Crazy Sweet Love: Contemporary Romance Novella, Clean Interracial Romantic Comedy (Flower Shop Romance Book 3)

by Marisa Logan

  I decided to send a text, figuring that he would get it when he was done talking to his ex. Then I sat, and waited, shivering a bit as the temperature dropped. As more time passed, I was starting to get worried. We were supposed to be on the road already. We had a couple more hours of driving to do, and the hotel would already be crowded, making check-in a nightmare. I had hoped to get there early. Now I was starting to wonder if we'd make it at all.

  More than two hours had passed by the time I saw Tom's car pulling into the parking lot. I stood up and stretched my stiff legs, hugging my arms around myself. TJ got out of the car and stalked right past me, heading up the stairs and into the apartment. Tom walked up to me, a tired expression on his face.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey.” He forced a smile. “I'm sorry about that. I really am. We got into this whole...thing. About you, and how she didn't want you picking him up, and...and I'm sorry.”

  “It's okay.” I pulled him into my arms and held him close. He leaned his head against my shoulder. The tensions lowly left his body and he relaxed into my embrace. I stroked his hair, savoring the moment.

  When he finally pulled away, he looked calmer. “I can get the rest of our stuff packed up quick. It shouldn't be long, then we can leave.”

  “Okay. Yeah. Sure.” I gave him a kiss, then got into my car and sat to wait. I watched him climb up the stairs to get TJ and collect their bags, wondering if I'd ever truly be a part of their family, or if, like his ex-wife had implied, I'd always be an outsider.

  Chapter 9

  We got to the hotel late. TJ was already sleeping in the backseat by the time we got there, and Tom had to carry him upstairs. By the time we got our bags into the room and got everything situated, Tom and I were so exhausted that we crawled into bed with our clothes still on and fell right to sleep.

  We were up early the next morning, getting everything set up downstairs. The hotel had devoted several rooms to vendors, with tables lining the room and forming multiple aisles for the guests to weave between. There were people selling toys, jewelry, clothing, books, comics, and all manner of homemade artistic creations. I ended up at a table in the back corner, next to a man selling pewter statues to my left, and a couple selling copies of their urban fantasy novel on my right.

  I was dressed in a steampunk-style cowboy outfit, complete with brass goggles on my cowboy hat and a sixshooter/death-ray holstered at my side. I set my paintings out, spreading them across the table and standing a few up on the ground, leaning against the table legs. At one end of the table I set a big five-gallon jug from the museum's water cooler, with a “Save the Clock Tower” flyer taped to the front. I set the flyers and pamphlets on the table where they'd be within easy each of the customers, then settled in to wait.

  It took awhile before anyone made their way back to my part of the vendor room. A few people politely looked at my paintings without making a purchase. Some tossed a bit of loose change into the donation jug. We handed out some flyers, and explained the story of the clock to anyone patient and polite enough to stand there and listen. Though by the time a couple of hours had passed, we had barely raised any money, and I'd only managed to sell two paintings.

  “We need to rethink our strategy,” Tom said. “Is it always like this? People browsing and moving on?”

  “Most years, yes.” I sighed. “It gets busier in the afternoon, and there's still tomorrow, too. But we're nowhere close to getting the ball rolling yet.” The jug probably had less than $50 in it, and while the online fundraiser was picking up some steam, it still hadn't come close to the first $1000 yet.

  “We've got to ask for help,” TJ said. He grabbed an armful of flyers and moved around the table into the aisle. “I bet everyone will help if we ask.”

  “TJ, don't go bothering people,” I said, holding a hand up in protest. But it was too late. He was already talking to the man selling the pewter statues and handing him a flyer.

  “Excuse me, sir.” TJ looked up at the man with a bold posture, his back straight and his chin raised. “Will you help us save the clock tower?”

  “What's up, little Marty McFly?” the man asked. He looked over the flyer. “That poor clock. Looks like a thing of beauty.”

  “It's been broken for years,” TJ said. He launched into an explanation about the clock's history, repeating all the details I'd explained to him. When he finished his pitch, he asked, “Can you help?”

  “Sure thing, little man,” the vendor said. He opened his metal cash box and pulled out a five dollar bill, then dropped it into the jug. “Happy to help the cause.”

  “But can you help tell people about it, too?” TJ handed the man a dozen flyers. “We need everyone to help.”

  The man looked at me and Tom, smirking. “Sure thing,” he told TJ. He set the flyers at the front of his table, where they were flanked by pewter automatons and statues of men wearing goggles and holding wrenches. “I'm sure I could send some people your way.”

  Tom and I watched as TJ moved from table to table, recruiting one vendor after another to our cause. I would never have been so bold as to bother strangers who were here trying to sell their own goods, but TJ seemed to have no problem with asking anyone and everyone for help. And he didn't just settle for people saying “Sure” or “No Problem.” He didn't let people ignore him. He pressed until people promised to help, declaring their support for our cause.

