An Unexpected Love Story: A sweet, heartwarming & uplifting romantic comedy (Falling into Happily Ever After Rom Com) Read online

  An Unexpected Love Story

  Ellie Hall

  Copyright © 2021 by Ellie Hall

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  On Love

  1. Puppy Love

  2. Shouting from the Rooftops

  3. Home Sweet Homeless

  4. Party Animals

  5. Double Dare

  6. Sense and Insensibility

  7. Cats & Dogs

  8. Number Five

  9. Manwich

  10. Connecting the Dots

  11. Blogs and Sausages

  12. Man Bun Barista

  13. In Sickness & Health

  14. Lost & Found

  15. Stories Told

  16. Anchored

  17. Gym Stud

  18. Biggest Fan

  19. Buns & Shakedown

  20. Snow Day

  21. The Horizon

  22. Taking Flight

  23. Buon San Valentino

  Epilogue

  Note to Readers

  24. Book 2 Excerpt

  Also by Ellie Hall

  About the Author

  Let’s Connect

  P.S.

  Acknowledgements

  On Love

  People say follow your heart. They put the slogan on T-shirts, add it to sun-washed images to inspire the pursuit of dreams and desires. It’s the requisite conclusion in speeches intended to move and motivate. It’s the tagline of countless social media posts. For a long time, I took it to be a catchphrase, a buzzword, overused, and meaningless. It was so obvious and overly simple that I disregarded it. But after fighting a war, waging a battle within, and traveling unfamiliar terrain the world over, I realized I was missing something. Or rather, someone. Even if she never speaks to me again, my heart will forever and always lead me back to her, for it is in our love that I know I’m alive.

  – K.C. Flynn

  Puppy Love

  Catherine

  I lean in closer to the glowing laptop screen, blocking out the whir of the espresso machine, the laughter at the table next to me, and the ever-present knot of uncertainty that’s been getting bigger and tighter lately. I scroll down, read the profile details, and click.

  This one has a gentle smile. Athletic. Looks affectionate.

  A companion.

  Girl’s best friend.

  “What are you doing?” a familiar voice asks as a fragrant cascade of hair falls over my shoulder.

  I startle, spilling tea into the saucer, and quickly close my laptop.

  A pair of long, slim legs bound in bright pink yoga pants step into view. Hazel’s sculpted eyebrow angles toward disapproval. “Looking at fur babies again?”

  My Earl Grey tea tastes vaguely like guilt.

  “It used to be that you only got puppy fever once a month. I could set a clock by it.” Hazel’s lovely British accent sounds out of place speaking those words.

  “Shh,” I hiss, hoping she lowers her booming voice. “Not everyone needs to know about my cycle.”

  She plants her hands on the table and leans over me. “I use your bouts of puppy fever to track my own—it always comes a week after I catch you with that desperate, starry-eyed look as you gaze wistfully into the middle distance, only to realize you were just browsing adoptable dogs. But the current timing—” She taps her chin, calculating. “It’s not that time of the month.”

  She’s got me there. I swallow another sip of tepid tea. I just want to cuddle something soft, sweet, and not inclined to love me and then leave me. It’s a placeholder for babies, children, a family someday. A someday I fear will never come.

  “Doesn’t it make you sad?” she asks.

  My heart throbs with an ache, a longing I will never reveal. “Of course. There are so many animals in need of good homes.”

  “No, I mean sad that you’re single.”

  I exhale. “Hazel, so are you. And you just prefer cats to dogs.”

  “They’re independent, selective, and,” she smooths her hand down the arm of her fuzzy jacket, “soft.”

  “So are dogs.”

  “They shed,” she counters.

  “So do cats.” I’m still picking her cat’s fur off my jacket.

  “They’re needy.”

  “I thought we were talking about being single,” I say, flustered.

  “We were.” She winks.

  I roll my eyes. With Hazel, it always comes back to guys and dating. I can’t blame her. She’s eye-catching and a catch. Tall, gorgeous, and blessed with silky dark hair and sun-kissed skin. We’re opposites in so many ways. If tanning under moonlight were a thing, I’d have achieved the perfect tube sock pallor.

  Hazel possesses a kind of worldliness that I do not, regardless of the stamps in my passport. Moreover, as a former ballerina turned yoga instructor, she carries herself with poise and grace.

  “Are you checking me out?” she asks with a sudden, sly grin.

  “I’m admiring you.”

  She traces her outline. “I cannot help the genes.”

  “You’re wearing leggings,” I parry, just to irritate her.

  “Ha ha. Catherine, come on. Don’t be like that. You’re beautiful.”

  “If by beautiful you mean short, curvy, a jawline that resembles a geometric shape, and with hair that can’t decide what it wants to do on the daily… Then sure, call me cute.”

  Hazel groans at my self-deprecation.

  I sigh. I’m feeling low and it’s not because it’s that time of the month. Hormones can’t take all the blame for bad moods. “But you’re beautiful,” I sputter.

