A Not So Meet Cute

“What am I doing, Kelsey?” I ask, staring out the window, the rich, elegant homes in The Flats passing me by.

“You’re going to hear him out,” she says through the phone, her calming voice doing nothing to soothe my raging nerves.

I got a text from Huxley a few hours ago telling me a car would be at Kelsey’s to pick me up at six thirty and that he hoped I got in the car. I almost texted him that I’d changed my mind, that I couldn’t make it to dinner because the thought of seeing his face tonight made me nauseous.

But Kelsey made me take a few deep breaths, she talked me through the positives, and told me that the reason I was so upset was because I loved him, and that upset feeling wasn’t going to go away until I listened to what he had to say.

At the time, I thought she was right. Now that I’m nearing his place, I’m starting to think maybe she was wrong.

“I don’t feel pretty. He’s going to think I look like a mess.”

“You look freaking amazing, and who cares if you do look like a mess? If he loves you, he’ll think you look beautiful no matter how tear-streaked your cheeks are.”

“I should’ve dressed up. I should’ve done my makeup.”

“You couldn’t stop crying long enough to do your makeup. Remember? We tried, it just smeared down your face.”

“This was a mistake, Kelsey. I really don’t think I should do this. I’m not ready.”

“I’m not sure if you will ever be ready, Lottie.”

“I feel broken inside,” I say softly. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this before. When Angela fired me, I thought that was rock bottom, but that feeling is nothing compared to this. I thought we had something, and then he just ripped that away from me.” I suck in a deep breath as a lone tear falls down my cheek. “I’m not sure how to wash away that feeling.”

“And the emotions you’re experiencing, they’re all valid,” Kelsey says. “But, Lottie, there’s a reason he wants you to come over tonight, why he stopped by this morning. He knows he messed up. We all make mistakes—granted, his might have been larger than most—but he’s trying to make it right. If you truly love him, you will give him a chance to do that. That’s what love is, isn’t it? I mean, haven’t you and I had to forgive each other for jumping down each other’s throats without considering the truth?”

More tears stream down my face as I take in the familiar gate that protects Huxley’s house. She isn’t wrong. God, I’d hurt Kelsey only weeks ago with my stupid mouth, talking without thinking, and . . . and she forgave me. I take a deep breath as the driver presses a button and the gate slides open. No turning back. As we drive through, I see Huxley standing outside his door, on his porch, waiting for me.

“Oh God, I see him. Kelsey, I can’t do this. I can’t. I’m a mess.”

“Then be a mess in front of him. I love you, sis. You have a beautiful heart. Share it with him.” And then she hangs up just as the driver puts the car in park.

I wipe frantically at my tears, but unfortunately, they keep falling, even as Huxley steps up to the car and opens the door. When he catches sight of me, I see the devastation that passes through his eyes before he offers his hand to me.

Not ready to hold his hand, I get out of the car without his help.

He doesn’t say anything, but I see the disappointment in his shoulders from my denial.

Clearing his throat, he says, “Thanks for coming over.”

I wipe at my face and just nod, my throat tight, so choked up that squeezing out a word right now feels next to impossible.

Raw, tumultuous emotions beat through me, and from the sight of him in a pair of simple jeans and a T-shirt, his hair ruffled from his hand running through it, those emotions skyrocket, sending me into a tailspin of uncertainty.

Should I be here?

Should I give him a second chance?

If I feel this awful from one bout of heartbreak, what could he possibly do to me in the future?

And why exactly am I suffering from such intense emotions?

Probably because Kelsey is right. I love him so much, more than I thought. My heart is drawn toward him. My heart aches for him. But my heart is also wary. He’s playing tug-of-war with my heart, ripping and tearing it in every direction, stirring up anxiety and uncertainty.

“Do you mind if we go inside?” he asks. When I shake my head, he gestures toward the door, and when I step in front of him, he places his hand on my lower back. It feels like a bolt of lightning to my spine, forcing it to straighten, go stiff. He notices quickly and removes his hand, probably interpreting it as me not wanting his touch. But my reaction wasn’t because I didn’t want the touch, it was because I didn’t realize how much I’d missed it . . .

He opens the door for me, and when I walk through, he says, “I have everything set up in the dining room.”

Everything set up? What does that mean?

What exactly did he have to set up?

