Unzipped

by Lauren Blakely

  Contents

  Also By Lauren Blakely

  About Unzipped

  Prologue

  1. Her

  2. Him

  3. Her

  4. Him

  5. Finley

  6. Tom

  7. Tom

  8. Finley

  9. Finley

  10. Finley

  11. Tom

  12. Tom

  13. Finley

  14. Tom

  15. Finley

  16. Finley

  17. Tom

  18. Tom

  19. Finley

  20. Tom

  21. Finley

  22. Finley

  23. Tom

  24. Finley

  25. Finley

  26. Tom

  27. Finley

  28. Tom

  29. Finley

  30. Tom

  31. Finley

  32. Tom

  33. Tom

  34. Finley

  35. Finley

  Epilogue

  Also by Lauren Blakely

  Contact

  Unzipped

  Lauren Blakely

  Copyright © 2018 by Lauren Blakely

  LaurenBlakely.com

  Cover Design by © Helen Williams

  First Edition Book

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Also By Lauren Blakely

  Big Rock Series

  Big Rock

  Mister O

  Well Hung

  Full Package

  Joy Ride

  Hard Wood

  One Love Series dual-POV Standalones

  The Sexy One

  The Only One

  The Hot One

  Sports Romance

  Most Valuable Playboy

  Most Likely to Score

  Standalones

  The Knocked Up Plan

  Stud Finder

  The V Card

  Wanderlust

  Come As You Are

  Part-Time Lover

  The Real Deal

  Unbreak My Heart

  Far Too Tempting

  21 Stolen Kisses

  Playing With Her Heart

  Out of Bounds

  Unzipped

  Birthday Suit (2019)

  Best Laid Plans (2019)

  The Feel Good Factor (2019)

  The Heartbreakers Series

  Once Upon a Real Good Time

  Once Upon a Sure Thing

  Once Upon a Wild Fling

  The Caught Up in Love Series

  Caught Up In Us

  Pretending He’s Mine

  Trophy Husband

  Stars In Their Eyes Duet

  My Charming Rival

  My Sexy Rival

  The No Regrets Series

  The Thrill of It

  The Start of Us

  Every Second With You

  The Seductive Nights Series

  First Night (Julia and Clay, prequel novella)

  Night After Night (Julia and Clay, book one)

  After This Night (Julia and Clay, book two)

  One More Night (Julia and Clay, book three)

  A Wildly Seductive Night (Julia and Clay novella, book 3.5)

  The Joy Delivered Duet

  Nights With Him (A standalone novel about Michelle and Jack)

  Forbidden Nights (A standalone novel about Nate and Casey)

  The Sinful Nights Series

  Sweet Sinful Nights

  Sinful Desire

  Sinful Longing

  Sinful Love

  The Fighting Fire Series

  Burn For Me (Smith and Jamie)

  Melt for Him (Megan and Becker)

  Consumed By You (Travis and Cara)

  The Jewel Series

  A two-book sexy contemporary romance series

  The Sapphire Affair

  The Sapphire Heist

  About Unzipped

  Picture this - I’m ready to win back the love of my life, and I’m going big this time. We’re talking boom box, sing her name in the rain, let the whole damn neighborhood know I'm good and ready this time around. After all, if you're going to grand gesture the ever-loving hell out of a second chance, you need to pull out all the stops.

  There’s only one little problem.

  My college girlfriend isn't the one who shows up when I play my "I'll do anything to win you back" tune.

  The woman who flings open the second-floor window tells me my ex doesn’t live here anymore. But she'll help me win her back. Anything for romance, anything for a guy so willing to go big for love. And that's what I want at first. Until I get to know my new “romance coach” and discover she’s funny, clever, and keeps me on my toes. And boy, do I ever need that.

  Now I don't want to win anyone else’s heart. I want the woman who's been helping me all along.

  Trouble is - she thinks I'm in love with someone else, and when we take off on a road trip, everything I think I know about women is about to be unzipped and turned inside out.

  Prologue

  Him

  Everything I know about women I learned from an ’80s flick.

  For instance, eating birthday cake while sitting on a dining room table is always a good idea.

  “Ditto” completely works as a way to let a woman know how you feel.

  Men and women can be friends, and friends can fall in love, but it’s best if they don’t fake orgasms.

  Finally, learning your soul mate is a fish is not the worst thing that can happen. The worst thing is losing the mermaid you love, so merman-up and be with her under the sea. But if you’re stupid enough to let the girl get away, the surefire way to win a woman back is with a grand gesture.

