Boyfriend by the Book: A feel good romantic comedy Page 9

  But as I picked it up, my sense of resolve seemed to waver. In its place, a desperate need to escape the loneliness encroaching on my life.

  If something in these pages could help me avoid that, I would be crazy to throw it out now. I could give it one more chance, I reasoned. A three-strikes-you’re-out kind of policy. Or third times’ the charm.

  Not Jane Eyre. Not Catherine Earnshaw. It was time to go to the mountain. The ultimate romance in literature which my friends believed was the perfect love story. This book would have to give me its best shot if it was going to save me from feeling doomed.

  A more positive thought as I sat down and opened its cover again.

  ~9~

  Your Inner Lizzie Bennet is:

  a) spirited and playful

  b) fiercely loyal to her friends and family

  c) equal parts kindness and confidence

  d) a keen observer, who looks at the world with a secret smile

  I steered clear of gothic heroines as I dove back into the pages of the so-called self-help book in favor of the one heroine that my friends would unanimously approve. Maybe I had sent out some weird signals my first two times, unknowingly drawing the eye of the wrong sort of men. While I might not be as wild about Pride and Prejudice as Kristen was, for instance, I had to admit that Mr. Darcy was a gentleman. For all his flaws, he possessed a gallant sort of devotion that most women dream of.

  Not that I expected a real life Mr. Darcy to cross my path. In my experience, handsome, arrogant men were exactly what they seemed. I wasn’t on the lookout for a jerk who would turn out to have a heart of gold beneath his cold exterior. Just for someone who was kind and understanding, whose definition of romance didn’t involve angst-filled poetry or pent-up rage. And with no hidden relationships or anger management classes, either.

  Someone a lot like Levi. I felt a twinge of regret as I watched him bring a stack of boxes in — I was on the phone, so Natalia had to sign for them at the other end of the desk. I tried not to glance his way as they talked, but I couldn’t help it. My eyes kept meeting his, a friendly smile hovering at the corner of my mouth.

  He’s not interested, Jodi. So don’t even think about it! I told myself. I had seen him with a date the other night. Whatever flirtation we had before now was over, and I had to accept that fact.

  That was easier said than done, though. I had felt a connection with Levi, as small as it might have seemed to my friends, had they only known. Deep down, I had hoped he felt it, too, and might ask me out. Part of me still wanted it, even though he was seeing someone else. He was a nice guy, a gentleman, and that's why it wouldn't happen now. But that was the kind of guy I was looking for, and he didn't have to have a fortune or a corporate-climbing future to woo me. Even meeting Mr. Darcy in the flesh would have a hard time convincing me otherwise.

  _________________________

  “Did you hear the news, Jodi?”

  I glanced up from the break room computer screen, startled at the sound of Natalia’s voice. “What news?” I asked.

  “The luncheon next week!” she squealed. "Everyone's talking about it!"

  “The ‘Luncheon for Literacy? They host it every year in the Regent’s dining room. It’s a really good cause,” I added, puzzled by her look of enthusiasm. Most of the staff failed to find the event thrilling, just another occasion for vacuuming carpets and arranging big bouquets in our main conference room.

  “You haven't heard who the new guest speaker is?” she said, gripping my shoulder. “It’s Gareth Hart!”

  I gasped. "Really?"

  "Really! Ms. Brampton knows his literary agent and pulled some strings after the children's author backed out. I can't believe it!"

  Gareth Hart was known for writing deeply romantic novels — the kind you read while soaking in a bubble bath, weeping over someone's nearly-lost love. If you do that kind of thing, that is, which I don't — much. Except for maybe the one about the one-armed lighthouse keeper and the heiress.

  Critics had dubbed them ‘literary love stories.’ I had to admit, they were a cut above your average beach read. I had read most of his books, and so had most of the women I knew, and even if I didn't usually cry over his bittersweet scenarios, I was still in awe of that kind of talent. It was hard to believe he was actually coming to the hotel the next Saturday.

