Operation Meet Cute by K.M. Neuhold
Chapter 10
HARLOW
Something about the kiss Teddy and I shared the other night has had me jumbled and unsettled for days. It’s not like it was a bad kiss. In fact, it was a top five kiss of all time…okay fine, it’s easily the number-one kiss I’ve ever had, and there’s something disturbing about that. A sweet, no-tongue kiss that was meant to be a thank-you for Teddy comforting me is somehow the number-one freaking kiss I’ve had in my entire thirty years of life?
There’s only one solution I can come up with for all the weirdness I’m feeling, and that’s a meet-cute. Luckily, I have a plan.
I stand in front of my mirror, carefully teasing strands of my hair until I’ve achieved the artfully messy look I’m going for, and then I snap a selfie to send to Marnie.
HARLOW: Do I look like a guy who would ride the bus? But like, a successful, attractive guy who would ride the bus?
MARNIE: Why in the name of Keanu Reeves would you ride the bus? You have a car, and from what I understand, public transportation in LA sucks.
HARLOW: It does suck, but I’m hoping that the bus isn’t the only thing that will suck, if you catch my meaning.
MARNIE: Subtle. But are you sure the bus is where you’re going to meet your leading man?
HARLOW: As opposed to?
MARNIE: Oh, I don’t know, off the top of my head…the apartment above yours.
My stomach clenches, and my heart gives a jolt. I’m glad we’re texting and not on a video chat because I don’t even want to know what my face is doing right now, given all of these weird, fluttery feelings that are filling me thanks to her utterly ridiculous comment.
It can’t be Teddy.
I decide to ignore the remark.
HARLOW: Love you. Wish me luck
MARNIE: *sigh* good luck
I shove my phone into my pocket and grab my keys. The best part of this plan is it serves the dual purpose of getting my mind off the kiss and getting my mind off the feedback Timothy gave me…and by feedback I mean utterly eviscerating me and then showing me my insides while laughing maniacally.
I warily eye my pile of scripts on top of my dresser. Whether they’re destined for the incinerator is still up in the air.
Hell, maybe my entire career is still destined for the incinerator at this point. I’m awfully good at getting sandwiches and coffee. Maybe I should go apply for a job at the coffee shop instead. No one needs original ideas to make a mocha latte or put a scone on a plate, so it would be much more my speed.
I grumble a bit to myself as I walk down the block to the bus stop, thoroughly in a funk and not looking forward to facing Timothy today.
Luckily, I don’t have much time to dwell on Director Dickhead because as soon as I reach the bus stop, I get to enjoy a solid ten minutes of wondering why it smells like pee and whether the bench is safe to sit on or if it’s the source of the smell. I hate to say it, but Marnie might have been right about this one. I’m just about to scratch this idea off the list and go back to get my car when the bus pulls up.
I can’t say it smells that much better once I’m on the bus, not to mention it’s crowded and really hot. The fumes from the engine start to make me dizzy and a little nauseous almost immediately. The man of my dreams had better be on this damn bus so it’s worth all this trouble.
I glance around quickly, not finding any open seats, and then give up and grab onto one of the bars for balance. The bus lurches forward again, and before I can catch myself, I stumble straight into the man standing next to me, nearly taking us both down. Considering everything else, I can only imagine the state of the floor, so I’m unbelievably thankful when he catches us both and helps me get my feet back under me.
“So sorry,” I say immediately, looking down and running my hands over my shirt, and then readjusting the messenger bag that’s now askew over my shoulder. When I look up to make sure I didn’t do too much harm to the poor guy, a smile jumps to my lips. Jackpot.
He looks like he’s around my age, neatly styled blond hair, eyes so blue I almost have to wonder if they’re contacts. His face looks like it’s been airbrushed, and if the way he caught me is anything to go by, he’s solid as hell too. I mentally go down the leading man checklist, happily marking each one off.
“No problem. Bus virgin?” he guesses with a perfect, shiny-white smile.
“Is it that obvious?” I joke back, gripping the bar tighter as the bus makes another stop.
“A bit. It helps if you keep your feet shoulder width apart. It’ll give you a better chance of staying upright.”
“I’ll remember that.” I nod and lick my lips, purposefully swaying toward him when the bus starts to move again. “I’m Harlow, by the way.” I offer my free hand, and he takes it. He has a nice, firm grip. No overt sweating from his palms or rough calluses. In fact, I’d be willing to bet the man gets regular manicures. Nothing wrong with that. If we fall in love, we can go together.
