Operation Meet Cute by K.M. Neuhold

Chapter 4

TEDDY

“Ouch,” my assistant, Ezra, says, leaning against my desk.

“What’s ouch?” I catch myself scowling a little at his assessment of Harlow’s unexpected offer last night.

“Listen, boss. I know you’ve been all twisted up over this guy for years, but he might as well have called you laundry,” he tsks, tapping the papers I just handed him against the desk so they’re neatly lined up.

“Is that some kind of slang the kids are using these days?” I ask, sounding like the grandpa Harlow accused me of being.

“The kids? You’re thirty-five, not eighty,” he chides. “He should call you laundry because he doesn’t want to do you, but he’s starting to get desperate.”

I snort a laugh. “That is horrible…and possibly accurate.” I think back to our conversation. He seemed casual more than desperate, but someone indifferent about sex with me might not be that much better. “It’s probably my only chance to have sex with him though, so it might be worth it.”

“Do I need to buy you a mirror?” Ezra arches an eyebrow at me.

“No?” Seems like a weird segue if you ask me.

“You are fine as hell. You do not need scraps.”

I bristle. “It’s not scraps, it’s Harlow.” My chest tightens just saying the words.

I’m not sure why I even bothered to ask Ezra’s advice. For one thing, he’s not exactly president of the Harlow fan club, and for another, I already know damn well that there’s little chance I’ll turn Harlow down if he’s really serious about the two of us getting naked together. No matter how temporary the arrangement might end up being.

“Clearly, I’m not going to be able to talk you off this ledge, so let me just say this: that man is nothing but heartbreak and hair gel.” I swear he would shoot fire out of his eyes right now if he could.

I clench my jaw, a thousand defenses jumping to my tongue about how Ezra doesn’t know Harlow like I do. He’s only seen the shiny mask my best friend wears, not the way he held Eileen like a baby and sang lullabies to her when she was sick two years ago, or that he lives on a shoestring budget so he can send money to his mom every month so she doesn’t have to worry, or how he always tears up at happy endings no matter how cheesy or predictable they are. But I’ve spent enough hours of my life trying to convince Ezra that Harlow is more than he appears to be, and frankly, I have too much on my calendar today to waste the time on it.

“Do you have a few minutes to grab me a coffee? I have a meeting in ten minutes, and I need to look over a few figures beforehand,” I ask, switching gears from friends to boss and employee.

“You got it.” He gives me a cheeky little salute and saunters out of my office.

I grab the stack of sticky notes off my desk and quickly scribble a flash inspiration down.

Hair gel, so sticky

Mushy hearted marshmallow man

Totally cute butt

I grin to myself, pleased with my terrible haiku that I’m sure will give Harlow a chuckle. I fold it up and stick it in my pocket so I can hide it in his apartment later before he gets home.

Ezra’s assessment of Harlow is completely wrong, but he’s right about one thing: nothing serious is likely to come out of it if we do have sex. Maybe it will be the perfect way for me to finally get that particular fantasy out of my system.

On the other hand, it’s possible it wasn’t a serious suggestion at all, and I’m wasting my morning thinking about it when I should be looking over a few figures before my meeting. Pining after Harlow doesn’t pay the bills. If it did, I’d be a millionaire a dozen times over.

HARLOW

“Harlan,” Dickhead Director, sorry, Timothy, crooks a finger at me while the cast and crew disperse for a short lunch break. I hustle over, wincing at the pinch in my toes from these stupid new shoes that Teddy told me I shouldn’t wear. Damn that man for always being right about everything.

“Harlow,” I correct him, offering up the plated sandwich I just finished making for him. Good thing I learned how to assemble a turkey sub in film school. Eyeroll.

“You want to be a director,” he says matter of factly, ignoring my correction. Considering I’ve been working for him for two years, and he still doesn’t know my name, it’s probably time that I accept it as a lost battle.

“Yes. And a writer.”

He nods, pulling off his glasses and a little cloth from his pocket to clean them with. It’s such a pretentious move that I wonder if he practices it in the mirror at night. “You have a script.”

