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Chapter One:
Katie
People say that the only things you can rely on in life are death and taxes. Well, I have one more for you: break-ups. Because unless your childhood bestie becomes your high-school sweet-heart, and you get married and live the next sixty years in sappy Hallmark bliss, feeding each other bon-bons, you’re going to have to deal with a broken heart, sooner or later. And believe me, I’ve seen it all.
The guy who dumped his girlfriend when she was literally in the delivery room, with their first-born crowning between her thighs. The woman who decided to break the news by filming a revenge porn sex video with her boyfriend’s brother – and then screening it at their anniversary party. And how about the guy who ended things via a barbershop quartet dispatched to his lucky wife’s office, to serenade her with Daphne and Celeste’s little known 2002 hit ‘Ooh, Stick You (And Your Mama Too)’?
So, what’s the deal? Do I have the worst romantic luck in the world? Well, not quite. It’s all in a day’s work for me…
“I just don’t know what I’m going to DO without him!”
The woman opposite me bursts into floods of messy tears, clutching a grungy sweatshirt I’m guessing belongs to her ex. Honestly, I’m impressed she still has any water left in her body; she’s been weeping since she walked through the door, an hour ago.
“I know this is hard,” I tell her gently. “But break-ups happen. You get to have a fresh start now, and find the right guy for you.”
“He WAS the right guy.” She hiccups. “I love him so much, I’ll never find a man like him!”
“Sure you will.” I give an encouraging smile. “It’s common to romanticize a partner after the break-up, but nobody’s perfect. Did you make that list I asked, about all his flaws?”
She nods reluctantly.
“Why don’t you read it to me, and remind yourself that it wasn’t all good?” I suggest, sitting back in my chair.
She unfolds a crumpled sheet of paper. “It wasn’t easy to think of anything,” she says, “I mean, our relationship was pretty much perfect. Except, maybe… he wasn’t a great listener. And, umm, he would be kind of nit-picky sometimes.”
“This is good,” I encourage her. “Keep going.”
“Well… he refuses to brush his teeth,” she continues. “Or shower more than once a week. And he wouldn’t cook, or do any of the chores around our apartment. And he only ate green M&Ms. He had me pick the rest of the colors out of the bowl, and if I missed one, he would make me watch all three parts of the Lord of the Rings trilogy to make it up to him.”
Wait, what?!
I sit there, trying to hide my stunned reaction, as she continues her list of personality traits that should be landing this guy a spot on the FBI’s ‘Most Wanted List’. This is the guy she’s been calling perfect and wonderful and impossible to live without?
I shouldn’t be surprised. Welcome to romance, in all its messy, wonderful, irrational glory. Some people say that love is blind, but I’ve always thought it’s more like that third margarita: it makes your head spin, and your knees unsteady, and can lead to spontaneous outbursts of Celine Dion’s greatest hits – with the right person. But when it’s Mr. Wrong? Well, you find yourself waking up the next morning with a killer hangover, regretting just how fast your pants came off.
Which is where I come in.
I’ve made a career out of helping people wave goodbye to bad relationships – so they can free themselves up to find Mr. (or Miss) Right instead. I started my blog, The Break-Up Artist, a few years ago after I got dumped in an epic, painful way. I’m talking, ghosted so hard, I should have called Bill Murry and the rest of the Ghostbusters team to track him down. It pretty much destroyed me, but I wondered, why couldn’t there be an easier way to say your goodbyes and move on? If people could just say how they felt, and part on reasonably civil terms, then there would be no need to wallow in rejection and insecurity, eating your body weight in French fries and ice-cream until you feel like a used-up husk of your former self.
Or maybe that’s just me.
Either way, the blog has taken off in a major way over the past couple of years. It turned out, I’m not the only one who wants to avoid piling on the self-pity (and the pounds). Now, I coach clients with their post-break-up blues, and mediate couples through those brutal final fights, helping them figure out who gets the dog, the Netflix login, and custody of their favorite bar. I even have a book coming out soon, which is amazing and terrifying all at once. Amazing, because my name is emblazoned across the cover like a real author; terrifying, because my editor has taken a massive chance on me, and I don’t want to let her down.
“…And then he slept over with his co-worker, because they were up all night on an important project. And yes, they shared a bed, but he swears, nothing happened!”
My client is still talking, but luckily, the display on my phone ticks over. “Time’s up!” I interrupt, leaping to my feet. “I think you’ve made some real progress here.”
“Really?” She hugs the sweater tighter, and now I know about his ‘no shower’ policy, I make a mental note to Purell the couch after she’s gone.
“Really,” I tell her, and it’s true. “Remember, things didn’t work out with him for a reason. It may hurt now, but this is a good thing. Now you’re free, to go out and find someone who’s more compatible with you. Someone with basic oral hygiene!”
She manages a smile. “Thanks, Katie,” she sniffles. “You’re way more helpful than my therapist. She thinks I have low self-esteem issues!”
No comment.
I steer her to the door. “I’m not a qualified therapist,” I tell her. “I’m just someone who’s been where you are, dumped and miserable. But believe me, it was the best thing that could have happened to me.”
“So did you meet Mr. Right?” she asks, looking hopeful.
“Not just yet,” I say, flashing a bright smile. “But I’m having plenty of fun looking for him!”
I send her on her way, and let out a massive sigh of relief. Sure, I love coaching people past the heartache and despair, but sometimes, it’s hard to keep a straight face. Plus, I’m running late to meet my friends, so I grab my jacket, and go catch the subway uptown. The train is packed and steamy: it’s the start of summer, and everybody’s checking everyone else out, looking for their next romance.
Myself included.
