by Laura Burton
“Hey, Lucy, do you mind making your famous hot chocolate? It’s so cold, I think we could all use a mug.” I lift a brow at my sister and she looks nonplussed at me.
“I’m going to stay out here and talk to Blaze. Alone,” I whisper.
Lucy’s mouth makes the perfect o and she winks at me. “Right. Gotcha. Okay, well, nice to meet you, Blaze.” She edges around him and unlocks the door with a fake laugh. “I’ll just be inside. Totally not spying on you.”
I want to throw my hand to my face.
When Lucy disappears behind the door, I just know she’s looking through the spyhole at us, probably waiting to catch every word.
“What are you doing here, Blaze?” I ask.
Blaze’s expression turns serious and he lifts a finger in the air. “I wrote something down… Hold on.”
Then he pulls out a piece of crinkled paper and clears his throat.
“Dear Leila,” he begins, glancing at me before reading the rest. “You told me that relationships are built on three things: honesty, trust, and commitment. I promise not to hide anything from you ever again. Unless it’s the fact that I’ve booked a surprise vacation to Barbados for your thirtieth birthday.” He looks up at me and laughs. “Oops.”
I frown. “Wait. What did you say?” I ask, but he ignores my question and continues to read. “I want you to have this rose as a sign of my trust in what we have.” He hands me the flower and I hold it, a smile creeping across my face. Blaze wipes his brow and turns over the paper to read the back. “As for commitment… I know it’s not been very long, and this might be a bit crazy, but when you know, you know. What I know for certain is that you’re my partner, the person I want to be with, and the person I want to explore the world with. Life is dull without you. And so, if you look inside those rose petals…”
I follow his instructions and find an opal ring sitting inside the rose head. “Blaze… Is this…?”
“It was my grandma’s. That’s the ring my grandpa gave to her at the top of the Eiffel Tower.”
He stuffs the paper back into his pocket, picks out the ring from the rose and holds it up. “If you’ll have me, I promise to spend the rest of my life loving you and treating you like a queen.”
“Are you asking me to marry you?” I ask, shocked.
Blaze shakes his head and goes down on one knee. “No. I’m begging you to marry me. Leila Scott, would you do me the great honor of being my wife?”
“No!” The word tumbles out of me before I can fully process the situation.
Blaze lowers his hand, his smile falling. “No?”
“You’re crazy. We just broke up and you think it’s a good idea to come to my apartment with some balloons––”
“––lanterns,” he corrects me.
“––Chuck some petals on the ground, read a nice letter and that’ll win me over?” I shake my head. “Not just win me over. You want me to marry you. Is this all just a joke to you? You do realize how ridiculous this is, right?”
Blaze clears his throat and stands. “You’re right, I don’t know what came over me. Sorry, I’ll get all of this cleaned up and get right out of your hair…”
“Good,” I say, then I throw myself into the apartment and shut the door, taking deep breaths.
“What are you doing?” Lucy asks, looking at me like I just walked through a wall.
“Did you hear that? Blaze just asked me to marry him.”
Lucy laughs. “Uh, yeah, I saw that. I’m asking what you’re doing here?”
I stare at my sister in shock. Lucy is the skeptical one. Sensible. Surely she sees that Blaze has totally lost his mind. What kind of sane person proposes after knowing someone for a matter of weeks?
Lucy huffs, and plants a hand on my shoulder. “The guy came over here, waited in the cold for probably hours… Wrote you a freaking love letter, and proposed in the most romantic way I’ve ever seen!”
“Well...” I say, starting to feel small. When she lays it all out like that, it does look pretty charming.
Lucy peers out of the window.
“And what is he doing now?” she asks. I follow her line of sight. Blaze is crouching and shuffling along the path, gathering the rose petals with his bare hands and stuffing them in his pockets.
“He’s tidying up. Then he’s going to leave.”
Lucy turns and gives me a look. The one that says, ‘Are you insane?’
