Lovestruck: A Romantic Comedy Standalone

by Lila Monroe

  “Oooh,” Lulu says. “Anything juicy going down?”

  “Not really,” I say, “but that’s a good thing. My life is easier if we skip the catastrophes altogether.”

  “So basically this is depressing work.”

  I laugh. “Well, I’ve also found some of my best clients this way too. Seeing who’s starting to get buzz, the new cool kids in town who might need someone handling PR on their behalf. That part is fun.”

  “Ah,” Lulu says, her voice dipping suggestively. “You’re on the prowl.”

  It’s really uncanny that she can make almost anything sound dirty. “You could put it that way,” I say, although that’s the last way I want to be thinking about my years-from-legal clientele.

  “It’s kind of sad that you’re working at all, don’t you think? I mean, the weather’s gorgeous, the water’s gorgeous, the men …” She gazes through her lashes at the buff guy manning the pool bar. “I know you take your job seriously and all, but if you can’t even chill out here …”

  Actually, turning to work is my last ditch attempt at being able to chill out. I was hoping that getting swept off to the galaxy of internet celebrity culture far, far away would re-circuit my brain enough to cut off my growing Will obsession before that becomes a full-blown catastrophe. If it isn’t already.

  The strategy has been reasonably successful. Since I booted up my web browser I think I’ve cut my X-rated imaginings by about 95%. Which basically means I’m still flashing back to last night once every five minutes, but it’s a start.

  “I’m just taking a quick peek,” I say to Lulu. “I can relax better knowing there aren’t any flash fires on the horizon. What are you doing these days? Are you finished with college—what was your major again?”

  Lulu drops into the lounger beside mine and stretches out to show off her string-bikini-clad figure in all its College Gone Wild glory. “Just about. I graduate this summer—accounting.”

  “Accounting?” I can’t help repeating. I should probably be ashamed of myself for stereotyping. The image that pops into my head at the word “accountant” is a reed-thin guy with thick glasses and a pocket protector, but it’d be silly to assume that’s reality.

  Although to be fair, my actual accountant is a reed-thin guy with thick glasses and a pocket protector.

  “Numbers can be fun too,” Lulu says. “They’re like men, you know. You figure out how to read them properly, and you can wrap them around your finger and get them to do your bidding just like that.”

  Forget that “almost”—Lulu can make even math sound dirty.

  “Well, I’m glad you enjoy it,” I manage to reply. “Just … make sure you don’t wrap those numbers too far, all right? I have a client whose dad is currently in jail for tax evasion.”

  “Don’t worry,” Lulu says. “I know how awful I’d look in an orange jumpsuit. Although … I do have to say I’m starting to consider hotel management as an alternative career.”

  She’s lowered her sunglasses to peer across the deck to where Will has just walked out, the elegant dark-haired woman—Helene, he called her yesterday—beside him. At the sight of him, my heart makes an unfortunate lurch. Thankfully Lulu is still fully consumed with ogling him. Even though I shouldn’t be letting myself think this, I’ve got to admit that collared button-down shows off the impressive muscles underneath to full effect.

  I stick my legs over the edges of the lounger to scoot it farther back, where the scattered vegetation will better hide me from view. I can still see Will, though—and Helene touching his hand as she points out something beachward. My chest goes tight.

  “I definitely wouldn’t mind running a hotel and its owner at the same time,” Lulu murmurs.

  It takes a moment for everything Lulu said to penetrate. “She manages the hotel?”

  “Yeah,” Lulu says casually. “We chatted a bit this morning. She seems nice—at least, she does when you’re not steaming at the thought of how close she’s getting to a certain hunk of manhood.” She shoots me a sly smile.

  “What?” I sputter. “I—no. Obviously they just work together.”

  Lulu laughs.

  She can think whatever she wants. There isn’t any reason for me to see Helene as a rival. We’re both successful professional women. If anything we should have each other’s backs. Heck, I’ll walk right on over there and start a friendly chat with her myself, like a totally non-jealous person would.