Anxious and nervous, I walk toward the dining room, where I see the table set for two. Two large cloche serving dishes, two glasses filled with water, and a manila folder with two pens have been laid on the table. The lights are dimmed, Fleetwood Mac plays in the background, and there doesn’t seem to be a soul in the house other than me and Huxley.

He walks past me to the chair I normally sit in, and he pulls it out, waiting for me to take a seat. Questioning everything in my head, I take the seat and glance toward the folder, my mind racing. What’s inside it?

Huxley takes a seat as well, but instead of facing his plate, he scoots his chair close to mine and turns toward me.

“Lottie.”

Taking a deep breath, I turn toward him as well, a tear slipping down my cheek.

“Baby . . .” he says quietly while reaching out and wiping away the tear. “Please don’t cry.”

“Wh-what do you . . . want, Huxley?” I ask, getting the words out.

With a concerned gaze, he sits straighter and says, “I want you, Lottie.”

“You screwed that up.”

“I know. Trust me, I know how bad I screwed this up. It’s been the biggest mistake of my life, charging into our home, and sticking blame on you for something I know, deep down, you would never do.” It doesn’t slip past me that he said our house. “And I’ve tried to figure out how to make this up to you, how to show you how sorry I am, and I realized, maybe I should bring it back to where we started.”

Slightly confused, I ask, “What do you mean?”

From the folder, he pulls out a stack of stapled papers. When my eyes land on it, I realize it’s our contract.

He stands from his chair and walks over to the corner of the dining room where a buffet table lines the wall. Sitting on top of it, plugged in, is a paper shredder. Without a pause, he sends the contract into the paper shredder, and the deafening sound of it eating up our contract echoes through the room.

And for some reason, it hurts. That was the thing that bonded us together. It’s what freed me of my student loans. Is that gone too? It’s what brought me close to Huxley, and he tore it up without a blink of an eye.

“Why did you do that?” I ask, my anguish clear in my voice.

“Because we need to start fresh, Lottie.” He walks back to the table and takes a seat. He reaches for my hand but I don’t let him have it. Dipping his head in defeat, he says, “Lottie, please, you’re not making this easy on me.”

“Do you think I should?” I ask. “Because you sure as hell didn’t make it easy on me last night when you were accusing me of telling Ellie the truth.”

“I know, but—”

“And do you think it was easy on me, seeing the absolute disdain you had for me?”

“No, but—”

“And do you think it was easy on me, knowing the man that I trusted, that I was falling for, didn’t trust me to keep him safe with our secret?”

“No. But, Lottie—”

“I don’t know why I came here.” I stand from my chair.

Huxley stands as well. “Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving,” I say. “This was stupid.”

I head toward the entryway, but Huxley tugs on my hand, spinning me back around. With anger in his eyes, he says, “Sit down, Lottie.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said sit. Down.” He speaks through his teeth, and in that instant, my sorrow turns to anger.

“Who the hell do you think you are—”

He moves toward me and gently pushes me up against the dining room wall, cutting my words short. My breath catches in my throat as his one hand pins me in place and the other strikes the wall, propping him up.

“I’m trying to apologize, damn it,” he says, his anger spiking.

“And you think this is the way to do it?”

“Do you have a better idea?” he asks, his eyes never leaving mine. “You’re so goddamn stubborn that pissing you off seems to be the only way to make you listen.”

“You hurt me, Huxley. I don’t want to listen.”

“If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be here.” He sees right through me. “If you didn’t want to be here, then you never would’ve gotten in that car, and I know you, Lottie. You love me—”

“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t.”

He presses harder against me, trapping my breath in my lungs. “Don’t you dare fucking lie to me. You don’t lose feelings like that overnight. Now, is that how you want to have this conversation, with me possessing you? Because I’d rather be civil with you, not revert to our old ways of communication. But if I need to, I’ll hold you here like this, all night, until you listen.”

I wet my lips as my body heats with lust.

Goddamn it.

I don’t want to lust after him.

I don’t want to envision the kind of delicious torture he could put me through in this position, waiting for me to communicate properly.

“Are you going to listen to me?” he asks, repeating himself.

I give it a few breaths before I say, “Fine.”

He releases me and then takes my hand, which I let him have, and he walks me back to the table, where we both take a seat.

When we’re settled, he asks, “Are you done being stubborn?”

“Are you done being an asshole?”

