Love the One You're With (Sex, Love & Stiletto 2)

Kelli gave a sweet smile. “I’m your alternate. If your story doesn’t cut it, Camille will print mine instead.”

Oh, hell no.

With a violent twist of her hands, Julie uncorked the champagne and took a long swig as she marched out of the kitchen, her head reeling from Kelli’s bomb.

There was only one thing worse than having to write this story.

And that was having Kelli-with-an-i write it for her.

Movie night, here I come.

Read on for an excerpt from Lauren Layne’s Isn’t She Lovely

Chapter One

Stephanie

So, it’s like this … in movies, there’s this thing called the meet-cute.

The meet-cute is that moment when the romantic couple meets for the first time, and it’s supposed to be amusing or ironic or charming, or some shit like that.

You know, like that scene where the sarcastic, ball-busting female character mistakes her handsome new lawyer for the janitor? Or where the impossibly cute secretary rear-ends the BMW of the guy who turns out to be her new boss?

Then, of course, true love abounds, and everyone conveniently forgets that the entire thing is completely contrived.

And here’s what you don’t learn in Film 101: in real life, the meet-cute isn’t the least bit cute. It’s more like a meet-awkward. Sometimes even a meet-shoot-me-now.

And another thing they don’t tell you in film class?

It takes a hell of a lot longer than that brief moment to know that this other person is something other than a ginormous wart on your soul.

Basically, the meet-cute is this big, fat delusion created in the fantasyland of Hollywood. Except sometimes … sometimes it’s real.

* * *

My mom always used to tell me that I wouldn’t really know myself until I turned thirty. I’m pretty sure that’s crap.

I’m twenty-one, and I already have a pretty good list of things I know about myself. The smell of roses makes me nauseous, I look sallow in green, small talk makes me queasy, and I’ve got a thing for old movies.

Oh, and I hate being late.

But it must be some sort of cosmic requirement that on the first day of a new semester you’ll sleep through your alarm, misplace your backpack, and naturally the subway will be running way behind schedule.

Not that being late to my Classic Film Narratives class is something to get worked up about, since it’s just an elective, but it’s like I said: I hate being late.

On the plus side, I’ve been at NYU for three years now and know my way around campus. At least I’m not lost, on top of having to do that awkward boob-jiggling half-run/half-walk thing as I make my way toward the classroom.

I’m digging around in my ancient black backpack for a granola bar since I skipped breakfast when I run smack into a wall of, well … beefcake, for a lack of a better word.

I’ve never done the whole round-the-corner-run-into-someone thing, but I always imagined it happening kind of slo-mo.

It doesn’t.

It’s more of a split-second flash of surprise and teeth-jolting discomfort followed by stinging humiliation.

I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that my shit’s now all over the ground or the fact that I’m gaping at the guy I just slammed into. He’s obnoxiously good-looking in a clean-cut, star-quarterback kind of way. Dark blond hair, strong chin, golden brown eyes, and yummy shoulders…

Totally not my type. I prefer the wiry artist type with soulful eyes. But still, he’s pretty if you like ’em tall, muscly, and hair-gelled.