  As soon as Will’s no longer in orbiting distance.

  Lulu shakes out her shoulders and gets up to slip into the pool. She makes a beeline for the underwater stools at the bar, where Trevor’s musician friend is staked out. She’s already brushing her hand against his toned bicep as she sits down. The girl does know how to play the field.

  I try to go back to my internet perusing, but Lulu’s interruption has knocked me out of my flow. My gaze keeps creeping up over the top of the laptop screen to chart Will’s course around the pool. He leaves Helene sorting through some papers by the grill area and ambles across the deck, pausing to say hello to a guest here and to make a comment to the towel boy there.

  It’s really not my fault. There’s something magnetizing about the way he holds court here. He leaves everyone he talks to smiling, the staff standing a little straighter, no matter how large or small their role in the resort.

  He always was good at seeing the importance in all the little facets of a business set-up—the ones I was sometimes inclined to overlook while I was chasing after the big picture. “Let’s think it all the way through and take care of everything, Troi,” he teased me more than once. I guess that’s why he’s running a many-multi-employee business and I’m flying solo.

  But somehow I wasn’t a part of his life worthy of even that much respect.

  That last thought hardens my resolve. I’m not jealous, because I don’t want him in the first place. When he heads off toward the recreation center, I close my laptop and stroll over to the grill area where Helene is still poring over her work.

  “So, I hear you’re the manager,” I say, leaning my elbows onto the countertop. “I wanted to say you’re doing a great job here. My stay has been amazing so far.”

  Aside from my interactions with the owner.

  Helene glances up and considers me for a moment. Her cheek dimples with a small smile. I hadn’t known a dimple could look elegant—you learn something new every day.

  “Thank you,” she says. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  She has a faint accent, too soft for me to place, but I don’t think it’s Spanish. “No,” I say. “I’m good. I, um—where are you from, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “I grew up in France,” Helene says in the same even tone. “We moved to the United States when I was fifteen. And now I live here.”

  “France!” I should be able to say something interesting about that. “Where in France? I’ve been to Paris and … er … just Paris.”

  Helene’s smile doesn’t falter. “Lyon. We’re more laid back there than Paris.”

  Laid back? That’s not how she’d have struck me. But then, she is taking my current ineptitude at putting together sentences in stride. Come on, Ruby, you know how to talk to people. There’s no reason talking to this particular woman should be hard.

  No reason except—

  “So you know Mr. Cassidy,” Helene says. “From before your visit.”

  My pulse skitters. How does she— Did she hear something—did she see something?

  My panic must show in my expression, because Helene quickly adds, “He mentioned it to me, after he went to pick you up on your arrival.”

  Oh. Right. My adventure with the demon chicken in the jungle. Not exactly my best moment.

  “Yeah,” I say with an awkward wave of my hand that I hope conveys that nothing involving Will matters very much to me. “We went to school together.”

  “Ah,” Helene says. A single syllable, and yet it could contain so much meaning. Was that
a skeptical tone? I felt better when we were talking about her.

  “So I guess you and Will must talk a lot, working so much on the resort,” I say. No, no, that’s not the direction I wanted to go in.

  Helene shrugs. “He’s a good boss. He’s open to ideas, whoever they come from. Some of the men I’ve worked for aren’t quite so … encouraging.” She gives me a wry look. “They prefer to be the ones calling the shots. It’s rare to find a man willing to listen to a woman.”

  Yes. It is.

  A man who listens, and encourages, and looks excellent naked on the massage table …

  “Look at the time! I think—” I blurt. I glance at my wrist. I’m not wearing a watch. Oh well. Onward I barrel. “I think I’d better get ready for dinner. It was nice talking with you.”

  “Same to you,” Helene says smoothly as I turn away. She was absolutely, 100% nice, like Lulu said. So why can’t I shake the idea that she’s laughing at me inside as she watches me hurry off?

