The Holly Hearth Romantic Comedy Collection

by K B Cinder

  My heart swelled as the first genuine smile of the night touched my lips. I treasured him too. His laugh. His wit. His determination. I’d never met someone so passionate.

  I didn’t know how we’d make it work once filming wrapped, but I was willing to try anything. Maybe I’d look at schools to transfer to in LA. There had to be at least one culinary school that would accept my credits. I only had two semesters left, and I could follow him anywhere.

  Sure, it was a little unconventional, and we’d always be a little lopsided. He was thirty, mature, and world famous for his acting. I was twenty-one, still in school, and slowly but surely building my culinary chops. But that didn’t mean we couldn’t work. Teamwork made the dream work… right?

  “You will both hold a special place in my memories, but I only have room for one girl in my heart,” he began, his face falling hard as if he were struggling with the decision. “It’s been an incredible ride, but only one of you can be my girl.”

  Staci laced her fingers in mine—a ritual repeated every elimination between girls. It was a good thing she remembered because I was too lost in Theron to remember I had hands, let alone to grab one of hers.

  Silence cloaked the lanai, the beachfront paradise pricked with tension. We might’ve all known what was coming, but it didn’t make the moment any less intense. A long day of photoshoots left everyone on edge.

  Theron swallowed hard, his jaw stiff. “Talita, our journey ends here.”

  A hot rush hit my cheeks as Staci snapped her head to look at me, her boa constrictor-like fingers cutting off the circulation of mine. “What the fuck?”

  Ditto.

  But I couldn’t speak.

  There were no words as my time with Theron collapsed in a slow spiral, each tumble hurting more than the last. If it weren’t for my heart pounding in my ears, I would have sworn the organ snapped in half.

  Theron’s eyes fell to the ground, the coward not even having the balls to look me in the eye as he delivered the fatal blow to our relationship.

  “CUT!” Umi shrieked, ripping her headset off as she rushed forward. “Staci, keep your commentary to yourself! We don’t have time for retakes!”

  Staci squeezed my fingers once more and mouthed a sorry before dropping my hand.

  I blinked back tears, trying to salvage what was left of my heart. He’d kissed me goodbye that morning, knowing damn well what he would do. Bastard.

  “Suck it up, buttercup!” Umi growled as she tossed a tissue packet at my chest. “Your makeup will not be retouched.”

  A boom mic dipped closer as the packet landed in my makeshift cleavage, the sound tool sure to pick up every sniffle and cry.

  I pulled out a crunchy tissue and dabbed at my eyes. Not because I cared about the stupid makeup. Fuck the makeup. I wouldn’t give anyone the pleasure of seeing tears. They wanted pain for ratings, but my feelings weren’t for fodder.

  Umi clapped her hands again as she stormed off set, louder than before. “Reshoot the reaction!” she demanded, overstepping Felipe as usual. “I want to see you happy, Staci! The star of Sinners just picked you! Get it together!”

  The beach turned into a blur behind Theron as the cameras started rolling again, the tears too strong to hold back any longer.

  Staci cheered and ran to embrace Theron the second time around, her oil-slick arms wrapping around the man I loved.

  So much for being his girl.

  The Fix Up was more of a fuckup.

  1

  Talita / Nine Months Later

  “I’ll have a large pepperoni pie, please.”

  I pushed aside the glossy menu fresh from the day’s mail, a picture of pizza dough and tomatoes on its cover. Here’s for hoping the new place tasted as good as its fancy-schmancy menus looked.

  Movement in the living room drew my eye, where I discovered my older sister, Karine, waving a sheet of lined paper with get breadsticks scrawled in purple marker. At a whopping five-foot-nothing, I’d almost missed the brunette. Hard to believe since she had a mouth like a megaphone most of the time.

  Karine was her full name, of course. If I called her that aloud, she might smack me at the formality. If you were family, she was Rini. Just like our little sister was Raya. Once in a while I was Lita, but less often. Mama liked my name too much.

  “And an order of breadsticks, too,” I added.

  I could have made either myself, but I wasn’t in the mood to cook or tackle a stack of dishes. It was bad enough knowing that my dirtiest laundry was less than an hour away from airing to the world. I might as well drown my sorrows in takeout grease.

