Thick As Thieves: A Romantic Comedy

by Julie Olivia

  “I know,” I say. “I’m done with men prioritizing everything over me.”

  “I was done prioritizing anything over those cute overalls the day I met you.”

  “I know that too.” I smile, and his breaks across his face, running ear to ear.

  “I’m sorry you lost your job.”

  “I’m interviewing,” I say with a shrug.

  “They’d be stupid not to hire you.”

  I squint at him. “Don’t offer me a job.”

  He laughs. “Wouldn’t dream of it. You’re too smart for us. It’d make the CEO look bad.”

  “Couldn’t have that.”

  “Fran…” Owen steps forward, his large feet bowing out around mine as he takes my hands in his. “I have been crazy about you since the day I saw you. You have to know that. And listen, if you don’t want me because of this mess, I get it, but I’ll be honest…I’m not gonna stop trying until you see that we’re made for each other.”

  I choke out a laugh because it’s so stupid how true it is.

  “I trust you,” I say. “I don’t know why because you literally cost me my job, but I do. Plus, Leia likes you, and what am I supposed to do about that, you know? She’s sick with worry that you’re not around.”

  Owen tilts his head to the side. “You’ll date me because Leia is sad?”

  “Spoiled rotten, that one.”

  With a sharp inhalation, Owen leans over me, tilting his head down and pressing the top of his forehead to mine, and for some reason, it just fits. We meld together like two people trying to become one, like we’re trying to hear each other’s thoughts, but we don’t have to try. I feel them floating between us, shimmering in the sunlight of our relationship like a moment we’ll keep forever.

  I love you.

  I love you too.

  Epilogue / Francesca

  “What if he fell?”

  I ring the counter bell over and over, eventually transitioning to the tune of Jingle Bells before Owen reaches out to grab my wrist.

  “And ringing the bell will bring him to?” he asks with a shake of his head.

  “It’s possible.”

  He pulls my hand away from the desk and entwines our fingers together. I don’t protest because our hands are always better like that anyway.

  “Everyone needs the holiday spirit to rouse them,” I say with a slight shrug.

  Owen exhales, glancing at the cheap papasan on the floor, just like mine was just four months ago when I bought it. It must be a revolving ‘special.’

  “You know, I bet we could just take the thing,” he muses, sticking out his bottom lip in a Whatcha think? gesture.

  “Rude,” I whisper-hiss. “Lara gave us the money to buy her a new chair. We’re buying the chair.”

  After I burned her chair, I let her borrow mine as a replacement. I didn’t have much time to lie around watching documentaries anyway. She ended up falling in love with it—cheapness and all—and insisted I seek out a new one as penance for destroying the former.

  As is the norm with this shop, we’ve been here for well over ten minutes, and that simply will not do.

  I jolt forward again and ring the bell.

  “Oy!” I yell.

  “How about we play a game while we wait?” Owen asks, tugging me back with our connected hands.

  “I didn’t know you brought cards,” I respond sarcastically, and his lips form a straight line as he purses them. “Fine. Can the game be how fast can Fran run to the back of the store and find the next associate?”

  “No,” he responds, slowly drawing out the word. “How about I spy?”

  “I spy with my little eye a chair that I want to purchase.”

  When I tilt my head to the side, he tries not to look amused, but I know him better than that.

  “Okay, how about Two truths and a lie?”

  “My name is Francesca. I want to buy this chair. I am perfectly happy with the level of service in this facility.”

  Owen walks away from the counter, dragging me along with him by the hand, and I giggle, knowing I’ve stumped him perfectly. I love when I can do that.

  “I think we should pick out a throw pillow,” he says. “How about you?”

  “Done,” I say.

  We walk to the corner of the store with the twenty or so select designer pillows on display. It’s surprising that this place has any designers worth buying, but if the comfort of the chair says anything, it’s that there’s a reason this place is still in business.

  I turn to Owen. “So, what are we shopping for?”

  “How about an apartment?”

  “Mine or yours?” I ask.

  He clicks his teeth, tilting his head. “I don’t know…how about both?”

  My stomach flips, but it barely startles me. I’m so accustomed to being giddy with Owen.

  “Are you asking me to move in with you?” I deadpan, a smile plastered to my face.

  “Oh, no, absolutely not. But I am going to ask my girlfriend later today.”

  “When she’s overwhelmed by an orgasm, unable to say no?”

  “You betcha.”

  I lean into his shoulder as he disconnects our hands and wraps his arm around my shoulder, pulling me in close. His great big smile looks down at me, and in his embrace, I feel grateful for everything. For David who gave me the push, knowingly or not, to move to New York. For the candle that burned my recliner. For New York raising such a wonderful man for me to love. And, weirdly enough, for this store, for being so horribly staffed that I could meet him.

  Owen kisses the crown of my head, blowing air onto my bun and nosing it out of the way before kissing me again.

  “Want to know a secret?” he asks.

  “Is it about your girlfriend?”

  “It’s about my best friend.”

  I exhale. “Fine, go.”