  Chapter Twelve

  “Is it just me or is it a little … weird having Hawaiian night in a Mexican resort?” I say to Brooke as we walk to the dinner buffet that night. Folksy ukulele music is tinkling through the room, the servers are wearing flowery leis, and half of the dishes in the spread involve some sort of pineapple.

  Brooke shakes her head. “This one was my dad’s request. ‘You can’t have a tropical vacation without a Hawaiian theme night!’ We figured we’d indulge him.”

  “As a good daughter should,” Mr. Tanner says in his usual expansive voice from behind us. He winks at me, and Mrs. Tanner, who’s coming along beside him, gives him a tolerant look. “Ruby, we’ve barely had a chance to catch up with you since we got here. What’s new down in Hollywood?”

  “Oh, you know, chasing after clients, enjoying the warm weather, dodging film shoots.” I was over at the Tanners’ house at least a couple nights a week when Brooke and I were teens, but I don’t think they’ve ever quite understood why I—and then she—uprooted from unpretentious, down-to-earth Philly for LA’s superficial glitz. Neither of us has yet been able to convince them that you don’t have to scrape too much to find the earth underneath the glitter.

  “And have you been seeing anyone special?” Mrs. Tanner asks. My least favorite question—and it only took her, hmmm, forty-two seconds. A new record.

  “Oh, you know, I’m so busy with work I don’t have much time for dating,” I say.

  “You don’t want to put off that side of things for too long,” Mr. Tanner says, waving the pineapple salad tongs at me. “You have your whole life to work.”

  “And she’s got her whole life to find a guy,” Brooke puts in. “Come on, Dad.”

  “That’s not true,” her mother says. She hops the line to grab some of the pineapple-glazed ham, so now I’m boxed in by Tanners on all sides, like a singledom hazing line. “Especially for women. We do have a limited time window on starting a family. Assuming you want children, Ruby?”

  She peers at me sternly, in case I declare myself gleefully childfree for life.

  “I think that’ll depend on how the rest of my life comes together,” I say tactfully.

  “It is better to have them younger, you know,” Mrs. Tanner goes on. “At first I was worried about the loss of freedom, but you know raising Brooke and Lucille has been the greatest joy of my life.”

  She pats Brooke’s cheek, and Brooke rolls her eyes—and Will appears by my shoulder, so suddenly I almost drop my plate. He reaches out to steady it, giving me a gracious smile I know not to trust because of the wicked glint in his eyes.

  “Last I heard you were still playing the field, and now you’re making plans for motherhood, Ruby? You move fast.”

  My face heats. “No plan-making,” I say quickly.

  “Don’t you think it’s a shame Ruby hasn’t found herself a proper partner?” Mrs. Tanner says to him. “I mean, just look at her.”

  They all turn to stare.

  I cringe. Is there a transporter somewhere that can beam me out of this conversation?

  “She is a lovely specimen of humanity,” Will says agreeably.

  “A young woman like that needs more in her life than her job,” Mr. Tanner puts in.

  “It does seem to take up a lot of time.” He agrees with a wicked smile. “Maybe I can talk her into a shift in priorities.” He fixes his dare of a gaze on me. “Sit with me?”

  “Well, I—” I want to say no, but I’m afraid that will set off an even longer chain of concern and scolding from the Tanners, who are gazing at Will right now as if he’s their dream guy. I do a quick calculation. Will on his own is better than Will plus parental-ish concern. “Fine. Sure.”

  I grab some of the ham and a skewer of grilled chicken, peppers, and, of course, pineapple. Will tips his head toward a nearby table. I follow him in step with the Imperial March of doom that’s playing in my head.

  “You should just be glad they don’t know you well enough to lay the same treatment on you,” I mutter as I sit down.

  “Don’t worry,” Will says. “I get plenty from my own parents, and my grandparents, and …” He waves his fork in a way that implies unending generations of unsolicited life counseling. “Although I’ll give you that no one seems to worry about ‘child-bearing windows’ on my behalf.” He pauses, studying my face. I devote my full attention to spearing a slice of the ham. His voice drops. “Have you been avoiding me?”