  And somehow, it worked. I didn't know if it was because he was a cute kid that people couldn't say no to. Or if pledging their support out loud made people feel a personal sense of obligation to follow through on their word. But dozens of other vendors in the room started sending their customers down to our table, where people tossed their change, and sometimes bills, into our donation jar. Others started going online to pledge a donation through the fundraiser site, and whenever I checked my phone, I saw the #SaveTheClockTower hashtag exploding with tweets from people I'd never met.

  The biggest help, however, came when TJ headed into the next room, where some of the fair's celebrity performers were signing autographs. The fair didn't draw any big time movie stars or anything like that, but there was a huge niche for steampunk-style music and chap hop, and some of the singers and musicians were really big in the indie scene.

  I followed TJ into the autograph room to try to stop him before he got into trouble, but by the time I got there, he was already talking to the performers from one of the bands. A woman dressed in a pseudo-1800s costume and wearing makeup that made her look like a robot was listening to TJ's pitch with a big smile on her face.

  “Will you help us get people to save the clock tower?” TJ asked, handing her a flyer.

  “Aww, well how could I say no?” the woman said. “Tell you what, sweet boy, I'll make sure to let people know. Can't let that poor clock stay broken. For all I know, it's a relative of mine.” She winked and tapped on some of the clockwork parts sewn into her wardrobe, all part of her character as a steam-powered automaton.

  “Thank you,” TJ said.

  “Thanks,” I added, putting an arm around TJ's shoulders and steering him away before he embarrassed me in front of one of my favorite bands. I almost stopped and asked for an autograph, but unlike TJ, I just didn't have the nerve.

  I brought TJ back to our table. We were a little bit swamped, and the water jug was starting to fill up nicely. I had no idea how much money was in it, but I saw a few people dropping in $5's and $10's along with all the loose change. Tom was handing out museum tickets to everyone who made a donation in any amount, even just a handful of change. I had no idea how many of these people would actually drive all the way out to Western Pennsylvania to come to our little railroad museum, but if even a handful of them were from that area, it would be worth it.

  The live music shows started later that night. One of my regrets every year was that I usually didn't get the chance to actually see the bands perform. Going to see the show would mean spending a couple of hours away from my table, a
nd that was time I needed to spend selling paintings and collecting donations. Though the good news was that the hotel piped the band's music through the speakers, so everyone in the vendor room still got to hear it, even if we couldn't see the band on stage on the other side of the hotel.

  After they'd played several songs, the band took a break. And that's when I heard the woman TJ had talked to speaking into the microphone. “Hello boys and girls! Thank you all so much for coming. We hope you're having a great time. And if you are, don't forget we've got CDs and merchandise for sale after the show, or you can check out our website.”

  There was a pause while the audience cheered. I could hear their shouts without needing the speakers. Then the singer continued, “And I've got a special little story to share. I met a little boy not long ago who I think was a mini-Marty McFly. He asked me for some help with a special mission, and now, my wonderful people, I'm asking you. They're trying to raise money to save the clock tower!”

  There were more cheers, while the singer read off the details from our flyer, including the fundraiser website and our #SaveTheClockTower hashtag. “So, beautiful people,” she said, “spare these poor folks a buck and help them get their clock fixed. Cause we all know, there's nothing more tragic than clockwork that doesn't tick!”

  After that, the online fundraiser simply exploded. We started getting a landslide of donations, and when I checked my phone, Twitter was abuzz with people tweeting pictures of the band along with links to the fundraiser and our hashtag. The band's official Twitter account even posted a link, and it picked up thousands of retweets. Before I knew it, our donations crossed the $5000 mark, then $10,000. The surge trickled down within a few hours after the show ended, but the signal boost had helped get us enough attention that there was a slow but steady stream of support after that.

  The fundraiser continued for a few weeks after the fair was over, and we passed our goal with more than enough money to spare. By the time the website shut down on the last day, we had enough to pay for all the replacement parts and the installation. Plus there was a new surge of business at the museum after all of the publicity from our fundraiser, and between the new flow of guests and the leftover money from the clock repair, we were even able to hire a new part-time janitor.

  Chapter 10

  A few months later, I stood at the front of a large crowd gathered in front of the museum. Camera crews from the local news stations were there, as were some excited people from the Steampunk World's Fair who'd made the drive out to Brandenburg for the special day. Tom and TJ stood near the front of the crowd, applauding with everyone else as we got ready to flip the switch and start the clock up for the first time.

  I stood beside the head curator as he gave a speech about the significance of the clock, its history, and what it represented for the museum and the community at large. I didn't really need to listen to the speech. I knew what it represented for me, and that was all that mattered.

  “And now,” he said as he reached the conclusion of the speech, “our very own Amy Loch, the person responsible for what we've accomplished here today, will throw the switch and start the clock!”

  I stepped up, greeted by a round of applause. I waved to the crowd, and gave a special smile to Tom. I felt like he and TJ should be up here with me. Getting the clock fixed had really been their idea, after all.