  “Takes one to know one. But you shouldn’t spend so much time alone. Come to my class later. By the end, you’ll be blissed out. Also, there’s this guy who’s been coming...” She fans herself.

  I open my mouth to protest.

  She puts up her hand. “No pity party.”

  I’m not hideous, but it’s been a long, long time since I’ve been reminded otherwise. I don’t know how to date. I’m ten years out of practice. There were a few casual dates, often at Hazel’s insistence, back during our college days, and one awkward date when I started at my old job. Let’s not talk about the last time I kissed a guy.

  I sigh.

  She tilts her head and narrows her eyes as if to challenge my thoughts.

  I’m not tall, but I’m not short. I’m not blond and not brunette either. Some say I’m smart but certainly not a genius. I’ve been told I’m pretty I guess but not beautiful. I’m a little bit quirky and on most days, I’m confident that I’m not crazy.

  In other words, I’m average, not awesome. Ordinary, not extraordinary. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Not everyone can be Hazel Loves.

  I’m Catherine Kittredge and inside me, there’s a little light, a mini star burning within. I just haven’t figured out how to let it shine, and these days I feel dim.

  Hazel somehow manages effortless,
natural ease and beauty, travels regularly, and while she has a Ph.D., she followed her bliss to teach yoga.

  As for me chasing big dreams? First, I need to know what they are and then I’ll see about the chasing—though running isn’t my thing, so it’d be more of a speed-walking pace.

  Nonetheless, if Hazel sees gorgeous when she looks in the mirror, I’m about to be seeing a lot more of that when we move in together tomorrow.

  I sigh again, prop my chin on my hand, and tilt the screen of my laptop open. “I’m going to keep looking at puppies.”

  “The leasing agent said no pets.”

  “What about the cat?” I ask.

  “Mew? He’s part of the family.”

  “Is he going to get us kicked out?”

  A sly smile twitches on Hazel’s lips. “Of course not. The meeting with Ricardo, the leasing agent, went exceptionally well.” She holds up two keys and passes one to me. “The apartment is fabulous and so is he.”

  I lean forward, knocking my knees into the bistro table. I steady my tea so I don’t spill more and take a sip of the now cold liquid. “What do you mean?”

  She claws the air with her long, manicured nails and meows. “Let’s just say dinner was delicious.”

  “Hazel! You went on a date with him? What about professionalism and all that?” I say louder than I mean to.

  An older woman wearing her New York winter whites darts us with a sharp glance as she passes. A guy two tables to our left peers over his laptop curiously. If he’s hoping to write America’s next great novel, he’s more likely to hear something scandalous for gossip pages coming out of Hazel’s mouth in three, two, one...

  “Tall, dark, handsome. I couldn’t resist.” She shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “But wait until you see the guy down the hall. He was getting his mail when I first met with Ricardo. The guy in 7G can post my letters anytime.”

  “I have no idea what that means.”

  She flutters her lashes, lifts a shoulder, and shrugs. “Me neither.”

  I roll my eyes. Everything she says sounds flirtatious.

  From the café counter, a barista with a man-bun calls Hazel’s name for her order. I watch her strut through the crowded café as if she’s on a runway. The exhausted moms with their babies slung around their chests make way. The lawyers, bankers, and high-powered CEOs, CFOs, COOs (I don’t know what that is, but they’re cuckoo over Hazel) clear a path.

  I’ve already had it with men in Manhattan, and I’ve never even dated any of them. The self-importance, the expectation, the need to impress and then toss you to the curb with yesterday’s garbage—I’m over it.

  Hazel, with her numerous dates, makes the rules, calls the shots, and has fun while doing it. The busboy practically throws himself into an elderly couple so she doesn’t have to see his bin of dirty dishes.

  I shake my head. The grass, red carpet, or whatever she walks on must indeed be greener. I’m resigned to never having the opportunity to set foot on it.

  Hazel leans over the counter, no doubt flirting with Man-bun. I imagine she’ll have something to say about him whipping the cream on her latte later, whatever that means.

  I resume my search for a companion that won’t break my heart.

  “You have that look in your eyes,” Hazel says when she returns.

  “Which one?” I ask dubiously.

  “The I despise biped males one.”

  Among Hazel’s many fabulous attributes, she’s also uncommonly intelligent and clever. In her twenty-eight years, she’s completed her Ph.D., sold a wellness app—banking a million or so—, and has traveled the world as a fitness model.

  Meanwhile, I’d struggled to keep my job as a copywriter at an ad agency until a few months ago when everything blew up. The new guy—who may have taken a page from Hazel’s book and flirted with my former boss—, was kept on. They had to cut the fat, which meant letting me go.

  I’d been there for three years, day and night, bending over backward, and going above and beyond. What was I left with? Five extra pounds from the long hours and eating my sorrows with leftover office-party birthday cakes, a box of junk including a half-dead plant, and a lukewarm recommendation about my efficiency, detail-oriented multi-tasking skills, and a propensity to spend long hours in the office.