“Quinn,” he gives his own name, and I nearly squeal. Quinn is so a leading man’s first name. When we break the handshake, he reaches down and flips my lanyard over. “Stage crew somewhere?”
“Oh, um, assistant director, actually,” I answer, my stomach squirming a little at the unintentional reminder of my recent career blow.
Both of his eyebrows shoot up.
“You don’t say.” His smile gets even wider. “Listen, my stop is coming up, so I’m just going to go ahead and be forward as hell. Can I get your number? I’d love to take you out.”
I knew it. I knew the Great Keanu Reeves in the sky was looking out for me and my love life. Suck it, any part of me that ever doubted my leading man would appear. This is so perfect, and life is perfect, and it’s really difficult to not break out into a dance right here and now.
“Sure,” I answer with a miraculously casual tone, given the dance party that’s going on inside of me right now.
Quinn pulls out his phone and hands it to me to put my number into. “I’ll text you,” he says before giving me one last award-winning smile and getting off the bus.
“Bye,” I call after him. As soon as he’s gone, I give into the urge to squeal, earning me dirty looks from the other passengers. Fuck them, they’re just jealous that they didn’t meet their leading man.
I have a pep in my step—in spite of my new, super uncomfortable shoes—all the way to set. I’ve spent the past couple of days off torn between the hope that Timothy won’t bring up the script again or that he will bring it up again and tell me he gave it a second read, and he’s sorry he judged it so harshly the first time. I know, the second option is a long shot, but a guy can dream.
I should have known it would be neither.
As soon as I get on set, Timothy beckons me over with a condescending double finger crook and a raised eyebrow. Of course it’s just as likely he’s going to ask me to go get him a cranberry muffin as it is that he wants to talk about my script again, but I’m just not that lucky.
“Hank, I wanted to make sure you’ve processed the feedback I’ve given you and that there aren’t any ill feelings.”
“Harlow,” I mumble the correction.
“We’re artists, we’re sensitive, but we can’t have any of that getting in the way of the project we’re bringing to life right now,” he goes on, not waiting for my answer. “In a few months or years, you’ll thank me for telling you the truth.”
“The truth that rom coms are dead, and I don’t have an original thought in my head?” I snark before I can think better of it.
He lowers his sunglasses—who wears sunglasses inside?—and fixes me with a penetrating stare. “The truth that you’re better than whatever that was. You don’t need to rehash old tropes like that, at least not in such a predictable way. You can do better.”
I’m stunned into silence, simply blinking at the man and trying to process the fact that I’m almost positive he just paid me a compliment. “I’m…um…”
“Double check the set for the scene we’re filming today and make sure the sound team is ready to go so we can get this right,” he instructs, pivoting away from the uncomfortably nice moment we were sharing. Thank Keanu Reeves for that because things were getting downright weird.
“On it,” I assure him, and then I get to work with a fresh hope in my heart and new ideas brewing in my mind.
TEDDY
I’m standing in the cereal aisle, trying to decide between oatmeal and cream of wheat—I know, exciting stuff—when my phone starts to buzz in my pocket.
A smile spreads over my lips as soon as I see Harlow’s name flashing across the screen.
“Hello,” I answer casually.
“Why aren’t you home?” he asks, and I chuckle.
“I’m at the grocery store around the corner. In case you didn’t notice, my cupboards are bare.”
“Okay, don’t move. I’ll be there in a minute.” He hangs up before I can tell him to just wait for me to finish up.
By the time Harlow finds me, I’ve decided on the oatmeal, blueberry to be exact, and I’m in the produce department.
“Do you ever feel like people are watching you like you’re sizing up a dildo when you check the firmness of a cucumber?” he asks, picking up one of the heftier cucumbers and slapping one end against his open palm with a positively pornographic thwack.
“Now I will,” I mutter, and he laughs, bagging it and tossing it into my cart. “Did you just come down here to toss things I don’t need into my cart?”
“Pretty much,” he says with a playful smirk. “Actually, I came to tell you about what a fantastic day I had today.”
“Oh yeah?” I grab some oranges while Harlow suggestively weighs a couple of plums in his hands like it’s his personal mission in life to turn the entire produce department into a porn set.
“It finally worked.”
“What did?” I ask, stroking my beard and considering the green beans for dinner tonight.
“A meet-cute. It wasn’t even totally planned, which made it feel even more right, like it was ordained by the universe or something,” he babbles while my stomach sinks and my chest gets heavy. “I stumbled into this guy on the bus, and his name is Quinn. How perfect is that? He was really charming and handsome, and he asked for my number.”