And just like that, the smallest of smirks pull at his lips. Just like the beginning of our relationship, we’re back at ground zero, me irritated, him taking some sort of joy out of it.

Annoyed with the smirk, I fold my arms across my chest and ask, “Do you find humor in this?”

“I do. Reminds me of our early days.”

Me too.

“I was more partial to our later days.” I look away.

“Don’t get me wrong, so was I, but it’s nice to bring things full circle, don’t you think?”

“I think we need to get on with whatever presentation you might have so I can move on.”

That pisses him off, judging by the narrowing of his eyes and clenching of his jaw. Given the shift in our relationship, I didn’t think it was possible to revisit what it was like when we were first together, but I was wrong. We could very much get there.

But what I hate is that it invigorates me.

His jaw twitches as he reaches out and takes one of my hands, and this time I let him. Holding it firmly, he stares me down and simply says, “I love you.”

The words stun me.

They take my breath away.

But they also don’t feel entirely real.

“I don’t believe you,” I say. “How do I know you’re not just saying that?”

Frustration laces through his eyes as he reaches for the folder and opens it, revealing another contract. But this one is less formal. Instead of legal jargon, it looks as if he typed it up himself, and it only consists of bullet points on a single sheet of paper.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Our new contract.”

“You think I’m going to sign a new contract with you?”

His eyes flash to mine. “Cut the goddamn sass for a second and hear me out.”

“That’s one way to win me back.” I roll my eyes.

“Do I need to bend you over this table just so you knock it off?”

My body heats up and I can feel my eyes widen from the thought.

He catches it.

The intrigue.

The yearning.

The need.

“Don’t,” I say, holding up my hand as he shifts. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Then hear me out and I won’t be forced to take extreme measures.”

God, it’s annoying how commanding he is.

Domineering.

Possessive.

But I also love it. What is wrong with me?

Some of the steel leaves his eyes when he says, “I’m sorry, Lottie, for a lot of things. I’m sorry that I blamed you for something I had no right blaming you for. I’m sorry for breaking our trust. I’m sorry for not leaning on you when I should have. And most importantly, I’m sorry that I hurt you. To see you cry, see you so upset, and know I’m the one causing that pain . . . it kills me.”

And just like that, with his soothing voice, the irritation drains from me as the tension lessens in my shoulders and . . . I listen.

“I quickly realized my mistake when you started to leave. My heart leapt in my throat when you got in your sister’s car. And when I saw you drive away, I knew you’d taken a huge piece of me with you. It gutted me seeing you leave, which made me realize I love you. I love you more than I ever thought it was possible to love someone. And it hit me like a ton of bricks. I need you to be a part of my life, Lottie. I need you to be a permanent fixture. Which is why I came up with this contract.”

I don’t take it, but instead, I say, “Read it to me.”

Clearing his throat, he says, “My legal terms aren’t up to par, so don’t make fun of me.” That makes me inwardly smile. “‘This contract binds Huxley Cane and Lottie Gardner once terms are agreed to and signatures are present at the bottom.’”

“You’re right, your terminology is way off.”

“I was drawing a blank when writing this up. Bear with me.” He sets his shoulders back and reads some more. “‘The following requests must be followed by both parties. Request number one—after some careful thought and consideration, Lottie agrees to forgive Huxley for being a massive ass.’”

“I appreciate you using massive as a descriptor, because that’s what you were.”

“I was,” he agrees, and more tension eases.

“‘Request number two—after a solid make-up session, which will include whatever Lottie wants’”—I smirk at that—“‘Lottie will be required to permanently move in with Huxley, and into his bedroom, where he’s already made space in the closet for her clothes.’”

“My clothes or the personal items you picked out for me?” I ask.

“Whatever you want.”

“I prefer a mixture of both.”

“Done.” His facial expression lightens as he continues. “‘Request number three—Lottie drops all previous roles of fake fiancée and fake pregnant woman. Huxley realizes what a bad idea this was and has already cleared the air with Dave. He wants Lottie to live her best life now, free of any fake premise.’”

“Her best life?” I ask with a raised brow. He nods. “And things are cleared up with Dave? Really?”

“Yes, I spoke with him today. He wasn’t happy when I told him I’d fucked things up with you and told me I’d better get you back. I told him I intended to and that I already had dinner planned with you.”