  “Tell me when,” I said, putting my hands on the big lever. No one in the crowd knew that it wasn't really hooked up to anything. The lever was just sticking out of a large metal box. A mechanic up in the tower would turn on the power at the same moment that I threw the lever, giving the ceremonial act the illusion of reality.

  The curator looked at his watch, waiting for the right moment, then started counting. “Ten...nine...”

  The crowd shouted along with him. “Eight...seven...”

  I waved to everyone again, then grabbed the lever with both hands, making a big production out of it. I waited for the countdown to reach the end.

  “Three...two...one...”

  The crowd started cheering as I pulled the lever. At the same time, the clock up above started ticking. The camera crews got the whole thing on tape, ready for the nightly news. I made the rounds, shaking hands with a few VIPs, particularly some of the donors who had given a hefty amount to the fundraiser.

  Before long, the crowd started to disperse. Some went inside the museum to go check out the exhibits, including the all new exhibit upstairs, where the inner workings of the clock were now on display behind a glass case. We'd also posted some historical news articles and pictures going back to the year the building was built, laying out the entire history of the museum and the clock itself. Included in the display was a more recent news article about the fundraising campaign, along with my picture. I'd become a permanent part of history.

  I headed over to the little buffet table we'd set out, making myself a plate for lunch. Tom joined me, while TJ peppered the curator with questions about one of our exhibits.

  “So,” Tom said as he filled a plate of his own. “I've been thinking.”

  “Oh yeah?” I eyed him sidelong while I sucked a bit of mustard off my thumb, wishing I had a free hand for a napkin.

  “Yeah. About the future, and where things are going.”

  I paused and stared at him, my heart starting to race. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean us.”

  I held my plate carefully in both hands, worried that I might drop it. “What have you been thinking about us?”

  He led me off to the side, away from a few guests who were browsing the buffet table. “Well, I've been thinking that I spend a lot of time out here. And we both spend a lot of time driving halfway across the state to see each other. And, well, my lease is about to come up...”

  I licked my lips, studying his face. He blushed and looked down, scratching the back of his head. “The thing is,” he said, “I don't want to move away from TJ. But at the same time, we're getting to the point that this is becoming something serious. And you have your job here and I have mine, but it seems like we could probably figure out some middle ground.”

  “Middle ground?” I asked, frowning.

  “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, for a place. For us. Our place.”

  “Tom,” I said. “Are you asking me to move in with you?”

  “I think I am.”

  I smiled. “Well I think I might say yes.”

  I had to admit, it was something I'd already thought about. I lived about five minutes from the museum, which was really convenient for work. But really inconvenient when my boyfriend lived an hour away. But I could see us together in a nice little apartment, somewhere halfway between us. Where we could find a balance in our lives, while taking the next step on our journey together.

  I leaned in to kiss him, though our plates got tangled and nearly spilled. We both laughed, awkwardly shuffling our plates into one hand so we could kiss.

  “Does TJ know?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Yeah. I asked him how he felt about it before I asked you.”

  “And?”

  “And he loves the idea. He wants to know if he can move in with us.”

  I laughed, covering my mouth with one hand. “Oh, I can't imagine his mother would ever agree to that.”

  “No,” he said, sighing. “In fact, I'm sure she'll raise a fuss about him visiting on weekends once you're living with me. But there's nothing she can do about it. I have my visitation rights guaranteed on paper by the courts, and I'll fight her til the end of days to keep them.”

  I slipped an arm around him and kissed his cheek. “Well, even if he can't live with us, maybe one day we'll be able to give him a new little brother or sister.”

  “Oh?” His eyes lit up at that idea.

  I smirked, giving him a teasing look. “I'm not saying any time soon. But it's definitely something I want.”

  “Me too.”

  A few weeks after that, we'd found a place to live. I packe
d up my things, leaving the apartment I'd been in since I got out of college, and loaded everything in a truck to take to my new home. I left behind most of my old, worn out furniture, though I brought the bunk bed to put in TJ's room for when he visited, and to maybe have a place for another kid to sleep one day soon. Tom and I hung my paintings around the apartment, alongside his family photos and other memorabilia. And we set up a new art studio in one corner of the dining room, near the sliding glass door that led to the balcony. On nicer days, I moved my easel out onto the balcony and painted under the shade of the elm tree outside our apartment.

  And when I started painting another clockwork doll, she wasn't broken. All of her gears and cogs were perfectly in place, everything fitting together in clockwork precision. I realized now that the clock tower hadn't been the only thing in the museum that was broken, but all of the parts were mended now, and I was ready to keep on ticking, all the way into my new, bright future.

  THE END

  Bonus Book 2 -- My Makeover

  A Contemporary Romance

  (Clean Version)

  HEATHER LOGAN

  Copyright © 2016 by Heather Logan

  All rights reserved, worldwide.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Book Description

  New job. New apartment. New stylish friend at work. Things are looking up, right?

  It would help if your new boss paid any attention to you at all, and you knew the first thing about being a secretary for the head of an international trade corporation.