  That’s what I intend to do.

  I’ve planned every detail of how I’m going to get the girl back.

  Music? Check.

  Props? Check.

  Totally improved self? It took nearly a decade, but finally I can scratch that off the list.

  It’s go time.

  1

  Her

  There are only a few things you truly need to be successful in comedy.

  To make people laugh, to make people laugh, and to make people laugh.

  See what’s in there? No, not the laughter, but the people. You need an audience. Or, really, I need an audience. A bigger one.

  Make that an exponentially larger one.

  I dive into the pool at the gym on a Thursday morning in late May, determined to use my lap time to devise a brand-new, brilliant idea to get that audience for my TV show.

  The first order of business—let go of distractions. Thankfully, my phone can’t ring in the water.


  Well, I suppose it technically can ring while I’m in the water, but I can’t hear it since I didn’t stuff it inside my swimsuit, and I haven’t yet resorted to wearing a waterproof Bluetooth headset. If I did, I’d ask my best friend, Christine, to have me committed for crossing every acceptable social line.

  I push through the water, goggles snug against my eyes, doing my best to open my mind to new ideas and fresh concepts. I reach the end of the lap lane, smack my palm against the smooth blue tiles, and flip around, shooting like a dolphin the other way.

  Water ripples from the next lane, and when I turn my head to the side, a man in a black Speedo is torpedoing through the chlorinated blue, his flipper-like feet propelling him.

  Big feet? Would that work as a bit? Maybe an episode about whether big feet really mean men have . . . the need to wear big shoes.

  Nah. Dick jokes are low-hanging fruit.

  But what about Speedos?

  Speedos are always ripe for comedy. You can double the laughter if the banana holders are in a funny color, and the funniest colors are usually orange, green, and yellow.

  As I breaststroke my way down the lane, I ask myself what Seinfeld would do with a Speedo bit. That was a show that defined top-notch laughs. It didn’t even rely on romance. It didn’t depend on tropes, over-the-top setups, or a quota of jokes based on bodily functions.

  Because . . . eww.

  All I have to do is connect the Speedo to some sort of social commentary like Seinfeld would do.

  What if my heroine is shopping for a new bathing suit for herself? That has potential because bathing suit shopping ranks on the awful list next to root canal and running into an ex while not wearing makeup.

  Let’s suppose our heroine is at a department store trying on a bikini, and she spots a guy next to her in the dressing room testing out a Speedo, and she can’t help herself. She has to comment on it, big mouth that she is. She’s trying to be helpful, and she wants to save him from buying the Speedo, but he misunderstands her, thinking she’s hitting on him. That’s perfect, since the heart of Mars and Venus is finding humor in the confusion between men and women about what the other says and what the other truly means.

  Satisfied with this direction, I finish my laps and park my elbows on the edge of the pool so I can catch my breath. The scent of chlorine is thick in the air, but so is possibility. I can save my show this season, starting with a bright yellow Speedo.

  I climb out of the pool and head to the women’s locker room, feeling pretty damn pleased with myself. After a quick shower, I tug on a pair of shorts and a tank top then root around in my bag for my phone.

  I cringe when I see the screen cluttered with notifications fighting their way to get to me.

  Seven missed calls.

  My stomach pitches with worry. It’s never good to have seven missed calls as a TV comedy writer. The only thing worse is when your phone mocks you with quiet.

  Silence equals no work.

  But this many missed calls? It’s the universal sign you’re about to get served Really Bad News.

  Like when a dude in a fedora shows up on your doorstep. Are you Finley Barker?

  Yes.

  You’ve been served.

  Hustling out of the community center and into the bright morning sun of Hope Falls, I drop my rhinestone-studded purple shades on my eyes—because life is too short to wear boring black sunglasses—and race-walk out to the quaint side street, stabbing at the contact information for Bruce Fargo, the VP at LGO, the TV network that carries my show.

  I swear he answers before it even rings. “Finley,” he barks. “What took you so long? I’ve been calling you all morning. It’s been hours.”

  I look at my waterproof watch. “I was doing cardio,” I say, defending myself as I walk past a vineyard in the heart of our wine country town. Cardio is like a free pass, right? Everyone in the entertainment business knows workouts are sacred. “And I was only away from my phone for thirty—”

  “Network brass is breathing down my neck.”

  “With a twenty-two-episode offer for a second season renewal?” I ask, my voice rising as high as Minnie Mouse on helium.

