Operation Meet Cute by K.M. Neuhold
Chapter 1
HARLOW
The smell of dark-roast and espresso tickle my nose, an array of sounds surrounding me, from the soft acoustic music playing through the overhead speakers to the loud grinding of the beans being pulverized, accompanied by the tap, tap, tap of a dozen crappy screenplays being written all around me. It’s all familiar and calming, but right now, it’s nothing but background noise because I’m on an important mission, and I cannot, I will not be distracted.
I lick my lips and cast a sideways glance at the man standing only a few feet away in an expensive Italian suit, tailored perfectly to his statuesque frame. Statuesque, ugh. Fucking Teddy and his Word of the Day calendar, it’s seeping into my internal dialogue. Love the man, but he’s kind of a dork. A good-looking dork, but… Focus, Harlow.
The barista, Tony, sets the drink down on the pick-up counter and calls out for Harley. My heart jumps, and I wait to see if he’s going to grab it right away. But no, he’s distracted by something on his phone. Perfect. Holy shit, this might actually work out.
Truthfully, the purposeful wrong-number texts I’ve been sending have amounted to jack shit, and the same goes for the emails. My mail swaps aren’t working out like I’d hoped, and no matter how many men I “accidentally” ram my cart into at the grocery store, I am still woefully, pitifully, depressingly single.
But today, the lord above has smiled on me. The Great and Powerful Keanu Reeves— clearly god, by the way, fight me—has given me the perfect meet-cute. I just have to execute it properly.
I dart forward and grab the drink, keeping one eye on my future husband as I shuffle over to the napkin counter and slowly fiddle with things. Any second now, the barista is going to put my drink on the counter and call my name. Harley is going to think they got his name wrong and grab the drink, then I’ll hurry over, looking adorably flustered, and tell him our drinks accidentally got swapped. We’ll laugh about it, and I’ll offer to buy him a blueberry muffin. He’ll check his watch, already late for work but unable to resist the allure of my offer. By the end of our impromptu breakfast, we’ll both be head over heels. Happily ever after all around: applause, applause. And scene.
I know this is real life, not a movie—I hate that, by the way, movies are much better—but sometimes things really do work out. You just have to believe.
Right on cue, Tony sets my latte down and calls out, “Harlow!” Harley looks up from his phone and frowns, seeming to mutter something under his breath before snatching the drink up. Okay, he seems to be a bit of a grouch, but I can totally work with that. He probably needs the magic of love to soften his gruff exterior.
He lifts my drink to his lips, taking a sip. I’m just about to rush in and tell him about the “accidental” mix-up when things start to go south very quickly.
Harley spits a mouthful of latte onto the floor and turns an angry look on Tony.
“What the fuck is this? Getting my name wrong is bad enough, but if you’re too stupid to tell the difference between an Americana and whatever prissy, foamy bullshit this is…”
What in the h-e-double-fuck is the matter with this guy? Keanu Reeves was so wrong about this one, and if I ever do meet him, I’m going to tell him just that. Harley-The-Asshole continues yelling at poor Tony while I reach into my pocket and pull out two twenty-dollar bills, stuffing them into the tip jar as my penance and hurrying my ass out of the coffee shop as fast as I can.
As soon as I’m out the door, I dump the boring Americana in the nearest trash can and continue on down the street, sighing internally. Another morning, another failed meet-cute. If I wasn’t a glass-half-full type of person, I might start to get a little discouraged.
In need of a pep talk, I pull out my phone and dial my ride-or-die, sister from another mister, best friend since the cradle.
“Tell me there’s an Oscar out there for me,” I say as soon as Marnie answers.
“Good morning, Harlow,” she says cheerfully.
“Only, you know, with a better name because Oscar is just kind of bleh,” I go on, ignoring her greeting.
“I don’t know. I never get tired of screaming it out when he goes down on me,” she purrs shamelessly.
“Ew, I don’t need to hear about that shit.”
“If I have to hear about your sex life, you have to hear about mine,” she reasons.
“Like I even have a sex life to tell you about.” Okay, I’m full-on pouting now, but I think I’m entitled. My future husband turned out to be a complete prick, and now I don’t even have my morning caffeine fix.
“There’s an Oscar out there for you,” she finally assures me.
“Why don’t I believe you?” I sigh.
“You want my honest opinion?”
It’s my knee-jerk reflex to say no. Whenever she asks if I want her honest opinion, it always turns out to be something mean like you need to be more realistic or Keanu Reeves is a mortal man. Bitch knows how to cut me straight to the core.
“Fine, Marn, tell me your honest opinion. But please keep in mind that I am without coffee this morning and feeling more than a little fragile.”
“This obsession with the perfect movie-moment meet-cute is getting out of hand.”
I sniff indignantly. “No, it’s not.”
“You’re so infatuated with this rom com idea of true love that when you got snowed in at that ski resort last winter, you slept with that ski instructor and got crabs.”
“I told you, I didn’t have crabs.” I groan, earning a look from the woman passing me on the street. Keep it moving honey, this conversation doesn’t concern you. “It was bed bugs or something.”
“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t sound convinced.
“Besides,” I continue. “That was a fun weekend.” Sure, Claude didn’t turn out to be my leading man, but he did know how to do this thing with his tongue that to this day makes my toes curl when I think about him. All in all, it definitely is not one for the regret pile, in spite of the not-crabs I caught.
“You don’t even ski,” she says, cutting into my internal musings about that weekend.
“Oh my god, Marnie, no one skis at a ski resort.”
“Pretty sure that’s not true, but that’s not even the point.”
“What is the point, if not to shame me about hot, snowed-in, ski-lodge sex?” I ask with a sigh.
“The point, my wonderful but deranged best friend, is that Oscar proposed to me last night.”
“What?” I nearly squeal but manage to remain slightly more dignified than that. “Oh my god, how did you not immediately send me a picture of the ring? How did he ask? Was it amazing? Tell me everything right now before I get on a plane and fly out to Georgia to kick your pretty little ass.”
“I was planning to tell you all about it on our Zoom call tonight, and that’s still what I’m going to do because I’m pulling into the parking garage of my office right now and don’t have time to get into all the details. The reason I told you right now is because I want you to have what I have, honey. I want you to have this crazy, stupid, sappy feeling I have.”
My chest aches with longing, and I sniffle. “That’s what I want too. But so far, all I’ve managed is a lot of annoyed neighbors and accidentally getting a barista yelled at during the morning rush.”
“My dear friend, you could not be missing the point more if you tried. I love you. Please pull your head out of your ass. Now, I have to go. Call me tonight, and I’ll show you the ring and tell you how he asked. Trigger warning: I was naked when it happened.”
“Of course, you were,” I tease, a mixture of happiness and jealousy warring inside me. Marnie deserves all the happiness in the world, and Oscar is a great guy, even if he does have a god-awful name. “I love you too, and I’ll call you later.”
We hang up, and I take a few seconds to get my emotions under control before stepping onto the sound stage, ready for another day of being Director extraordinaire, Timothy Hector’s, coffee bitch…er, assistant.