I guess my knee-jerk reaction was that this was just another one of Blaze’s tricks. That he wasn’t really serious.
“He’s not joking around is he? He really means it,’’ I say, watching him gather up the petals with his jaw clenched.
“I don’t know about that,” Lucy says, as we watch him. “But looking at him right now, I see a man who is hopelessly in love and who will do anything to win you back.”
She points. “I mean, come on, how many guys do you think would be out there picking up petals off the ground after being rejected?”
“Should I go out to him?” I ask, my heartbeat quickening.
Lucy drops the blind with a shrug. “Personally, I don’t know why you’re still here talking to me. Go out and kiss your man.”
A bubble of excitement rises to my chest and I bite against a grin.
“You’re right. I mean, all of this is totally nuts. But you’re right.”
Without another thought, I wrench open the door and fly down the path. “Blaze, stop!”
He turns, still crouched, and I fall into his lap, sending him to the ground. A bunch of rose petals fly into the air. He grunts, and I take his face in my hands to kiss him as petals rain down on us like we’re in one of his movies.
Blaze holds me firm and moans against my lips, then we break apart and he looks at me with so much intensity, it sets a fire in my belly. “Leila Scott. Will you…”
I press a finger to his lips. “Kiss me again, then we’ll talk.”
Grinning, Blaze leans in, more than happy to oblige.
Epilogue
Leila
“That honeymoon was one disaster after another!” I say, climbing out of the car and taking Blaze’s hand. “You sound surprised,” Blaze says, before he sweeps me up in his arms and gives me a broad smile. I nudge his arm but I can’t hide my grin.
“We broke the bed!” I blurt, as he walks me up the garden path to our new home.
“And I think we scarred that maid for life,” he says, winking at me.
I bury my burning face into his chest and stifle a giggle.
“Don’t forget when we got locked out of our room after you had the bright idea to go skinny dipping,” he says.
I throw my head back and laugh heartily now. “And you had to go down to the front desk and ask for another key, butt naked.”
“I wasn’t butt naked!” Blaze argues, putting on a fake frown.
“That’s right.” I nudge him again. “And now I’m never going to look at palm leaves the same way again.”
Blaze unlocks the front door and takes a giant step over the threshold. “Welcome home, Mrs. Hopkins.” The words send a rush of giddiness through me and I squirm in his arms.
“Welcome home, Mr. Hopkins.”
I plant a soft kiss on his mouth and wince. My lips are raw from the week of passion.
Blaze took us to a private island owned by Carter Black, another friend of his. The fancy resort was super exclusive, complete with its own theater, tennis courts, and yacht.
Not that we spent much of our time exploring the island.
Blaze barely let me leave the bedroom.
And now I’m aching in places I didn’t know could ache. I can never go back to that island, not after the mortifying events that took place.
Blaze refuses to let me down. He kicks the front door shut and ascends the grand staircase, his wicked smile widening with every step.
“Blaze,” I say in a warning tone. “Stop smiling like that.”
“What? I can’t smile at my new wife?”
“You’re afraid of me? Are you serious? I should be the one who’s scared,” Blaze says, chuckling. “You’re a wild one.”
I bury my face in his chest and snort. “But seriously,” I say, lifting my head again. “I’m exhausted. I’m hurting all over… Please, I need…”
“A nice, hot bubble bath,” Blaze finishes for me.
He kicks open another door and carries me straight into a luxurious bathroom. I notice a huge freestanding tub in the middle of the room with a mountain of bubbles like a dome over it.
“I had the maid fill the tub for when we got home,” Blaze explains with a wink.
Finally, he lets me down, wraps his arms around my waist, and kisses my neck. I roll my head back onto his shoulder and close my eyes at his feathery touches. “A bath sounds so nice.”
Without hesitation, he unbuttons my dress and sends it slipping to the floor in one swift motion. It’s still so fresh and new being this vulnerable around Blaze. Even though we’re married, there’s just something wickedly forbidden about getting undressed in front of him in broad daylight.
