to happen when you hide on unsuspecting girls’ doorsteps?”
“I don’t know.” He scratches his head. “I can’t say I’ve ever done it before.”
“Well,” I say, stepping inside the flat, “maybe you should have looked it up online first. I’m sure there’s loads of advice on there.”
“Has something happened?” he asks. “You seem a little…off.”
“What are you doing here, really? Cut the romance crap. Did Scarlett tell you to say that?”
“Scarlett?” His face wrinkles in confusion. “Can I come in so we can talk about whatever it is?”
“There’s no point.” I grip the edge of the door.
“If I’m meant to have done something, I’d like to know what it is.”
“Why don’t you ask Scarlett?” I say, the bitterness creeping over my words. “I’m sure she’ll know what to do.”
“Okay, it’s something to do with Scarlett. You don’t still think there’s anything going on between us, do you?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
I sigh. “Have you completely blanked it from your memory? Last Friday night? It was her who told you to come and ask me out.”
“Oh.” He hesitates. “That’s a bad thing, is it?”
“Of course it’s a bad thing! I thought you wanted to go out with me. I thought it was real and not just…not just made up like Olivia Bright.”
“Hang on,” says Liam, “aren’t you the one who made some sort of bet with Scarlett about asking me out?”
“It wasn’t a bet,” I insist, but I’m wincing at the thought of the agreement we made.
He leans against the doorway. “Scarlett was adamant that we’d make the perfect couple, but she said you were too embarrassed to do anything about it. She said it was up to me.”
“And you always do everything that she says, do you?”
“No.” He blinks those dark eyelashes of his. “I thought it was what you wanted.”
I stare at him, my grip on the door loosening.
I hate to think it, but what would Olivia Bright do? Not Zara, but her feisty alter ego. How would she respond to this situation?
Zara’s next writing project really ought to be Olivia Bright’s Guide to Dating or something similar.
Being confident and independent doesn’t mean not trusting the opposite sex, does it? So what’s an unconfident girl to do?
“I suppose you can come in.” I step backwards to let him pass.
He steps into my flat for the first time. I watch him take in the girly decor. The pink leather coach, the white high-gloss breakfast bar and the glass coffee table. The artificial flowers sitting on the mantelpiece.
“This place is nice,” he says. “It suits you.”
“Do you want to sit down?” I wave my arms towards the sofa as I shed my heavy coat.
“Where have you been tonight?” he asks as he takes a seat.
I pull a face. “To my mother’s.”
“Oh,” he says. “You two don’t get on?”
“No, it’s not that.” I sigh as I sit next to him. “She threw this big garden party in the middle of winter. It wasn’t even meant to be a garden party. Well, it was meant to be outside. But it was supposed to be an engagement party. Only the couple split up. And my mum went ahead with the party anyway and invited all the same people. It was so awkward.”
Liam doesn’t say anything as he processes this.
“And you’ve even met the former bride-to-be! Bryony Hudson. The girl from Oxfam.”
A look of recognition crosses his face. “Ah, my mum was saying something about her. I suppose it could be worse.”
“How?”
“Well, as far as mothers go, I’m sure yours isn’t quite as bad as mine.”
I laugh, cringing at the memories of the cubicle changing incident. “How come you always go shopping with your mum, anyway?”
He sighs. “She was ill a while ago and I used to help her get about. Now she’s better but I still go with her. I don’t have the heart to turn her down when she asks.”
“I didn’t have you down as a sensitive kind of guy,” I say, my face frozen in a smile.
“You’re pretty when you smile,” he says, catching me off guard.
I stare at him for a few seconds, not wanting to fall for something false again. “What do I look like when I’m not smiling, then? One of the ugly sisters?”
“I wouldn’t say that exactly,” he teases.
Playfully, I throw one of the scatter cushions at him.
He catches it and traces a pattern with his fingertips across the silver fabric.
Then in one fluid motion, he leans across and places a soft kiss on my lips.
I’m too stunned to say or do anything as he moves back to his side of the couch and sits there, with the cushion still on his lap like nothing happened.
Maybe it didn’t. Maybe I’m starting to hallucinate.
“I…erm…” I start to say, realising that I don’t actually have a topic of conversation in mind.
“Let me take you out again,” he says. “Somewhere proper this time. All women like being treated to expensive food and champagne, don’t they?”
“Some women prefer to pay their own way,” I remind him. “And I don’t exactly get on with champagne.”
“I could always take you to Burger King.” He laughs.
I think the disdainful look I shoot him is enough to make it clear that fast food would not go down well.
“What are you doing on Friday?”
“Washing my hair, maybe painting my nails,” I joke.
He laughs again. “It’s a date.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
My bed looks much the same as it did when I cleared out my wardrobe.
I knew I shouldn’t have thrown out that gold sequined dress. I could have at least donated it to Oxfam, then I’d stand a chance of getting it back.
