Lovestruck: A Romantic Comedy Standalone
Lila Monroe
Chapter One
In most parts of life, speed is not the way to go. Rush through your work and you make avoidable mistakes. And when it comes to men . . . well, who wants a guy who’s three minutes and done when you could have a Mr. ‘Rock Your World All Night Long And Why Not Another Whirl In The Morning?’
Ahem. Just saying.
But when you’re this close to missing a flight that’s key to the most important friendship in your life, well, it’s time to put your pedal to the metal.
I dash from the cab to the glass doors that lead into the airport’s massive domed departures hall, and naturally at that moment my phone’s ringtone starts jingling. Also naturally, it’s one of my clients. When you work in PR, holidays are usually what the people you work for take while you’re putting out the fires they set on their way out, so they don’t always understand how it works when the shoe is on the other foot. At least, I assume that’s the problem. Before today, I could have counted the number of leisure trips I’ve taken since starting my consultancy on one hand—if all the fingers were closed in a fist.
But hey, that’s a pretty small price to pay for being my own boss and doing the work I love. I even love my clients . . . most of the time.
“What’s happening, Sierra?” I say as I jog toward the checkin kiosks. “You know I’m on vacation now.”
The fourteen-year-old YouTuber gasps. “Oh! I didn’t think you’d left yet. Sorry, Ruby, I’m just freaking out.”
I can never stay irritated when I hear that squeaky teenage voice. All of my kid social media stars think they’re one small step shy of adulthood, but really they’re babes in the woods. Someone’s got to have their backs.
And I can’t really blame Sierra for not taking my vacation plans seriously. I found it so hard to believe I was jetting off to a tropical resort for a whole week that I set my alarm to the usual hour on autopilot and woke up with barely enough time to throw on some clothes and get out the door.
“I can give you five minutes,” I say, tucking the phone between my ear and my shoulder so I can fumble for my passport at the self checkin kiosk. “Talk fast.”
“Well, it’s my cat,” Sierra says. “Grover? He got into my room when I was recording yesterday’s video, and I let him walk through the shot. It was just for a couple of seconds.”
“Uh huh?” I jab at the first available seat I see when the chart pops up on the screen. The machine whirs as it considers printing my boarding pass sometime in the next century.
“You know Marvelous Marcy?” my client goes on. “She’s got, like, ten million subscribers? Her tabby cat is always hanging out in her videos, and he looks a lot like Grover. And he wasn’t in her video yesterday. Now everyone’s saying I kidnapped him so I could use him in my videos to steal her fans too.”
Lord deliver us from teenage YouTube drama.
“Who exactly is ‘everyone’?” I ask, snatching my boarding pass. I shove it in my purse, grab my phone with one hand and the handle of my suitcase with the other, and run like hell for the security area.
“I got a whole bunch of comments,” Sierra says. “People are saying really awful things.” Her voice wavers. “And I’m getting emails. Someone even made a whole video about it this morning, pointing out how much Grover looks like Marcy’s cat.”
The poor kid. The internet mob is always so eager with those pitchforks, it’s like puritanical New England all over again, but it’s my job to make sure Sierra isn’t the one who ends up getting toasty on those commenter fires.
I dodge an elderly woman hobbling up to the baggage check and make an apologetic wave with my elbow to the dour-looking guy I accidentally cut off. “What’s Marcy saying about all this?”
“Nothing. She hasn’t commented or tweeted anything since she uploaded her video yesterday.”
Maybe she has something else going on—or maybe she’s in no hurry to cut off the extra attention. Drama, drama, drama. “All right. First, if anyone has outright threatened you, you need to tell your parents, and they should contact the police, like we’ve talked about before.” That part is standard. The rest takes a little more imagination. I think fast. “Find whatever photos or videos you have of you with Grover from when you were younger, and put together a little piece with those. Don’t address the accusations directly, just make it about how much you love your cat. That should hold people off until Marvelous Marcy gets her act together and sets the record straight.”
“I can do that,” Sierra says. “Okay. Thank you, Ruby! You’re the best.”
“Don’t forget it, kid,” I say with a smile that’s partly for her and partly because I’ve spotted Security’s conveyer belts up ahead. “And if things get any worse, your parents have the number for the second best PR firm in LA. They can take care of you until I get back.”
I tap through to my voice memos, planning on recording a reminder to see if Marcy’s representation can scare her up, and stop myself. Brooke has been my best friend for sixteen years, some of those longer than others, and I owe it to her to leave work behind just this once. This week is supposed to be about celebrating her wedding in paradise. I don’t need her to tell me how much it matters that the whole thing goes off spectacularly. My notorious cheapskate of a bestie has booked the most exclusive resort within a hundred miles of Puerto Vallarta. If I can’t find some way to relax amid oceanfront views, infinity pools, and high-class cabana boys, I’m hopeless.
And after the year I’ve had, I could really use me a cabana boy right about now. Hold the Speedos.
A tour group is swarming toward the security line. I sprint the last several feet so I make it there first. At the last moment, I remember my water bottle. TSA agents have no appreciation for the importance of staying hydrated.
I haul it out and grapple with the lid one-handed as I hurry toward the last garbage can where I can empty it. I’ve just gotten the bottle open when the toe of one of my practical-for-flying loafers catches on a glove someone dropped on the carpet.
My body lurches forward, and I barely manage to catch my balance without falling on my face. Unfortunately, I don’t manage to catch the bottle. Strawberry-infused water sails through the air and splatters the designer suit jacket of the guy at the end of the line on the other side of the divider.
Crap on a cracker. “Sorry, sorry!” I blurt out, grabbing the bottle from the floor. Well, it’s empty now. Then I glance up, and my eyes meet his.