  “Do you think we’ll get to meet him?” Natalia wondered. “I mean, he won’t be staying here. He lives in the city somewhere, apparently. But still—we could glimpse him in the lobby or something.”

  “What does he look like?” I asked, curious.

  “Um, tall, dark, and handsome with a smoldering stare?” She snorted at my look of disbelief. “Seriously, Jodi, haven’t you noticed his picture on the book jackets? He’s really attractive.”

  “I don’t remember,” I said, pretty sure I hadn’t noticed it, since most of my copies were paperbacks, ones Kristen had gotten for a steal. At home later that night, I pulled out my copy of his latest novel, one with an original dust jacket. Natalia was right. He was fairly good-looking—though he might have looked better if he offered a smile for the camera. His half-lidded gaze made him seem vaguely condescending. Then again, maybe he was going for that smoldering look she had mentioned. If so, he wasn’t completely missing the mark.

  He was younger than I imagined, too. For some reason, I pictured him as an older author — looking back on a long life of romances instead of living in the midst of them. But then again, that was probably because none of the guys I knew were nearly as romantic as the author Gareth Hart appeared to be.

  Two days before the luncheon, Ms. Brampton called me into her office. “Ms. Nichols, I want you to act as Gareth Hart’s personal concierge for Saturday’s event,” she told me, getting right to the point, as usual.

  My eyes grew wide at the announcement.

  It had only been a couple weeks since the ‘Heathcliff incident’ as I secretly thought of it. Ms. Brampton had made no bones about her disappointment in me at the time, so I had expected to be on her bad list for quite some time. Landing an assignment like this was hard to fathom.

  Ms. Brampton seemed to read my mind. “You’re still the best concierge on my staff,” she told me. “The customers have made that abundantly clear. And I think you’re up to handling a difficult personality like Mr. Hart.”

  “Difficult?” I felt a hint of apprehension. Ms. Brampton nodded.

  “Yes, you know. A little hard to work with. He’s supposed to be very reserved.”

  The cliché of writers being like hermits flashed through my mind. Perhaps it was true in this case. It might explain the look in his author’s photo at least. Maybe he was shy about his fame, avoiding the spotlight except when necessary.

  Or maybe he's like Mr. Darcy. From somewhere inside, my 'inner Lizzie' was trying to conjure itself from a book jacket photo and a few careless words. I pushed it aside.

  "Reserved," I said. "Well, we've had several guests who fit that description, haven't we? It shouldn't be a problem."

  “Exactly. That’s why I’m choosing you to be his personal concierge for this event.” Ms. Brampton smiled at me from across the desk. “Because I know you can handle any needs a client might have for a special event like this.”

  I felt a surge of hope. Ms. Brampton was giving me a chance to redeem myself after what happened. I vowed silently not to botch any part of this job, no matter how ‘difficult’ Gareth Hart might turn out to be.

  A large crowd had already gathered in the lobby when I got there Saturday morning. Most of them were women, chatting excitedly amongst themselves as they waited for the event's doors to be opened. Slipping past them, I took the ‘employee’s only’ side entrance to the reserved room.

  The catering staff was busy laying out the china dishware and floral centerpieces at the many tables. A podium and microphone had been assembled at the head of the room. The guest speaker was standing behind it, going through a stack of papers. Copies of his latest book
were stacked on a table off to the side, waiting for the guests to have their pre-purchased copy signed after the dinning portion of the luncheon.

  Now, a place like the Regent has its fair share of celebrity guests, so I wasn’t exactly the type to get star struck. Even so, I felt a little nervous as I moved to greet the bestselling novelist. It didn’t help that he was even better looking than I expected. The photo on his book jackets didn’t do him justice.

  Maybe even Mr. Darcy wasn't this handsome.

  He was tall, close to six foot. His hair was dark, almost black, and gently tousled. His eyes were a deep shade of green.

  "Hello, Mr. Hart," I said, extending my hand. "My name is Jodi Nichols, and I represent the Regent. Today, I'll be working on your behalf."