  My show hasn’t even been renewed for a second season yet.

  He scoffs. “Funny. Why don’t you work that kind of dry humor into Mars and Venus?”

  “Thanks, I’ll —” But before I can say try my best, he slices into my words with a serrated knife.

  “Your show is on the chopping block.”

  I stop, grabbing the wooden fence post next to a vine of Chardonnay grapes. My legs turn into rubber bands, and my stomach becomes a salad spinner.

  “Are you serious?” I ask, the words tasting like dreams dying on my tongue.

  “I’m as serious as a pimple on a teenager’s face. You think I’d joke about that?”

  About pimples? Doubtful. About my show’s fate? I wish he were joking, but I know he’s not.

  Hope leaks out of me like air from a punctured balloon. “How far on the chopping block? Are we talking the executioner has the ax out and my head is already hooded, or am I being walked to the guillotine—”

  He has no patience for analogies. “This is how it’s going to work. Tad and Chad are demanding a strong storyline,” he huffs, naming the top execs at LGO. “Like blow-my-mind-and-make-me-die-laughing-so-fucking-hard-I have-a-hernia storyline.”

  “I can do that,” I say, optimism returning. This is what I do. I write storylines. That’s not too far on the chopping block. I breathe a small sigh of relief. “I had all these ideas this morning, and I’m about to start working on a new story arc. The first episode will make them laugh till it hurts.”

  “Yeah, that’s the issue.”

  My stomach plummets. “What’s the issue?” I ask slowly.

  “They’re asking for that knock-their-socks-off storyline before they even agree to renew it.” He pauses, giving weight to his already-heavy words. “For six episodes. That’s it, sweetheart.”

  I press a hand to my stomach as if I could quell the churning. But it’s a cyclone inside me as I learn my show is on death’s door, and I don’t know if CPR is enough to revive it. Mars and Venus is my baby. It’s my dream. I’ve worked on it for years. I fought to have it made.

  “Six episodes?” I repeat, as if the words will change if I say them again. A six-episode storyline on spec simply to claw your way out of the ratings basement is like Luke, Leia, Han, and Chewie trying to escape the trash compactor.

  Meaning it’s epically unlikely, except on film.

  “Count ’em. You only get a half dozen episodes, and that’s if you can turn the ship around with a brilliant storyline. Otherwise, there’s no green light. It’s Goodnight Moon.”

  I furrow my brow. “I don’t think that’s what Goodnight Moon was about,” I say quietly.

  “The kids’ book? Never read it. So let me make this clear in TV writer lingo.” He takes a beat, his voice somehow going gruffer. “They’ll sunset you.”

  Bruce loves to grab sayings from TV shows and movies, usually ones involving cool and cruel crime bosses issuing directives to underlings. “Got it now?”

  I swallow past the lump in my throat. I will not let Bruce hear me cry. “I understand. I know what sunset, used as a verb, means.” My heart is a limp doll in my chest, torn down the middle.

  He sighs, and it borders on sympathetic. “The sooner, the better. And, hey, I believe in your talent. I’ll fight for you, kid.”

  I’m not a kid. I’m twenty-nine. But that’s neither here nor there. “Thanks, Bruce.”

  “Also, it’s just going to be you. No other writers for this,” he says, since most TV shows have a head writer as well as a team.

  “I can write it solo. I write most of the key scenes anyway.” I swallow any remaining morsel of pride. “Any advice on how to proceed with the storyline for these six episodes?”

  Bruce is the network VP in charge of my show, so he has a vested interest. The more succe
ssful the shows he brings to his higher-ups, the more money he makes.

  “Yeah. Go make up some funny stuff, and don’t take too long.”

  “Besides that.”

  “Fine,” he huffs, and I imagine he’s tapping a pen on a too-big desk. “How about a bit with a monkey? Monkeys are always funny.”

  “A monkey?” I ask, incredulous. “A monkey is going to save my show in six episodes?”

  “Monkeys are comedy gold.” His tone tells me he’s dead serious.

  “Should this primate be a recurring character or a new series regular?”

  “Slap a diaper on him and make him a regular.”

  That sounds like when you remember a show from your childhood as brilliant, but when you watch it again years later, you ask with abject horror what your younger self was thinking.

  “Do you think perhaps a monkey in a diaper is old-school funny?” I ask, trying to let him down gently.

  “I’m old-school funny, honey, and you’re new school. Your new-school hipster show about men and women just being friends isn’t cutting it. So maybe you ought to lean on old-school funny.”