  “Anything else?” the clerk asked as the restaurant kitchen clamored in the background. “We’ve got a special on marshmallow-stuffed sriracha zeppoles tonight.”

  I cringed. “Nope, that’s all.”

  “Ok, it’ll be $24.91. The delivery window is about an hour. Cash or card?”

  I reached for my handbag, pulling two crisp twenties from a bank envelope to stack on the countertop. “Cash.”

  “Alright, we’ll see you then,” the clerk replied in a high-pitched spurt as another phone rang.

  “Have a great night.” I said it to the air, really, since she hung up before the first syllable left my lips.

  “Are you excited?” Rini squealed, launching a throw pillow from the couch.

  I dodged the rose-shaped cushion, letting it strike the refrigerator with a plop. “Yeah, you’ll finally stop bugging me.”

  The show’s contract forbade revealing spoilers to anyone, not that it stopped Rini from begging endlessly for crumbs. I’d held firm and kept my lips sealed like a good little heartbroken contestant. She had to wait until the finale aired to see me crumble like everyone else.

  There was a massive dent where the devil had once stood—a Slater Crater, so to speak—but I’d learned to cope. Weirdly, watching the Fix Up unfold had been therapeutic. Seeing him again hadn’t been as infuriating as I’d thought, though my chest always felt a little heavier at the end of each episode. And my bed always felt a little emptier, too. But I’d happily trade either affliction for those pops of joy at seeing my time in Malibu. At hearing the jokes we’d shared. I’d had a blast, and I wouldn’t take that back for the world.

  Rini grinned, reaching for her glass of water perched on the coffee table. “I’ve watched you make out with Theron Slater for eleven episodes, you hag. You won’t even tell me if he has a nice dick. I’m dying to know, woman.”

  Ugh. Hearing your sister drool over your ex was hell no woman should endure. Yet there I was, trapped in my six-hundred square-foot apartment with Slater’s biggest fan as thirsty as ever.

  “I don’t ask about Sage’s dick,” I countered, grabbing my wineglass and the fallen pillow before padding into the living room.

  “I hope that you wouldn’t,” she laughed, crossing her legs as she sat on the couch in her baggy Kinx tee and leggings. “He’s like your older brother.”

  I couldn’t argue that. We’d grown up with the Mullens on Holly Hearth, and Sage did plenty of brotherly things over the years. He fixed my bike once and chased off some bully that was picking on Rini and I for speaking Portuguese to Mama at the park. And despite the shredded muscles and handsome mug, he’d always remained firmly in the friend column for me. As far as I was concerned, he was built like a Ken doll down there.

  “He was like yours, too,” I reminded with a smile as I neared, my bare feet warmed by the shag area rug. “Before you got all Flowers in the Attic and decided to bone.”

  The two went from enemies to lovers faster than I could process it. Granted, everyone knew the duo were head over heels for one another for years. No one had expected it would actually happen, though. Kind of like a hundred-year flood that caught everyone by surprise despite the warning signs.

  She smirked, twirling a curl in her manicured fingers. “I get freaky. What can I say?”

  Again, I couldn’t argue. She had to have some freak in her DNA to design fake di
cks and pocket pussies for the masses. As the proud owner of Kinx, one of the fastest-growing adult toy companies, she got paid big bucks to get people off. Talk about a dream job.

  “Say you’ll stop asking me about a penis I hooked up with?” I ventured, setting my glass beside hers.

  If I could block that delicious man kabob out of my mind, she could, too.

  “You hooked up with him?” she squawked, pouncing on the slip-up. “You hussy! I’m texting Raya!”

  She reached for her phone to text our baby sister, but I bopped her on the head with the pillow before tossing it on the couch. “Can I have a sliver of privacy? The entire world already knows most of my business!”

  How I kissed. How I laughed. How I looked in a bikini. Practically nothing was sacred anymore. I was an open book. Just flip to episode three to watch me suck down a chili dog in Santa Monica.