  His eyes studied me with a serious look as I explained my role as his personal assistant for the day. “So if there’s anything you need at any time during today’s luncheon, don’t hesitate to ask,” I concluded, offering my friendliest professional smile. He didn’t bother to smile back.

  Silence. I heard crickets singing — imaginary ones — amidst the clatter of china and silverware, and the brief whine from the podium's mic.

  “Well,” I said, feeling a little uncomfortable. “I can assure you we’re honored to have you step in as the speaker for such a good cause.”

  He nodded, still not saying anything. I remembered Ms. Brampton’s warning about his reserved nature. Maybe a slightly more personal approach would help to coax him out. “On a personal note, I’ve read your novels, Mr. Hart. I bought the newest one as soon as it came out.” I smiled.

  “Mm.” He glanced over his notes. “So did two million other people. The odds were in my favor.”

  How rude. How ... Mr. Darcy, actually. My mouth fell open, but nothing came out. A good thing, since I had no idea what words might escape me right now. I had to take a breath before I answered.

  “Two million," I repeated. "That’s impressive.”

  “It’s not unheard of for a New York Times Bestseller,” came his brusque reply.

  So much for the modest literary genius I had pictured. My 'inner Lizzie' stirred with indignation at his indifference. It was uncanny, this author's attitude — exactly the way Darcy seemed when Lizzie first met him: tall, and proud, and insulting from the moment he opened his mouth.

  It had to be a coincidence. A terrible one, as far as I was concerned. Yet I couldn't help picturing him in breeches and a tailcoat, sulking in a corner at the Netherfield Ball as women eyed him hopefully. And longingly.

  “You see,” he explained, “most people have bad taste or broad taste. They read whatever is popular, not whatever rings true to them or to literature. The ones who read my books will also enjoy the kind of novels you find for sale at the airport terminal. So having all those fans isn’t as much of a compliment as you think it is, Ms. Nichols.”

  Another Darcy-ish reply. I didn’t even care if the self-help book was painting him as the perfect candidate for a real-life version of Jane Austen’s hero. I couldn’t see him possessing the hidden depths that made Mr. Darcy such a favorite in the eyes of romance readers, even if there was something self-deprecating in his view of his own work.

  It made me feel sorry for the crowd that was gathered outside, and I couldn’t imagine paying money just to spend a few hours to be addressed like this.

  At least it was for a good cause. Keeping this in mind, I asked Mr. Hart if there was something I could do for him before the luncheon started.

  He nodded. “I prefer tea to water.”

  “Tea?” This can't be real. I'm making this up in my head, surely.

  “For during the luncheon,” he explained. “Guest speakers typically have bottled water, but I prefer tea. Camellia, if possible.”

  “Of course,” I said, making a mental note of it. "Tea it is."

  “Just the tea bag in hot water,” he continued. “No cream or sweetener of any kind.”

  “I’ll see it’s taken care of.”

  He frowned. “You should write it down, probably. So there’s no mistake.”

  “There won’t be,” I promised. “I have an excellent memory. It’s one of the requirements for my job.”

  “And it never fails you?”

  I hesitated. What to do at this point? If I gave in, he might think he could walk all over me for the rest of the event. If I contradicted him, Ms. Brampton would probably hear about it. I had to make a choice.

  Lizzie would refuse to write it down, of course. But I wasn't Lizzie — was I?

  Taking out a small notebook, I wrote down the order, word for word. He gave me a look of approval. “I’m glad you conceded I’m right.”

  “Of course,” I told him. “At the Regent, the customer is always right. Even when he’s wrong.”

  The words had the effect I was hoping for. A scarlet flush appeared above his shirt collar, his expression one of surprise for my answer.

  Lizzie Bennet had given it to me. Maybe the book had its points. ‘Tease him, laugh at him’—that was her response to Mr. Darcy’s insulting manner. And it seemed to work on Gareth Hart too, for at least, he hadn’t summoned a comeback for my reply.

  “Is there something else I can write down for you?” I asked. “I want to be sure there are no mistakes, as you said.”