I finally plucked up the courage to call Sue Weaver (after drinking half a bottle of rosé). She didn’t sound too disappointed to be letting me go, but it did somehow end up leading me to some praise at work.
Nora apparently thought it was amazing that I’d even volunteered there at all. She said it showed that I was a real asset to the company and she could see me going places.
I’m not sure exactly what that means, but at least I might feel like a confident woman in the workplace now.
That still leaves me with the predicament of picking out a date-appropriate outfit for tonight. All my clothes are for the bloody office.
I’m looking for a dress that might go with blue wedge heels when my phone rings.
“Hello?” I answer without checking who’s calling.
“Megan! Thank God,” Helen’s voice comes over the phone. “I need your help.”
“My help?”
“Yes. And quick! I’m leaving for the airport in a
n hour.”
“What’s so urgent?”
“It’s Brad. He’s got my passport.”
“He’s what?”
“My passport!” she repeats. “He’s bloody nicked it.”
“Why would he do that?”
“He found out about Alistair and he doesn’t want me copping off with anybody else in Spain. He must have taken it out of my bag.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. “What do you want me to do?”
“Help me get it back! I’m coming to pick you up now.”
“But Helen—” I try to protest but she’s already hung up.
I stare at the mountain of clothes. I guess my outfit selection will have to wait.
After picking me up, Helen drives to a regular detached house not far away and knocks violently on the door.
The guy who answers is a lot younger than I imagined. In fact he doesn’t look anything like Helen’s usual type at all. He’s tall and skinny with cropped black hair and a wide smile.
“Helen!” he says in a posh southern accent. “I was wondering when you would come.”
“Don’t play games with me!” She jabs a finger into his chest and pushes her way inside with me following. “Where’s my passport?”
“I thought you might have noticed it was gone sooner,” he says.
“And what if I hadn’t noticed? What were you going to do?”
Brad shrugs. “Can’t catch a flight without it.”
“I’m getting on that plane.” She holds out her hand. “Now give it back.”
“Whatever, babe.” He turns to a slim glass shelving unit by the window and produces a passport.
Helen lurches forwards, but he uses his height to lift it out of her reach, laughing like a five-year-old.
“Give it!” Helen stands on her tiptoes as she tries to grab it from him.
Brad continues to tease her, lowering it and lifting it back above her head every time she reaches for it.
From my viewing spot, leaning awkwardly against the door frame, I see my chance and dash towards Brad, knocking him to the ground with my surprise attack. I doubt he even knew I was there in the first place.
I reclaim Helen’s passport and pull myself up, leaving him on the floor. In hindsight, I probably put a bit too much force into it. But knocking full-grown men over isn’t exactly something I practise.
Helen stares down at Brad before turning to me, her wide eyes unblinking. “What the hell was that?”
“Sorry. I just thought…” I trail off as Brad pulls himself to his feet.
“No, Meg, that was awesome! Seriously amazing. I’ve never seen you do anything like that before.”
“Jesus, I was only messing around.” Brad rubs his jaw and looks me up and down. “Who’s this, anyway? You bring a bodyguard?”
Helen smiles, taking the passport from me. “This is Megan. You don’t want to mess with her.”
Ninja Megan doesn’t last long. I mean, I don’t take down any more creepy blokes. But I’ve still got that positive, prideful glow as Helen drives me home.
“How come you asked me, anyway?” I ask. “Wouldn’t Scarlett have been better for the job?”
Helen shakes her head. “Too pregnant.”
“Too pregnant?” I giggle.
“You know what I mean, she’s practically waddling now. No way would she have been able to do what you just did.”
I smile softly at the memory and stare out the window.
“She’s going to be okay, you know,” Helen says as we stop at a traffic light.
“Scarlett?”
Helen nods. “She’s a strong woman. And so are you.”
“Me?” I laugh.
“I don’t know if it was that ridiculous article that did it, but something in you has changed, Meg. A few weeks ago you used to be scared of using the photocopier. Now you’re throwing men to the ground without fear.”
“Oh, God.” I cover my face with my hands. “You know about the photocopier?”
“Everybody in the office knows about the photocopier. A good kick should sort out a paper jam.” She winks at me.
I stare at her. “It’s not just me who jams it?”
Helen lowers her voice to a whisper as she pulls into a space outside my flat. “Even Nora jams it sometimes.”
“She shops at Oxfam, too,” I say without thinking. “She probably gets her knickers from Primark.”
“Primark?”
“It was the first thing from that ridiculous article,” I explain. “I thought confident women didn’t buy cheap underwear.”
“Oh. Where do they buy it, then?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Does it matter?”
“Of course not. The point is it’s obviously done something to help you. And I very much doubt it has anything to do with cheap underwear.”
“You’re right.” I grin. “But never lunge for a bloke any taller than five-eleven when you’re wearing a thong. So not comfortable.”
