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.