  Rini eyed me before sinking into the cushions without her precious phone. It was a rare sight. The rectangle was practically glued to her hand at all times for work or Instagram. “I can’t believe you kept that from me. First, the show, now that…”

  “Well, you kept a lot from me, too,” I grumbled, gesturing at the bands on her ring finger as I sat down. “You kept a lot from everyone.”

  Filming a reality show and knocking boots with its star was small potatoes compared to marrying someone. It’d been three weeks since she and Sage ran off to Belize to say I do, and I was still in shock. They weren’t even engaged beforehand. The duo just jetted off on a Tuesday to get married like it was no big deal. Like I wasn’t totally banking on being a smoking-hot bridesmaid.

  “Stop deflecting,” she said with a roll of her smoky eyes. “I eloped. You boned a Hollywood star and didn’t tell me. I deserve to know how hung that man is. I’ve fantasized about him since season fucking one of Sinners.”

  Sage the ogre would love to hear that. Probably just as much as I did. Barf.

  I took a sip of wine before facing her with a smirk. There was only one way to shut her trap, and if I wanted peace, I had to pay up with something juicy. “I love you, Rini, and because I do, I’ll say this: It’s everything you imagined and more.”

  Slater’s package would sweep awards season if given the chance. Performance of the year. Best visual effects. Stunt coordination. It was a damn shame Mother Nature attached it to a jerk.

  She reached up to fan her face. “Oh, tell me more, Lita.”

  I grinned and shook my head. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

  Not only was it forbidden by the show’s contract, but it wasn’t right. I wouldn’t appreciate Slater jabbering about the ins and outs of my bedroom acrobatics, so I kept my trap shut. Even if he deserved extra points for form, finish, and cunnilingus.

  She scowled as her fanning hand clenched into a fist. “So, you’ve had to skip dick appointments with the world’s greatest lay for all this time? I hope they booked you two a hell of a sincave for after the reunion. With a reinforced metal headboard.”

  The answer sat tucked away in my bedside drawer—a plane ticket to LA and a room reservation for one. I had a red-eye flight to catch after work the next day, which was the only reason I wasn’t drunk off my ass.

  I shrugged, attempting to play it cool. “I don’t know. We won’t find out until we get there.”

  Rini grabbed her water and took a gulp. “If they don’t, they’re sick, sadistic bastards.”

  “That, they are,” I agreed, and soon she’d see how much her favorite Sinner was, too.

  The pizza arrived just before the show started, and after one bite, Mama Mozzarella earned a coveted spot on my cell’s contact list. Not only was it delicious, but it beat the hell out of dirtying half of my pots and pans to cook.

  Rini nibbled at a slice with her eyes fixed on the screen, soaking up every drop of Slater as the episode unfolded, beginning with our so-called dream dates filmed days before the finale. Back when I was blissfully ignorant to the smell of Slater’s bullshit.

  We’d gone kayaking off Santa Rosa Island and shared a candlelit dinner on the beach, setting the bar insanely high for future romantic outings. Watching it play out was about as pleasant as a fully conscious hysterectomy.

  I stuffed down the pain with breadsticks, pretending each bite of phallic carb was the six-foot-tall Sinner’s sin stick instead.

  For the first time ever, I welcomed commercial breaks, especially as our date ended with a goodnight kiss for the history books. Television history, that is. Had a man ever honked a titty on national television? How did they get such a clear shot?

  Luckily, Rini didn’t bust my balls about the boob grab. She was too busy sprinting to the bathroom to pee after her second glass of water.

  An attorney advertisement played out as I fought back angry tears, the man with slicked-back hair and a smile as trustworthy as gas station chili promising the world in return for the structured settlement I didn’t have.

  If only Slater had given off such vibes. Maybe then I wouldn’t be halfway through a pizza and no closer to feeling whole.

  I missed that jerk, and no matter how hard I tried to deny it, the truth kept slapping me across the face like a fish. Life just wasn’t the same without him around. There weren’t nearly as many laughs.

  A mix of half-assed Lamaze breathing and carbohydrates got me through the rest of the break; the duo hopefully keeping tears at bay until the next round of commercials.

  I switched to pizza as the show started again and immediately choked on a slice of pepperoni when the screen fell dark with a message scrawled in white.