“I’m going to miss you,” she says.
“You’re only going for a week!”
“You never know.” She reaches for her sunglasses. “I might end up staying.”
“You’ll be back,” I say. “Have a great time.”
Helen smiles. “I can taste the sangria already.”
* * *
Heading back to my flat, I’m realise that I’m running late for my date with Liam. And I haven’t decided what I’m wearing yet.
Maybe I should just close my eyes, pick something and hope for the best.
Zara’s standing in the living room and pouring from a teapot when I walk in.
I’m half expecting Tim Hudson to be sitting on our sofa.
But it isn’t Tim.
Dressed in a smart off-black suit and crisp white shirt, Liam looks ready for a date. A proper date where you dress up and go out to a posh restaurant.
And I look like a mess. I’m still wearing my casual hoodie and jeans combo.
“There you are,” Zara says. “We thought you’d run off.”
I look between the two of them. How long has he been here? What has Zara told him? What if she’s mentioned Bublé-Face?
Oh, God. Oh, God. My face is burning at the thought of it and I’m searching for a way to escape.
“Am I early?” Liam fiddles with the buttons on his shirt as he glances at the clock.
“No,” I say. “Sorry. I’ll go get changed.”
Surely anything would look better than my current outfit.
Zara’s hovering by the door with her coat in hand when I return, dressed in a simple white vest top and a purple skirt.
“Are you going out, too?” I ask her.
She nods. “The magazine accepted my next project. Gary and I are going out to celebrate.”
“That’s fantastic!”
“I’m staying at Gary’s tonight, so you’ll have the place to yourself.” She keeps her voice low, but I can see Liam’s eyebrows lifting at her suggestiveness.
I blush, avoiding making eye contact with him. “Have a nice night,” I call as she heads out.
After she’s gone, the room falls silent.
I dare to glance at Liam, still sitting on the couch with a mug of tea in hand and then I look away again, just as quick.
This is ridiculous. I don’t feel anything like the confident woman who tackled Brad to get Helen’s passport back. I feel like a shy twelve-year-old again.
Liam puts the mug down and gets to his feet. “Scarlett punched Charlie.”
“She did what?” I stare at him open mouthed.
“Apparently he agrees with that crazy wife of his. He told Scar she should give them the baby, so she showed him her left hook.”
“Is she okay?”
“She is, but Charlie’s been an asshole about it. I was going to go and see her.”
“Oh.” I stare down at the carpet. “I suppose she needs you right now.”
“She does,” he agrees. “But it can wait. Charlie’s still
going to be a dick tomorrow.”
I look up hopefully, suddenly feeling like kickass ninja Megan again. Striding across the room, I cut the distance between us to just inches.
Liam lowers his head and drops his arms to his sides as though he doesn’t quite know what to do with them.
But I know what to do with mine. I loop them around his neck and pull him closer until my forehead touches his.
From there, my lips find his. It’s a tentative kiss at first, unsure of itself until we work out a rhythm and he pulls me against him.
My fingers trail through his hair as his smooth lips work against mine. My heart is beating so fast I’m sure he must be able to feel it, but I don’t care.
Breaking away, he says, “Were you ever going to tell me about this Bublé-Face thing?”
“Oh, God.” I snap my eyes shut. “You know about that.”
He grins and leans in for another kiss. “And I want to know a lot more about you, Megan.”
I smile against his lips. “All you need to know is that I’m a confident, independent woman.”
“Independent? Does that mean you’ll be taking me out instead?”
Wrapping my arms around him, I ask, “How does Burger King sound?”
Amber Lindley is a British writer who spent her childhood making up stories in her head before she even learned how to write. She is a writer of new-adult romantic fiction and adores creating comedy situations in her books. She has a passion for music, high-heeled shoes and happy endings. Amber lives in Yorkshire, England, with her boyfriend and all the characters in her head who live in her books.
Rookie in Love
By Sarah White
To Daniel, whose support made this story possible. To Jake and Josh, whose excitement about the “win” made this adventure so much fun. To my family for their love and support. To Becca, my sister by luck, for reading this at all hours of the night and being my biggest fan. To Jaime Angell for being my teacher, encourager, editor and friend. Thank you.
For every person who read and voted for Rookie in Love, you made this happen.
Chapter One
Taking in the moonlit lawns littered with passed-out frat boys and half-empty red cups, I fight the buzz-fueled giggle that bubbles up in my chest. I mentally check off a list of things I’ve been warned against: Young woman walking alone, check. In the presence of inebriated frat boys, check. Impossibly high heels, check. Tiny dress and a tinier purse—containing only a key, a phone and a small tube of lip gloss—that is noticeably too small for any weapon or attacker deterrent, check. I should be terrified but I’m not. This is what freedom feels like—well, freedom and two feet covered in blisters.