  Unable to tolerate unemployment, in this entire city, the only position I could get was little more than an internship, essentially serving as the coffee-runner and copy-maker at a publicity firm. Yay. I get to bleed ink for authors who think they’re the next New York Times Bestseller.

  Hazel’s phone chimes and she busies herself, probably scheduling a hot date later.

  Wondering about the comment about despising males? I don’t hate all men. Just the lying, cheating ones. I repeat, I don’t hate men, not in the slightest. This isn’t that kind of story.

  The trouble is, I don’t trust them. There’s a difference.

  When it comes to love, certain kinds of men tend to suck the fire out of women: dreams, hopes, desires, passion, little by little, deception after lie after loss until we’re a smoldering pile of ash. Dramatic, I know. But that’s how I’ve felt for nearly a decade, since high school! High school.

  After my heart was broken, I couldn’t look at men the same way again. I’ve all but locked up that pulsing, yearning thing in my chest and thrown away the key.

  But love, yes, this is that kind of story.

  Love is comfort. Love is understanding.

  Love is forgiveness.

  Love is home.

  And when you love someone, no matter what happens between you, love can become something else, something more. Nothing can keep you apart.

  I read about love in novels all day every day and night, causing tremendous book hangovers and zombie eyes the next day when I try to focus at work. I’ve only just started at Albright, Bratte, and Carlotta, a publicity firm, so it remains to be seen whether they welcome zombies in the workplace. However, they said they’re an equal opportunity employer.

  But back to love.

  Let’s discuss Mr. Darcy and how he melted his frosty exterior for Miss Bennet.

  How Noah Calhoun from The Notebook makes me swoon.

  Severus Snape, always.

  Gilbert Blythe and his unwavering patience and adoration for Anne Shirley. Yes, please.

  Jamie Fraser from Outlander, Hello!

  Aragorn in Lord of the Rings, uh huh, I’m going there.

  Don’t even get me started on modern men in romance novels—they have love dialed in.

  Let’s talk about gentlemen and true love and emotional medicine. Honor, loyalty, and honesty. These aren’t paper playboys. They’ll walk to the ends of the earth for their loves—sometimes literally. They wage wars and win battles. They’re beasts on the street and sweet when you first meet. They’re intelligent and thoughtful, considerate and tender.

  They may have a few flaws (Edward Cullen watching Bella while she slept? Only slightly creepy), but they’re easily overlooked because their other qualities outweigh the tiny details.

  These are my book boyfriends.

  Here’s my theory: if we’re lucky, we’ll find one of the few real-life men who give us part of themselves. Maybe it’s a look, a love letter, a kiss, or a little something that becomes a thumbnail-sized ember leaving us burning for them until it gets so bright if we don’t do something about it we’ll supernova. Swoon. Blackhole. Whoosh. Gone.

  They’re our soul mates, true loves. They’re supportive, loving, smell delicious, cook dinner, put their laundry in the basket instead of next to it, reliably remember birthdays and anniversaries. They’ll hold us tight when we need tenderness and will kiss us silly when we’re feeling frisky.

  Someday I will find a real-life book boyfriend, pulled from the pages of fiction. I hope.

  Love works in contrasts, in paradox. There’s someone for all of us who won’t break our hearts, but the trouble is finding him among the billions of people on the planet.

&nb
sp; First, I have to start looking, which will require massive amounts of duct tape, caffeine, and possibly a new identity. No! This isn’t that kind of story either.

  The duct tape is for my broken heart. The caffeine is liquid motivation, and the identity, well, let’s just say things haven’t exactly gone to plan in the last few years. I could go on and on and on. I’ll stop now, otherwise we’ll be here until Valentine’s Day.

  Hazel sets down her empty cup. “Wait?!” she exclaims. Her eyes widen. “What if the super moon last month threw our cycles off?”

  I shake my head, drawing little hearts on the table with my finger, using the remaining tea in my cup.

  “Then what’s got you down? Is it work?”

  I wrinkle my nose. “It’s just jaded cynicism.” Jealousy. Misery. Loneliness. I don’t know.

  “Catherine, I have an idea! Why don’t you volunteer at an animal shelter? It’s just after the New Year. You didn’t make a resolution.”

  I consider this. I adore dogs, puppies, seniors, mixes, mutts...

  When I don’t respond right away, buzzed on espresso, Hazel blurts, “I have an even better idea! The next holiday is Valentine’s Day. Your New Year’s resolution could be to break your dry spell and kiss someone by February fourteenth.”

  The café goes silent. A spoon clatters. My pulse quickens and my cheeks blister.

  She doesn’t even flinch. “You can’t be in the lonely hearts club forever.”

  I clear my throat.

  The activity in the coffee shop resumes, but my cheeks don’t return to their usual pale shade.