Again, not a question.

“I do.” About half a dozen, actually. But there’s at least one that’s polished enough that I’d be willing to show him and get his feedback. Excitement flutters in the pit of my stomach. What if he actually likes the script? Would he help me get backing for it? Maybe all the sandwiches and coffee orders are finally paying off.

“On you?” Finally, a question.

“No. Sorry.”

He frowns. “Bring it tomorrow. I’ll see if I have time to read it.” He bites into the sandwich and walks away without waiting for my answer. Ugh, he’s such a prick. But a prick who might be on the verge of helping me make my dreams come true. I squeal internally and pull out my phone to text Teddy.

HARLOW: Director Dickhead just asked to read my script. If I wasn’t on set, I would be playing the Rocky music right now and jogging around with my arms over my head.

TEDDY: That’s AMAZING! Do you know which one you’re going to give him?

HARLOW: I do. I’m seriously shaking right now. I can’t believe this is happening.

TEDDY: This calls for a celebration. Dinner at the fancy fish place tonight?

HARLOW: It’s a date, Teddy Bear.

I’m still grinning like a fool as I shove my phone back into my pocket and head over to talk to the sound guy about watching how low he drops the boom during the afternoon scenes and making sure everything is in order and ready to go for the next. An assistant director’s job is never done.

By the time the day is over, the pinch in my toes is a full-on throb, but that hasn’t done a damn thing to dampen my good mood. I see Teddy through the window of the restaurant as I walk up, already seated at a table with two glasses of wine, no doubt Pinot, since it’s my favorite.

On my way to the table, I spot a cute waiter with his hands full and consider bumping into him because if that’s not a classic meet-cute, I don’t know what is. But my shirt is too cute to ruin, plus it probably wouldn’t be as adorable and charming in real life for me to accidentally ruin an entire tray of food and possibly cost him some tips.

Teddy must catch my internal debate on the subject because as I reach the table, he’s shaking his head at me.

“I didn’t do it,” I point out before he can say anything.

“But you thought about it.”

I slide into my seat and pick up my glass of wine, taking a sip and sighing happily. “Last time I checked, Teddy Bear, thoughts are not against the law.”

Amusement and…something else passes through his expression before he takes a sip of his own wine. “No, thoughts aren’t against the law,” he agrees softly.

I don’t even bother opening my menu. I’ve been thinking about a celebratory lobster all day long. Considering how much ramen I’ve been eating so I can make sure my mom has money in her bank account, I think I’ve more than earned it.

“Dinner’s on me,” Teddy says, no doubt reading my thoughts because he’s Teddy, and as far as I can tell, there’s nothing he can’t do. Although, there are a few things I haven’t tested out yet, so I could be wrong. Speaking of which…

“Did you give the friends-with-benefits thing any thought?” I ask, and he snorts into his glass of wine.

“That was a seamless transition.” He grabs a napkin and mops up his shirt.

“There was a train of thought involved,” I assure him with a smirk.

“I’m sure there was. And yes, I did give it some thought.” He picks up his own menu, holding it up high enough that I can’t see his face anymore.

With a little huff, I put my hand on his menu and push it down. “And?”

“And…if you’re sure that’s something you want to do, I’m cool with it.” He keeps his eyes fixed on the words in front of him, and his tone is the epitome of casual, but it almost looks like his cheeks turn a little pink behind his beard.

“Cool,” I say just as nonchalantly, grinning against the rim of my glass as I take another sip.

I don’t know why we didn’t think of this before. It makes perfect sense. It’s the ideal addition to our already perfect friendship. “And you’re not paying for my dinner. I’m about to become a fabulously successful director. I should be buying your dinner.”

He makes a low rumble in his throat that sounds like a growl. We both know that as soon as I get up to use the restroom, he’s going to slip the waiter his credit card so I never get the chance to pay, and then I’ll insist on at least leaving the tip so I don’t feel like a total leech. Marnie says we’re like an old married couple, whatever that means.