Blaze seems blissfully unaware of my thoughts as he undresses me, but an AC vent blasts me with ice cold air and every part of my body shivers.
Blaze picks me up again and plonks me into the tub with a splash.
The rooms of our new home are filled with laughter, singing, and all sorts of crazy sounds. But the house sits in the middle of the countryside, with ten acres of woodland around us, so we can make as much noise as we like.
In spite of all the empty rooms, our hearts are full as we take the next few weeks to explore each other in all the ways we can think of.
“Do you regret turning me down that night?” Blaze asks as we lay in bed snuggled up under the silky, satin sheets. I rest my head on his chest, listening to the steady thump-thump of his heart, as he walks his fingers up and down my bare arm.
“No,” I say with a laugh. I glimpse Blaze’s frown and crane my neck to kiss it. “But I’m glad you were patient with me.”
Blaze’s smile is back. “But if you’d accepted my offer right away, you wouldn’t have had to wait so long for this.”
He wags his brows at me and looks at me suggestively until I let out another laugh.
Then he rolls me onto my back and hovers over me and I suddenly lose track of my thoughts.
His eyes darken as he studies me just lying there, pinned underneath him and soaking in his gorgeous pheromones.
This feels right. I’m lying in bed with my new husband, the morning sunlight is streaming in through the blinds of our bedroom, and birds are chirping happily outside.
So, our honeymoon had a few hiccups. Our dating history isn’t exactly perfect, either. And I’m fully aware that our future as Mr. and Mrs. Hopkins is destined for a disaster or two. But nothing can wipe the smile off my face right now. I know that no matter what crazy adventures we get up to, we’ll face them together.
I might have been an awful waitress, a hopeless nanny, and a terrible personal shopper, but I will do everything in my power to be the best wife, the best business owner, and someday, the very best mother.
We’re just about to kiss again when we’re interrupted by a phone vibrating on the nightstand.
“You promised no phones!” Blaze says, sitting up.
“I know, but I wanted to check in on my sisters now that we’re home,” I say, rolling over and reaching for my phone.
“Hey Chessy, we’re back!” I say, trying to suppress a giggle as Blaze starts making a trail of kisses down my spine.
“Leila. We have a situation.”
I jump up, picking up on the serious tone of my baby sister’s voice. Chessy never sounds this serious. Not since the time she called to tell me that NSYNC had split up.
“What’s wrong?”
Blaze sits up and mirrors my frown, so I put Chessy on speaker.
“Lucy has met someone.”
“What?!” Blaze and I say in unison.
Lucy. Our Lucy. Lucy, who refuses to wear anything other than leggings and baggy shirts. Lucy, who spends her free time doing geeky stuff like cosplay.
Lucy, who is so awkward around guys, she actively avoids them, swearing to be single until she meets her real life Aragorn.
That Lucy.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know all the details, but, Leila, this is big. I’ve never heard Lucy so excited about anything that didn’t have something to do with Lord of the Rings.”
Blaze and I exchange looks and I take a breath.
“Tell me everything you know.”
––Read all about Lucy in her book, The Makeover Surprise.
Read now!
If you enjoyed the book, it would mean the world to me if you left a nice review! Thank you so much for reading. - Laura
If you would like to read about Leila and Blaze’s disastrous honeymoon, click here to join Laura’s mailing list, where you’ll get access to the bonus epilogue! Sign up now!
Harry and Julie’s story can be read here.
Elle and Zane’s enemies-to-lovers story can be read here.
Preview of The Makeover Surprise
Chapter One: Lucy
They call me Goofy Lucy at work... It’s not the nickname I pictured for myself as a grown adult. I was student body president in high school, and the standby valedictorian in college. Yes. The standby––it’s a thing. If the real valedictorian got sick at graduation, I was there to jump in and take over.
Did I secretly wish Lauren Jones would catch mono on the eve of graduation so I could give the speech? Maybe.
