by Lila Monroe
The Romance Plan
Cupids: Book 5
Lila Monroe
Lila Monroe Books
Copyright 2020 by AAHM Inc
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including emailing, photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Also by Lila:
Cupids Series:
1. Cupids Anonymous
2. What’s Your Sign?
3. The Romeo Effect
4. The Break-Up Artist
5. The Romance Plan
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The Lucky in Love Series:
1. Get Lucky
2. Bet Me
3. Lovestruck
4. Mr Right Now
5. Perfect Match
6. Christmas with the Billionaire
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The Chick Flick Club Series:
1. How to Choose a Guy in 10 Days
2. You’ve Got Male
3. Frisky Business
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Billionaire Bachelors Series:
1. Very Irresistible Playboy
2. Hot Stuff
3. Wild Card
4. Man Candy
5. Mr Casanova
6. Best Man
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The Billionaire Bargain series
The Billionaire Game series
Billionaire with a Twist series
Rugged Billionaire
Snowed in with the Billionaire (holiday novella)
Contents
Prologue
Introduction
1. Eliza
2. Eliza
3. Eliza
4. Liam
5. Eliza
6. Eliza
7. Eliza
8. Liam
9. Eliza
10. Eliza
11. Eliza
12. Liam
13. Eliza
14. Eliza
15. Eliza
16. Liam
17. Eliza
18. Eliza
19. Liam
20. Eliza
21. Eliza
22. Eliza
23. Liam
24. Eliza
25. Eliza
Very Irresistible Playboy
Also by Lila:
About the Author
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The Romance Plan
A Romantic Comedy
I need a happily-ever-after — and fast. I finally landed my dream job as a book editor when our new boss announces that the company is about to go bust.
Our only hope? Getting a famously eccentric romance author to deliver her new novel.. eight years overdue. Oh, and that infuriating, arrogant new CEO? Turns out he’s the mysterious guy who made out with me in the street last night, leaving my head spinning, and my other parts…
Well, let’s just say, I won’t be needing my e-reader for inspiration alone in bed tonight.
I can’t figure out if I want to slap his infuriatingly handsome face — or kiss it senseless, but either way, we’re stuck working together to magic a bestseller out of thin air. And maybe it’s the late nights, or the steamy material, but Liam isn’t the snooty jerk I thought.
Soon, our chemistry is sizzling out of control. But can we find our happily-ever-after, or will we burn out before the final chapter? Find out in the hot and hilarious new rom-com from Lila Monroe!
* * *
Cupids Series:
1. Cupids Anonymous
2. What’s Your Sign?
3. The Romeo Effect
4. The Break-Up Artist
5. The Romance Plan
1
Eliza
When you grow up reading romance novels, it gives you some big expectations for the world. And no, I don’t just mean the well-endowed heroes with the stamina of an Olympic triathlete, (while my ex thought microwaving a Hot Pocket counted as more than enough time for foreplay). I’m talking about the rest of it.
“Jackie Collins lied,” I declare, looking around the grimy dive bar that probably has bacteria dating back to the 90s. Three guys with old-timey hipster handlebar moustaches are up onstage singing karaoke to mournful Smiths songs. “And Judith Kranz,” I add, as one of them makes finger-guns at me and winks. “And Louise Bagshawe, and Verity Lange.”
“Because we’re not wearing snazzy designer separates, jetting off to St. Tropez with the heir to a mysterious diamond fortune?” my friend Katie grins, munching on a handful of salted peanuts.
I smile. “I was made to believe my life would include way more marble jetted tubs,” I agree. “What happened to my swanky penthouse and blood rivalry with an evil stepsister?”
“I think they got traded in for a fifth-floor walk-up and that neighbor of yours who plays techno at 3 a.m..”
I wince. “Like I said, Jackie lied.”
“Aww, things will turn around.” Katie gives me a sympathetic look. “Is it really so bad at work?”
“You mean, aside from the stress, panic, and impending layoffs?” I ask, only half-kidding. “Sure, everyone’s walking around like someone just died.”
Katie’s jaw drops. “Dark!”
Maybe, but I know Harry wouldn’t begrudge me some gallows humor. He was one of a kind, a titan of the book world who led Sterling Press to be one of most prestigious small publishers in the city. He first hired me on as his assistant, fetching his coffee and making sure restaurants gave him the best power lunch seat in the place, but over time, I worked my way up to junior editor. It’s my dream job, and I was finally making my mark… Until three months ago, when Harry keeled over from a heart attack, after one too many foie gras truffle burgers.
May he rest in peace.
I raise my beer in a toast. “At least he died the way he lived: with a glass of scotch in one hand, and a novel in the other.”
“Amen.” Katie clinks her bottle to mine. “I just wish I had another book idea for you.”