  “What? I— No.” I’m pretty sure my flaming cheeks are declaring me a liar.

  “If last night was—”

  “These restaurants are starting to become a real threat to the possibility of my wedding dress fitting,” Brooke says cheerfully, setting her heaping plate down next to mine. I exhale in relief.

  Will chuckles, thankfully distracted. “Should I tell the chef to take a holiday? We could scale back to self-catering PB&J tomorrow.”

  “Oh, no,” Brooke says. “I complain because I love it. But thank you for the offer.”

  Will’s gaze slides back to me, but then Maggie drops into the seat across from Brooke. I have a whole rescue squad, apparently.

  “So what’s on the schedule for tomorrow?” Maggie asks Brooke.

  “You’re going to have to fend for yourselves,” Brooke says. “I’m sorry. Trevor and I still need to practice our first dance, and there’s the playlist selections, and so on. Four more days!” She makes a face of mock panic.

  “Well, I—” Will starts, and my alarms blare. I gesture my fork at Maggie before he can jump in with any helpful suggestions that would put us in closer contact.

  “Why don’t the two of us take a little tour of the area?” I ask her hurriedly. “I haven’t done much exploring off the resort yet.”

  “Perfect,” Maggie says. “It’s a deal.” And just for a moment I feel I’ve managed to avert certain destruction.

  The whiskey sours are so good I don’t really mind when a bunch of us young’uns end up gravitating to the bar together after dinner. Brooke, Trevor, and Brad are sitting between Will and me, so I’ve got a decent buffer. And one should never underestimate the power of alcohol to take the edge off potential disaster—even when the talk strays back to college memories.

  “And then,” Colin says, finishing his tale of his most awful roommate, “I come back in to find out he’s somehow managed to turn my entire bed upside down so it’s standing on the posts. And he and the girl are still going at it underneath.”

  “You can’t underestimate the crazy ideas that can seem totally genius when you’re that drunk,” Brooke says with a wave of the little umbrella that came with her Mai Tai. “Not that I know anything about that.”

  “Yep,” I say. “I definitely don’t remember any stories involving three gallons of neon paint and a—”

  “Stop!” She holds up her hand. “I’m invoking the Girl Code. You are sworn to silence.”

  “Damn,” I say with a grin. “There goes half my maid of honor speech.”

  She sh
udders in mock horror. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard this story,” Trevor says, nudging her, and she grimaces.

  “Believe me, you don’t want to.”

  “Man,” Brad says. “Speeches. How do you even figure out what to say?”

  “Are you telling me you haven’t started on your best man toast?” Trevor kids. “I’m counting on you to make me look good here.”

  “I don’t know.” Brad rubs his mouth. “I feel as if I’m supposed to capture your epic romance somehow, but that’s not really my strong point. I could throw in something like, ‘Sometimes a person comes along who makes you think all the clichés and fairy tales could be real,’ but that’s all I’ve got.”

  My body goes as cold. Did he really say what I think I heard?

  Everyone along the bar is looking a little startled by Brad’s moment of sincerity. Maggie’s eyebrows have leapt up. “That’s actually impressively heartfelt,” she says.

  “You can’t really take credit for that line,” Will laughs. I can’t look at him. Under the chill I’m burning up. Are we really going to do this here in front of everyone? I can’t believe Brad of all people still remembers—

  “You’ve got me there,” Brad says with a chuckle. “But, you know, it’s probably the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.”

  Hold up. Which with the what now?

  My head jerks up, so abruptly Brooke glances at me, but I’m staring at Brad in disbelief.

  “Someone said that to you?” I repeat, the question slipping out before I can catch it.

  “I know, right?” Brad says. “Weirdest thing. Back in college, I come home to my room one night and find some girl’s slipped a letter under my door, talking all like that about how she’s fallen for me.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I never did figure out who ‘Deanna’ was. I wouldn’t have thought there were any girls around who saw me that way. I wish I’d at least had the chance to talk to her.”

  You are talking to her, I thought. Right now. But it wasn’t your letter.