  “I’m also planning a dinner to celebrate her brand-new job as some super sexy manager.”

  I smile under his chin, nuzzling farther into his neck, planting a small kiss just below his Adam’s apple.

  “She’ll love it.”

  “I know. But, shh, don’t tell.”

  “I would never.”

  I lean back so as to steal another kiss from him, reveling in the moment, in him, and in life. He can call our relationship what he wants, but at the end of the day, we both know what we really are.

  Best friends.

  Two peas in a pod.

  Thick as thieves.

  THE END

  Nice to See You!

  Thanks for reading! :)

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  About “In Too Deep”

  In Too Deep is a full-length, standalone romantic comedy! It is the first book in the Into You Series.

  They say not to stick your pen in company ink. Does that apply to graphic designers as well?

  This year, I decided to check off a couple life-altering items: Ditch the cheating ex, move into my own apartment, and finally pursue my dream career. When I land a graphic design job at Treasuries Inc., the start-up darling of the marketing world, I think I have it all figured out.

  Oh, naïve little me.

  I, Grace Holmes, am not related to the great detective, Sherlock. If I were, maybe I could solve the mysterious case of why the universe gave me my dream job, but then paired it with my new boss, Cameron Kaufman.

  Cameron Kaufman is a man with a plan--if that plan is at
tempting to stilt my career. He's arrogant, cynical, and ready to spit sarcasm any chance he can. But, most of all, he is swoon-worthy to a degree of unfairness. Seriously--dimples and a winning ass? Give me a break here!

  So, of course, we're hit with a big project on my first week. Of course, now my boss and I have to spend late nights together. And, of course, I'm getting more attracted to his snarky comments as each day passes.

  We both have mouths that could kill. My only problem is that I can't stop picturing what else he can do with his, or whether my job is worth risking to find out.

  1. Grace

  Does love even exist beyond dogs?

  In my case, definitely not.

  I hear that golden retrievers are one of the smartest breeds. If that fact is true, then maybe my dog Hank would have had the common sense to leave Joe earlier than I did.

  Even now, mere feet away from me with his graying fur and wise old age, I bet he’s wondering if I’ll ever learn.

  Master Yoda’s got nothing on this pup.

  He walks over and plops himself beside me, laying his head inches from mine so I can scratch behind his ear.

  I roll over on my stomach and reach out to swipe at the laptop laying inches from my fingertips. With a groan and all the strength I can muster, I curl my toes and push myself just the one extra inch I need to snatch the computer, slide it in front of me, and pop it open.

  Hank army crawls closer to me as I go straight for my email, whining softly as if he doesn’t think I should look at them, either. Told you: Smart as a whip.

  “I know I shouldn’t,” I say, reaching down to poke his nose. “But I’m a glutton for punishment.”

  I open the inbox and find exactly what I thought I would find: Another email from Joe. Ten, to be exact. He’s deteriorated the formal structure of emails into that of a three-year-old. I can commend his effort, at least.

  “Grace, answer my calls,” “I’m a huge douche,” and the coveted: “I miss you.”

  “Yep, definitely punished myself with that one,” I mutter with a half-hearted smile, reaching over and ruffling Hank’s ears until he wags his tail. The old boy leans over and lays his paw over my hand, adding in a lick on my cheek for good measure. He doesn’t gloat about the fact that he was right because he’s a gentleman, damn it.

  The worst thing about being a relationship in your late-twenties is the inevitable process of moving out once you and your once fabulous beau break-up. It gets even trickier if you’ve bought a house together. It’s kind of dumb to buy a house with your unwed significant other, but I am just that brand of stupid.

  The custody battle between the ex and I for my loyal golden retriever wasn’t even a discussion. Hank was my high school graduation gift and I’d throw Joe off a cliff before I’d give up Hank. But who wouldn’t want an excuse to throw their ex-boyfriend off a cliff anyway?

  But here I am now: A lonely, twenty-seven-year-old woman lying on the floor of a mostly empty apartment. I’m waiting on my friend Ramona to arrive in a moving truck with some hand-me-down furniture to fill this place, but as of right now I only have a suitcase full of clothes, my old laptop, various art supplies shoved into a box, and my trusty dog, Hank.

  I look to my watch and see that I have a bit of time to sketch, and there’s no time like the present to focus on something much more enjoyable. I whip out my trusty tablet and pen and begin sketching anything and everything. Lines, dots, swirls… What do they make? What’s my heart telling me?

  That’s a bunch of hippie nonsense, I think with a roll of my eyes. This line tells me, “Grace, be better,” and this one says, “You’re talking to yourself again; stop it.”

  That’s an “aggressive line,” as my former art professors would say.

  I’m still getting back into the groove of it all, to be honest. I’ve been in a relationship for the past two years. It was happy until it wasn’t. For the record, a woman not being happy due to a man is just her telling the world that it has successfully beaten her down, and I will not have that.