“Are you kidding?” I wave away her concerns. Her nonfiction book, The Breakup Artist, just released, and it’s been a big surprise hit. “Your sales are the highlight of my list. Hopefully, it’s enough to keep me employed, whenever they hire a new CEO.”
“I thought we agreed, no work talk.” Katie’s boyfriend Wes arrives with a new round of drinks and a mischievous look in his eyes. “We’re supposed to be cheering you up.”
“Sorry!” I smile quickly. “I’m fine. I promise.”
“You will be once you’ve sung your heart out.”
I stop. Umm, what? “Oh no.”
“Oh yes!” Katie beams. “Did they have her song?” she asks him.
My head whips around. “What song? I don’t have a song!” Not unless we’re talking ‘tuneless caterwauling in the shower’. In that case, I’m a platinum recording artist, but here? In public? “No,” I say firmly. “Absolutely not.”
“Absolutely yes.” Katie says over my protests. “Come on! It’ll be fun!”
“That’s what my dentist said before the root canal,” I reply. “Spoiler alert: It wasn’t. Well, except for the laughing gas. Do you happen to have any Novocain?” I add. “Because that
’s the only way I’m getting up there!”
“Nonsense.” Katie pulls me from my seat and pushes me towards the stage. “It’ll be cathartic. You have all this pent-up tension, you need to let it all out.”
“In front of a room full of strangers?”
“Sure! Nobody’s judging you. I mean, if the wailing bachelors of Williamsburg can do it…”
Good point.
I take a deep breath. It has been ages since I sang a good karaoke number, and even though I’m not drunk enough for this – or even buzzed at all – I’ve been walking around all week feeling like I need to scream out loud.
Screaming, singing, it’s all the same, right?
“What did you pick for me?” I ask, feeling a tremor of nerves. “Tell me it wasn’t some crazy high Kelly Clarkson number.”
“Nope.” She grins. “Better.”
And then the familiar chords start playing, and I can’t help but laugh. “Meatloaf? Seriously?”
“I heard you humming along in the car that time. Show ‘em how it’s done.” Katie gives me another push, and I basically have no choice but to clamber up on stage. I squint a little, adjusting to the lights, but luckily, everyone is pretty much ignoring me.
OK then.
I grab the mic, and brace myself. Because Meatloaf? He’s next level. We’re talking full on, ‘Bat out of Hell’ pop-rock-opera dramatics, and something tells me that Katie didn’t pick the radio edit. But hell, if anyone deserves to blow off some steam right now, it’s me.
So I go for it.
Boy, do I go for it. I shout, I wail, I strut around that stage like the legend himself. And it does feel good. For a whole eight minutes, I’m not thinking about impending professional doom, or student loans, or the fact I haven’t had a decent date since I kicked Mr .Hot Pockets to the curb. It’s just me, the music, and a couple of dozen strangers. And it feels great.
“And like a SINNNNAHHH before the gates of heaven/ I’ll come crawling on back to YOUUUUUUUU.”
I hit the final note. Or, you know, somewhere near it, and punch my fist to the sky.
Silence.
I look out at the crowd, but they’re too busy drinking, and flirting, and doing other fun, carefree things to notice my triumph. There’s one tall guy by the bar looking sullen, and a bored waitress making her rounds.
Tough crowd.
“Way to go!” Katie cheers through the silence, whooping. I scramble down, and go to rejoin them, breathless.
“That song’s a workout!” I exclaim, gulping down a glass of water.
“You were a superstar.” They grin. “Seriously, if you feel like changing careers…”
I snort. “Unlikely, but nice to know I have a backup. If publishing fails, I can busk on the street corner for dimes.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Wes teases. “That performance was worth at least a quarter.”
“Then drinks are on me.” I laugh. “But seriously, I should probably call it a night. I have to work tomorrow, and clearly, there’s no topping that performance.”
“Good idea,” Katie says, “Drop the mic and go out on a high.”
I make my way to the bar to settle up my tab, still buzzing from my moment in the spotlight. Well, the flickering bulb hanging over the stage. So what if my life isn’t exactly the sexy, exciting adventure all my favorite romance novels promised? For a moment at least, I feel like myself again.
“That was an… interesting performance.”
I turn. It’s the sullen guy, who can hereby be renamed Handsome Stranger, because, hello. Up close, I can see he has broad shoulders and dark hair, and I’m pretty sure I would be swooning if his smile wasn’t so sarcastic.
“Thanks,” I reply breezily. “It’s hard to go wrong with the Loaf.”
The guy smirks. “The Loaf? You guys are close?”
“Besties. When I was younger, my mom had a boyfriend who was a massive fan,” I find myself sharing. “He would pull up to our apartment to pick her up for dates, blasting it full volume. Our neighbors must have thrown a party when they finally broke up.”
The guy just looks at me like I’m babbling, which maybe I am.