“Dave is a smart man.” I push my hair over my shoulder, needing to busy my antsy hands.

“‘Request number four—even though the previous contract has been destroyed, Huxley is still indebted to Lottie and therefore will attend any social event to help her stick it to her old boss, but this time, he prefers to act as her real fiancé.’”

His eyes peer up at me.

Uh, did I hear that right? Real fiancé?

“‘Request number five—Lottie realizes that Huxley is a shell of a man without her. That he not only craves her in his life, but he needs her in his life. She’s become a permanent fixture and not having her in his life is non-negotiable.’ Which brings me to ‘Request number six—Lottie follows Huxley to the rooftop.’” Huxley stands and holds out his hand.

I don’t take it right away.

I’m not even sure I can with how shaky I am.

“Lottie . . .”

Mustering up some words, I say, “I’m, uh . . . I’m going to need my lawyer to look at that contract.”

His smile nearly knocks me over, it’s so brilliantly handsome, and full of joy. It propels my hand into his and guides me through the house, up the stairs, and to the rooftop. When Huxley pushes open the door, he allows me to go through first, revealing the beautiful setup.

Two wooden lounge chairs occupy the middle of the space, decorated with rose petals, and surrounded by fake candles that offer just enough light to set the scene.

“Wow,” I say, taking it all in.

The door shuts behind us, and I turn to find Huxley bent down on one knee, holding a ring box.

This can’t be real. This seriously can’t be the life I’m living right now, but when he opens his mouth and says my name in a breathless tone, I realize this is very much real.

“Lottie, I love you. You’re beautifully frustrating, annoyingly right most of the time, and you bring me more joy than I ever thought I’d be lucky enough to have. You complement my surly attitude. You put me in my place when I need it, and you listen to me when I need a listening ear. Plain and simple, you complete me, and I know for certain, I can’t live this life without you in it.” He pops open the ring box, revealing a beautiful, cushion-shaped diamond ring with diamond accents on the band. It’s different than the current ring on my finger, edgier, just like me. “I love you so goddamn much. Please, would you accept the contract, and will you also do me the honor of being my wife?”

I stare down at him, those deep, mysterious eyes piercing through me, holding me captive.

They always will.

I believe he’s had my heart from the very beginning. Even through our ups and downs, there was a connection, an unrelenting bond that drew me toward him. There’s no denying I love this man, there’s no denying I’ll always love him. He’s it for me. I realize this. But . . .

“You hurt me, Huxley.”

He stands up and quickly closes the space between us. “I know, Lottie, and I’m really fucking sorry. I can’t promise you I won’t hurt you again, because we’ll always have disagreements, but I’ll promise you this—you’re my number one, you’re the person I trust, the person I know will always be by my side, cheering for me and telling me when I’m an asshole. And I’ll do everything possible to make you happy. To make sure I never—on purpose—make you cry again.” His hand rises to my face and his thumb gently rubs across my cheek. “I love you, baby.”

I wet my lips, get lost in those eyes, and on a leap and a prayer, I say, “I love you, too.”

“Fuck,” he says in an exhale before tilting my jaw up and pressing his lips to mine. My arms instantly wrap around his neck and I deepen the kiss, letting go of the anger and tension that’s drained from me.

Oddly, he’s everything I’ve ever wanted. He challenges me. Teases me. And passionately loves me.

When he pulls away, he grips my cheeks and rests his forehead on mine. “Please tell me it’s a yes. Please tell me you’ll be mine forever.”

Locking gazes with him, I say, “I’m yours forever, Huxley.”

“Thank fuck,” he says, lifting my hand and pressing a kiss to my knuckles. Then, he takes the fake engagement ring off my finger and replaces it with the real thing. He gives it a kiss and asks, “Do you like it?”

I smile. “I love it, just like I love you.”

He presses another kiss to my lips and then quietly says, “Looks like you snagged yourself a rich husband after all.”

I chuckle. “I think it was the braids.”

“It was the braids for sure.”

He pulls me into a hug, then lifts me up and spins me around as we both laugh.

Just when you think you’ve hit rock bottom, when you don’t think there’s any way you could climb the mountain again to find happiness, you stumble across a trail, one that has its bumps and bruises, but offers a gorgeous outcome. I might not have known the outcome of saying yes to Huxley and his crazy scheme, but I’m so glad I did, because I can’t imagine what this life would be like without him.