  “Nothing at the moment.” He looked at his feet, then back at me. His expression was hard to read. Probably he was stunned that someone had actually challenged him, rather than falling all over themselves to please him. Nevertheless, I didn't smile over it until my back was turned.

  _________________________

  Throughout the luncheon, I checked on Mr. Hart, making sure he had what he needed. He seemed distant with the whole event, seldom smiling, even when someone was gushing over his work (as many of the guests did during the Q&A portion of the event). One guest, blushing and obviously nervous, raised her hand to ask why his books never featured the happy-ever-after so common in other romance novels. I had noticed this myself and was curious about the answer.

  “Happy endings are a cliché in the world of fiction,” he replied. “They’ve been overused to the point of inspiring boredom. Real life is more complex than that. Disappointment is easier to find than happiness, and I think fiction should reflect that.”

  And this guy was the number one author in contemporary romance? I shook my head, amazed at the contrast between the writer and his work. He must have a strong imagination to pen such emotional stories and be such a cynic about real-life relationships. I wondered if the rest of his audience felt the same, but they were hanging on his every word from the looks of it. When he’d finished speaking, they eagerly formed a line to have their copies of his latest book signed.

  Then again, I couldn't say I completely disagreed. After all, hadn't I said that happy endings were hard to find in real life? Wasn't I single right now, with a string of not-so-happy dates behind me — and with my only real romantic interest staked on a chivalrous guy who already had a girlfriend?

  By two o’clock, the event was over. So was my role as personal concierge, and I was about to leave for the day, when I noticed that Mr. Hart was still sitting in the dining room. Alone.

  He was writing something in a pocket-sized notebook, a cup and saucer at his elbow. As he wrote, he seemed to wince slightly, and no wonder—after two hours of signing books, his hand must be killing him! I felt a stab of pity with the realization.

  My job was done, yet I felt that it wasn't. Not if there was a chance that a Regent guest in my care wasn't completely satisfied. For that reason, I approached him.

  “Would you like anything else, Mr. Hart?" I asked. "More tea or something to eat, perhaps?”

  “This will do,” he replied. He was still writing in his notebook and didn’t look up until I had walked away. I was almost to the door when he spoke again.

  “Ms. Nichols, wait please.” He rose from his seat.

  I managed to form a smile as I turned towards him. Great. He
had another complaint? I steeled myself for a lecture as he came towards me.

  “I owe you an apology,” he said.

  I stared at him. “I’m sorry?” I said at last. "I don't think so."

  “But I do,” he told me. “For my behavior this morning. It was rude and inappropriate. I hope you can forgive me.” He kept his hands behind his back, like a child waiting to be scolded. I was too speechless to reply at first.

  "Thank you," I said, softly. "But it wasn't necessary."

  “Can you sit down for a moment?” he asked, pulling out the chair from a nearby table.

  I sank into it without protest, my head still reeling from the surprise of his words. He sat down across from me. “Will you have something? Tea, coffee—”

  “No, thank you.” I was technically still on duty, and shouldn’t even be sitting here. But Mr. Hart was my assignment for the day, so I couldn’t refuse either. Plus, I was curious about what else he had to say.

  “I have no excuse, other than I’m not very comfortable at these sort of events,” he told me. His fingers played with the pen in his hand, as if desperately seeking something to do. “This one is for charity ... but it’s hard for me to face so many people. Even if they’re fans of my work.” He looked sheepish admitting this, his eyes finally meeting my own again. "It's difficult, given how I feel about my work, which doesn't deserve the praise they give it."

  This softened my opinion of him more than his apology had. “It’s understandable that you feel that way,” I said. “Reserved people have a difficult time being in the spotlight. But you might be worrying too much. Their feelings about your books aren't something you can control anyway. Your readers admire you, or they wouldn’t be here. ”

  “They like my books, not me,” he answered. “I can't offer them a true story to match the fictional ones they prefer. It’s not the same thing." He sighed. "I can't explain it, I'm afraid.”