  I bite the end of my drawing pen, trying to brainstorm something new; something original. I sketch out a couple things—mostly drawings of my lazy dog—when I hear the squeak of wheels coming from a heavy vehicle that most likely hasn’t been oiled in a year. I get up, pace to the front door, and open it to find Ramona and her husband Wes hopping out from each side of the moving truck.

  Ramona looks up, shielding her eyes from the sun. Her shorts are mega-short, accentuating thighs muscled from years of running. She’s almost never caught dead without a crop top with self-printed text saying something pseudo-clever. Today’s winning outfit has a cow with text below saying: Moo-ve it or lose it. I have no doubt in my mind she made this shirt specifically for moving day.

  “There’s my sunshine!” she yells up at me, waving her hand around wildly.

  “My day did not breathe life until I saw you!” I call down, and she laughs.

  Wes throws me a quick wave, then comes up behind her and picks her up, walking both of them to the back of the truck, pulling the handle down, and releasing it back up to reveal the packed trunk. He is inarguably a very good-looking man: high cheekbones, brilliant green eyes, and toned arms covered in tattoo sleeves that could never be misconstrued as anything other than pieces of art.

  Ramona and Wes met during their freshman year of college, and they’ve been inseparable ever since. They shared everything together: They started as undeclared majors, ended up going through the same psychology degree, and now they own a practice together with Ramona conducting behavioral therapy in children and Wes handling couples’ counseling. They’re a powerhouse couple if I’ve ever seen one, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous of their perfect little life.

  I close Hank up in the kitchen so he can’t run off and then trot down to the parking lot.

  “You didn’t take anything?” Ramona asks, pulling me into a hug before I even finish stepping off the last stair.

  “Nah,” I say, falling into her embrace. There’s nothing more reassuring than the hug of a close friend—especially one taller than you with larger tits. I don’t care who you are; they’re like pillows just waiting to provide comfort. “The furniture didn’t really mean much to me. But can I have the house itself back?”

  “That isn’t how it works, chica.”

  “Yeah, I know. But I put my heart and soul into that house.”

  “Well, even that beautiful house couldn’t save your relationship, I’m afraid.” Ramona exhales, pulling away and scanning me up and down.

  Wes shifts some items in the back of the truck and calls down to me, “Sorry he’s a cheating asshole, Grace.”

  I shrug. “Any surprises there?”

  “No, not really,” Wes responds without skipping a beat, and a weak smile pulls on my lips. “He wore a flipped-up collar”—Wes hops down from the back—“who does that?”

  “Joe,” Ramona and I chorus in response.

  Thankfully, it has no edge to it that could instill some form of confidence in the human being attached to the name.

  Ramona runs her hands through my thick red locks and cringes. “Geez, you look like you haven’t washed your hair in a week.”

  “Rude.” I laugh, then run my own hands through the knotted mess, which halts my sense of humor. Yeah, okay, it’s been a couple days… “I was gonna do it today.”

  “That’s what we all say,” Ramona says, touching her flawless curly black hair.

  I narrow my eyes. My gingery red hair betrays me every time I so much as sweat for a minute like it’s shouting, “Hear ye! Hear ye! Girl with unwashed hair!”

  “Hank was supposed to remind me,” I mumble. Dog traitor once again! “And hey, this doesn’t have to do with Joe!” I say, defensive the second I get a side-eye of pity from Wes. “I’m over him.”

  “It was a long time coming,” Ramona says with a reassuring head nod, looking away from me.

  Although her face was turned away from me ju
st so I honestly can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not. She knows her expression will give her away every time.

  “It was!” I call up to her as she hops on the back of the truck to grab a box and hand it down to me. “I think.”

  I am over Joe. I’m pretty sure. Listen, after months of not sleeping together, it’s like the post-mortem had come and gone, and the only thing I had left to focus on was getting the heck out of there as soon as I could before my soul ripped apart even more.

  Lesson to all ladies: Love is a lie. Men will find some way to seek out other women. Let’s all just get dildos and call it a day.

  “Fuck him,” Ramona shrugs then laughs. “Well, don’t, but… screw him.”

  “I get your point.”

  We spend the next few hours going up and down the staircases to my new second-floor apartment with everything from living room side tables to a decorative giraffe that has wide eyes and kind of makes me uncomfortable.

  “No,” I say, shoving it into her arms the second I pull it out the box. “Absolutely not. Either you take it back or it will be going in the kitchen cabinet before I find it in the doorway of my bedroom at two in the morning.”

  “Oh, we got that in Africa!” she says clapping her hands together. “It’s some tribal…”

  “Yep, gonna cut you off there.” I shake my head.

  “Guess we won’t be using the camera we installed in there.” Wes winks at me.

  Ramona sighs. “So much work down the drain.”

  I place the box I’m carrying down next to the crisp black new TV. “I’m beginning to think this isn’t just hand-me-downs.”

  Ramona and Wes cringe at each other. They try to hide it, and I know they’re being nice.

  “I’ll take you to some fancy restaurant,” I say. Well, given that my bank account statement nearly made me sob, I’m not sure that’s a great idea—even if my pride is bleeding at the thought of being a charity case.