“Anyway,” I say, “He’s a lot of fun to sing. You should try it sometime.”
He curls his lip in a sneer. “No thanks. I prefer not to make a total fool of myself.”
I blink. What an asshole!
I’m tempted to just roll my eyes and stalk off, but instead, I can’t resist giving him a sweet smile. “I get it. You look more like the kind of guy who wants to just stand on the sidelines, sneering at everyone else.”
And with that, I scribble my signature on the credit card slip and walk out. I find Katie and Wes on the sidewalk out front, waiting for a ride. “Will you get home OK?” she asks.
“I’m just a few blocks away,” I reassure them.
“Well, good luck at work.” Katie hugs me, as their car arrives. “Brunch this weekend?”
“If there’s bacon, I’ll be there,” I vow.
I turn to head home, but a busy storefront opposite catches my eye. Ice cream. It’s a sticky August night, and right now, I can’t think of anything better.
Screw tequila, I prefer drowning my sorrows in a vat of pure sugar.
I cross the street and take my place in the busy line. It inches forward, frustratingly slow, so by the time I reach the register to pay for my scoop of double chocolate butternut crunch, I’m pretty much drooling in anticipation of the deliciousness. Then I reach for my wallet to pay, and realize – I don’t have my credit card.
“Noooo!” I wail, patting frantically at my pockets. Which, in this dress, doesn’t take long. “Mothertrucker!”
But just as I’m scrounging up stray quarters from my wallet and wondering if I can offer my body in trade – because have you tasted the double chocolate butternut crunch? – a voice comes from beside me.
“Are you looking for this?”
My credit card lands on the counter. I look up. It’s Handsome Stranger. Who now is officially named Annoyingly Handsome Stranger, because nobody who looks that good should be such a superior grouch. “You left it at the bar,” he explains, looking exasperated. “You should keep a better track of your things.”
“Thank you,” I manage to say, even though he’s being an ass about it. I pause, reluctant. “I suppose I better buy you a cone now.”
“No thanks.” AHS answers shortly. “I don’t eat sugar.”
“You what?!” I can’t believe it, but no: There he is, glowering at everyone in the store as we happily pollute our bodies with sweet, sweet candy. I shrug. “Suit yourself.”
I pay the cashier, and grab my cone, but just as I’m heading out of the store, my toe catches on an uneven slab of sidewalk. I stumble, and my perfect scoop of pick-me-up ice cream tumbles to the dirty ground with a SPLAT!
I whimper.
Sure, it’s just a late-night treat, but after the week I’ve had, it feels like the last straw. All the stress at work, the bad dates, Harry dying: Suddenly, everything comes welling up.
“Are you crying? Over ice cream?” AHS asks beside me, disdain clear in his voice.
I’m not about to tell him the truth, so I swallow back the tears. “No,” I answer in a small voice. “I just like ice cream.”
He sighs. “Let me get you an Uber.”
“It’s fine. I’ll walk,” I reply, finally dragging my gaze away from my dearly departed cone.
AHS is rolling his eyes. “You’re drunk. I don’t need to know your address. In fact, I shouldn’t. You can just tell the driver.”
“No, I mean it,” I argue. “I’m perfectly sober. Goodnight.”
I turn and start walking. Thankfully, I don’t stumble on the first step. Nope, it takes me all of ten paces before my heel catches and I almost go flying.
When I find my balance, AHS has drawn level. “Sober. Right.” He sighs, sounding supremely irritated.
“I am!” I protest. “I just can’t walk
in these heels.”
“So why are you wearing them?”
“Because they’re pretty.” I pause to admire the cute red straps and tiny polka dots. I bought them on a whim, flush when The Breakup Artist hit the nonfiction bestsellers list. Since I’m probably going to have to sell them on consignment soon enough, I should enjoy them while I can. “Anyway, thanks for… everything, but I’ve got this from here.”
I start walking again. I’m not just being stubborn. I know this neighborhood pretty well, and there are still plenty of people out on the sidewalks. Plus, I keep a can of illegal pepper spray on my keychain. I can make it ten blocks just fine.
But clearly, Annoyingly Handsome Stranger doesn’t agree, because after about half a block, I realize, he’s still following me. “Will you quit it?” I call back to him, frustrated. “I’m fine!”
“You’re drunk, and it’s late,” he replies, “I’m not letting you stumble into a gutter and die.”
“I’m not drunk!”
“You sang Meatloaf at karaoke, cried over spilled ice cream, and can’t take more than ten steps without falling on your face!” he yells back. “Are you telling me this is what you’re like sober?”
“Yes!” I bellow. “Now leave me alone!”
“I CAN’T!” he roars, looking furious. “I’M TRYING TO BE A GODDAMN GENTLEMAN!”
His voice echoes, so mad that I just can’t help it: I burst out laughing.