My limbs feel heavier with every gushing word, but I paste a supportive smile on my face and keep it there. I never expected our arrangement to be permanent, but I suppose I had hoped that it would last longer than a couple of blowjobs and a confusingly tender kiss.
If I’m honest, I had hoped it would last long enough for me to convince Harlow to stop hiding in a fantasy world and give this thing between us a real shot.
“That’s great,” I mutter, deciding against the green beans. I’m having chocolate cake for dinner, dammit.
“Isn’t it? He already texted me too. He wants to take me out to dinner tomorrow night.”
“That’s great,” I say again, sounding hollow even to my own ears.
“Ooh, cake,” he says as I steer toward the bakery and put one into the cart. “I need to grab a few things, actually. I’ll meet you near the register in a second.” Harlow flounces off, and I’m left with a few seconds to collect myself so I don’t do something to embarrass myself or ruin our friendship in the middle of the grocery store.
Chances are low that whoever he met on the bus is going to be the one, but it doesn’t change the fact that someday someone will be, and it won’t be me. Whatever happens with this date, it’s a good reminder for me to not let whatever has been going on between us go to my head.
That kiss the other night was incredible, and for a second, I could’ve sworn Harlow was feeling the same things I am. Even if he is, he’s not ready to face it, and I need to remember that.
I take a few deep breaths, everything now firmly back in perspective in my heart and mind when it comes to my best friend. Then I make my way up front to the registers.
The cashier gives me a shy smile as I start to unload my cart. He’s worked here for a couple of years, working his way through college, and we’ve talked a few times. He’s a sweet kid.
“How’s it going?” I ask politely.
“Good.” He licks his lips and a blush creeps into his cheeks. “I haven’t seen you in a little while.”
“I’ve been working too hard,” I confess with a grin and a shrug, and he nods.
He opens his mouth to say something but is cut off by Harlow tossing several more items into my cart. I’m about to playfully complain about him expecting me to pay for his groceries when I realize that he grabbed the dish soap I like and a carton of almond milk, which I had forgotten I needed. He gives me a knowing smile, holding on to his own packages of yogurt and lunchmeat.
Given the fact that I just took the time to remind myself to keep things in perspective with Harlow, the domesticity of him knowing what I’m low on at home really shouldn’t make my heart do somersaults against my ribcage.
“Is that all?” Kirt, the cashier, checks.
“That’s it.” I pay and wait for Harlow to check out as well. For some reason, he keeps throwing the stink eye at sweet little Kirt.
Ditching my cart near the doors, I gather all my bags into my arms, and the two of us make our way down the street.
“He has the hots for you.”
“Who?” I ask, not following the internal monologue that clearly lead to such random musing.
“Kirt,” he purrs his name breathlessly, bumping his shoulder against mine as we walk.
“Kirt?” I repeat. “He’s a shy kid.”
“Oh please, he’s twenty-three, and he’s not shy. He’s all flustered imagining what you would look like naked.”
Do I detect a hint of jealousy in Harlow’s voice? I can’t imagine why he’d be jealous when he was just bouncing around excitedly about his own upcoming date.
“Hmm,” I hum instead, not really sure what he wants me to say. Is he fishing to find out if I’m looking to date anyone? It’s an easy answer, but there’s no reason he should care. Maybe he’s just being nosy like Ezra likes to be.
“What’s the plan for dinner, Teddy Bear?” he asks as we make our way up the stairs to my apartment.
“Chocolate cake,” I answer. “You in?”
“Oh, hell yes.” Harlow follows me into my apartment and starts to make himself at home, which does more stupid things to my heart. He’s been making himself at home here for years, just because I know what he looks like naked now doesn’t make that any more significant. “Grab two forks, and we’ll eat it right out of the container while I tell you about the surprisingly nice thing Director Douchebag said to me today.”
I do as he suggests, grabbing a couple of forks and joining him on the couch. He scoots close enough that our thighs are touching, and our shoulders bump as we pull the plastic lid off the cake and dig in. I watch with interest as his face lights up and he waves his hands animatedly, telling me all about his surprising conversation with Timothy the Twat today.
Every time he smiles at me, it does more stupid things to my heart. Harlow shoves a forkful of cake into his mouth, leaving a smear of chocolate on his lip, and when he pauses for dramatic effect, I can’t help myself…I lean over and lick the chocolate off his bottom lip. His cheeks pink, and he smiles sweetly at me when I lean back, blinking for a second like he lost his train of thought.
I’m fooling myself to think I can get things into perspective with Harlow. I’ve been in love with him for too long to not have my heart broken by whatever this is. I don’t care. If heartbreak is the price I have to pay to kiss him a few more times, then so be it.