Did I completely humiliate myself by singing the national anthem louder than anyone else and in an entirely different key? Yes.
But what I did not do is work my butt off all these years so I could be called Goofy Lucy in the workplace.
Then again, I never imagined I would end up working for a small printing press, boxed into a four by five cubicle that always smells like cheesy nachos. The best part is, I’m strategically positioned right underneath the AC duct, so I spend most of the year with a cold.
Marty, the guy who works in the office cubicle next to mine, interrupts my pleasant trip down misery lane when he pops his head over the modesty screen. “Hey, can I borrow a pen?”
He knows he can ask me. It's no secret that I’ve got a whole bunch inside the top drawer of my desk. I open it up and hum to myself, looking at them sitting in a color coordinated line.
Why can’t they call me Organized Lucy? Or Dependable Lucy?
I’ve never taken a sick day, not even when I probably should have, and I submit my work well before deadlines.
But no, I'm Goofy Lucy.
All because of that one time I told a joke and laughed so hard at it that I snorted. I mean, sure, it was a momentary lapse of social skills. And yes, okay, maybe my delivery was terrible. But do I deserve to be punished for the rest of my working life for that? I think not.
The thing that happened was, Helen, our office manager, had brought in the top tier of her wedding cake for all of us to share. But it was peak summer and she left it sitting beside a window. The icing went from solid to liquid super-fast, dripping off the fruitcake until the whole thing started to look like a molten waxwork doll.
“Uh oh, looks like somebody’s having a melt down!” I blurted.
Helen’s eyes turned red and the whole office just stared at me in silence.
But come on, melt down… the cake. I can’t seriously be the only one that thinks that’s funny.
I laughed all alone to it anyway, until I let out a gigantic snort and a massive snot bubble. Then the room erupted with laughter. Only they weren’t laughing with me. They were laughing at me.
Anyway, it was one time. One time. I haven’t cracked a single joke since then. But I guess all it takes is one slip. My mind-voice lets out a big
sigh and I hand Marty a pen with a smile as solid as cement. I hear Joe cough from behind the modesty screen on my other side. “Hey, Goofy Lucy,” he says. “Guess who tells bad jokes and sounds like a tiny owl?”
“Who?” I ask, and cringe as I catch myself a little too late. The wave of chuckles from the rest of the office grates my nerves like a file on metal.
Really? They find that one funny? Sometimes I wonder if it’s a sexist thing. Maybe if Marty had been the one who’d said the cake was having a meltdown, Joe would have chuckled and said, “Good one,” or something. Probably wouldn’t have started calling him Goofy Marty.
Besides Helen, I’m the only woman in this office, and I just know if I was a man, people wouldn’t give me such a hard time.
If I knew working a 9 to 5 meant soul-crushingly dull days surrounded by middle-aged men with the maturity of prepubescent boys, I would have dived head-first into some other career. Sometimes I stare at the map of Middle Earth that I made my screensaver, and I imagine myself there instead. All those elves, goblins, and dwarves… Sigh. It’s my happy place.
I mean, sure, a trip out for some food could mean becoming troll food myself. But it’s whatever. Anywhere has to better than here; this dirty office block in Newark where everyone calls me that ridiculous name.
I’m not even expecting some nickname like Sexy Lucy or Leggy Lucy because I’m honestly not built that way. Even in my tallest pair of heels, I’m barely four inches over five feet, and no matter how many fashion magazines my sisters force me to look at, I still don’t have the faintest idea how to dress like society expects a thirty-year-old woman to dress.
And you do not want to get me started on my hair. If these strands could talk, they would tell you they need to speak to a therapist about an identity complex. It’s this really awkward shade between dark blonde and light brown. Dull. Boring. So I scrape it back into a messy bun every day and just move on.
My go-to outfit is a pair of black leggings and a baggy over-shirt. What can I say? It’s functional and comfortable. I’m relieved bottle rim glasses are back in style too because I’ve been sporting them since 1999.