  TALITA PULLED PRODUCERS ASIDE IN HYSTERICS MOMENTS BEFORE THE SELECTION CEREMONY.

  I did no such thing, not that I could articulate that with a meat circle wrapped around my uvula.

  Rini stared open-mouthed at the screen as a clip of me sobbing started rolling, my sister failing to come to my rescue as the makeshift drama unfolded while I choked. Nice to see where I ranked on her totem pole of importance.

  “I don’t want to be here,” I sniffled in the clip. “Just let me leave. I don’t care about him anymore. Bleep him.”

  That bleep was a big, fat fuck, but apparently, the language was a step too far for cable television. Funny, seeing that they were fine with bikinis that barely kept our vaginas a mystery. Sponsored bikinis, of course.

  “Talita, what the hell?” Rini screeched. “How could you say that?”

  I didn’t have time to reply once the pepperoni propelled from my throat. A red-faced Slater appeared on the screen to steal the opportunity.

  “I don’t want to do this anymore,” he snapped, stripping his mic away. “Just let me leave. You got your footage.”

  “Do you love her?” a voice off-camera asked—one I immediately recognized as Umi’s.

  The question plowed through the rubble packed into the gaping hole formerly known as my heart, but rather than cry, I laughed.

  “Obviously I love her,” he snarled in response.

  That worsened my case of the giggles to a fever pitch.

  He loved me? Ha.

  Had I needed to pee, me and the couch would’ve been goners.

  Rini swatted my thigh, the slap against my bare skin echoing off the walls. “He loved you! It’s not funny, you psycho! You broke his heart!”

  The laughter died in my throat. “Slater loves himself! The show was just that—a show! A source of entertainment!”

  A show I was still baffled that he’d agreed to do. What star in their right mind willingly signed up for a dating show at the peak of their career? They were almost always for washed-up has-beens looking for a spark to reignite another fifteen minutes of fame.

  Rini pointed a finger in my face, her glittery nails a breath from my nose. “Don’t pin this on poor Theron! He poured out his heart and soul, and you left him!”

  As if on cue, footage of me leaving in hysterics played.

  My guts twisted as I stared at the screen, the emotion of the moment rushing back. He humiliated
me then, and he was humiliating me again. “He dumped me—not the other way around!”

  Rini’s charm bracelets jingled as she waved wildly at the screen. “I watched it with my own eyes!” she argued, her voice shrill. “You left!”

  “You would have left, too,” I countered. “He picked Staci after stringing me along. Every word out of his mouth was a lie.”

  But that fake ending? That was just the cherry on top of the fucked up sundae.

  “Wait, what?” She spun toward me, her sculpted brows pinched. “You didn’t leave?”

  I squeezed the pizza crust in my hand until it crumbled, wishing it was Slater’s throat. “Only after he tossed my heart in a meat grinder.”

  I was no stranger to getting dumped. Every girl faced a fuckboy at one time or another, but I’d never been blindsided. Not even by my middle-school boyfriend who I caught feeling up Tabby Smith’s tissue titties.

  There was no blood in the water to hint at trouble when we were together. No awkward conversations or distance between us. No gradual fizzing down in the bedroom.

  Fuck, the sex got hotter, not worse.

  He spit me out and kept moving as if I were nothing. As if those eight weeks meant jack shit to him.

  “Those fucking assholes!” she exploded, flying to her feet.

  I took a swig of wine, wishing it was straight whiskey to burn away the venom creeping on my tongue. “Uh, yeah. He isn’t a dreamboat.”

  Rini looked back at the television with her jaw clenched. “He’s a fuckboat!”

  I smiled regardless of the pain settling in my chest. In a personal first, I prayed it was heartburn rather than heartache. At least Tums could soothe that. “Absolutely. A fuckity fuckboat.”

  A fuckboat that needed to take a torpedo one day in the form of rejection. Maybe a dose of heartache would cure his fuckboyitis.

  Rini gave the television screen the finger with both hands as a montage of our time together rolled with a sad piano melody in the background. “And those fucking fucks! They gave you the villain edit when he’s the fuckboat!”