I wasn’t lying to my client before, I am having fun out there on the dating scene. Not that I have any choice. A hazard of my profession is that I’ve seen all the ways a relationship can fail, so I usually cut things off the minute I see the red flags waving. I must have been on a hundred first dates… but only a handful of fifth ones. Which is a good thing. Believe me, when I was younger, I went falling head over heels for the kind of guys who were all wrong for me – and I’ve got the heartache to prove it. Now, I can see the warning signs a mile away, which means I know when to put my emotions on the line… and when to keep things purely fun and casual.
Today, I catch the eye of a hot guy on the train who has ‘fun and casual’ written all over him. Tattoos, muscles, workout gear… And a massive green smoothie in his hand. I flash a smile, and he smiles back, edging closer as people get on and off the train, so that by the time we’re another two stops along the ride, he’s somehow standing right next to me.
“’Sup,” he gives me a bro-ish nod, slurping on his green sludgy drink. “You like to work out?”
It takes me a minute he’s nodding to my tote bag – a freebie I got from a local gym way back when. “Um, sometimes,” I reply, which isn’t exactly a lie. I mean, sex counts as a workout. Especially if you’re doing it right.
“Cool,” the guy nods, smiling. “Me too.”
“Great.”
We fall silent. OK, so he’s definitely not soulmate material. But then again, those biceps…
“So,” I start. “Where are you heading?”
But before he can reply, the train jolts – sending the guy stumbling forwards, his smoothie spilling all down my front.
“Aww, man,” the guys whines, looking annoyed. “That was ten bucks! Extra chia!”
“I’m, umm, sorry for your loss,” I manage, as green sludge drips down my chest, and pools on the subway car floor. We reach the next stop, and get off together. “I should probably get cleaned up,” I say, but instead of offering to help me out, the guy just nods.
“Yeah, you really smell.” He disappears into the crowd, leaving me stinking like a sewer.
I sigh. That’s what I get for shallow lusting! I grab some tissues from my purse and try to mop myself down, but that only rubs the stench deeper. I love this shirt, but something tells me, I’m better off firing it into the sun than trying to get it clean again. I’m just about to admit defeat, and detour to the nearest GAP, when I hear my name being called behind me on the subway platform.
“Katie?”
I turn – and promptly take back everything I just said. Can I fire myself into the sun right now? Because this cannot be happening.
“It is you!” The guy in front of me breaks out into a massive smile. “Holy shit, it’s been forever. What, four years?”
“Five,” I reply, numbly, staring up into the sparkling blue eyes of Mr. Wrong himself. Him. The original ghost. The man who broke my heart so thoroughly, I had to launch a career as a self-help guru just to make sense of it all.
Wes Baxter.
Dammit, this isn’t how it’s supposed to happen. Because believe me, I’ve thought about running into him again. Except in those fantasies, I’m always gorgeous and polished, with a fresh blow-out, and a hot guy on my arm. I’m breezy, and casual, and act like I never once ate my body weight in ice-cream while sobbing over the heart he broke.
Some dream.
Because instead of that fabulous fantasy, I’m standing on a sweltering subway platform, which my bangs sticking to my forehead, looking like a small child just vomited all over me.
Wes’s eyes drift lower, to the green disaster all over my chest. “Are you OK?” he asks.
“Fine!” I blurt. “Just… extra chia seeds.”
“Oh. OK.” Wes pauses, and I can see the initial thrill of running into a familiar face blend into the memory of how exactly we left things.
Or rather, he left – the city – and I eventually found out. From his roommate. After leaving messages for a week, wondering where my boyfriend was.
Clear across the country, that’s where.
I gulp, my old humiliation suddenly roaring to life. Hello, rejection, it’s been a while. Thanks for coming, please never show your face again.
I can’t do this. I know I should be able to put on a happy face for all of five minutes, and pretend like I don’t still care about our history – because I definitely, absolutely, positively don’t – but getting ambushed like this has left me too flustered to turn in that kind of Oscar-worthy performance. My ‘fight or flight’ instinct is screaming at me right now, and flight is winning. Big time.
“I have to go!” I say quickly, backing away. “But, umm, take care!”
Take care?
I turn, disorientated– and almost walk straight off the platform. Wes grabs my arm just in time and yanks me back. “Careful,” he says, looking at me like I’m some kind of freak.
Which, right now, I am.
“Thanks!” I manage to yelp, before tearing free and racing for the exit. I don’t slow down, I don’t even pause for breath, until I’m back at street-level and three blocks away from my humiliation.
“It was terrible!” I wail to my friend Poppy, when we meet outside the Griffin Hotel. “Think of the most embarrassing, toe-curling, skin-peeling awful encounter you can think of, then multiply it by a factor of a thousand.”
“So, not great then,” she deadpans.
I cringe. “Look at me!” I gesture to the mess. She winces. “Is this how you want to run into the ex who broke your heart into a million pieces?”
“It was really him?” she shakes her head. “I can’t believe it. I thought he moved to Los Angeles.”
“It’s the West Coast, not Antarctica,” I sigh. “I knew I’d see him again someday, I just didn’t expect it to be like… this.”
“He probably didn’t notice,” Poppy says, comforting.
I snort. “They can smell me coming six blocks away.”
She laughs. “I think I have some spare clothes in the Presidential suite,” she says, leading me inside the hotel.
“I’m not going to ask why,” I shoot her a smirk. Poppy grins back. She’s been dating the owner of the hotel for a year now, and is prone to very racy PDAs, but I’m not about to give her a hard time about their sexcapades when she’s saving my ass from green goop. “Just point me to the running water and laundry supply.”
I follow her through the lobby, already dreaming of a hot shower, but she suddenly stops dead. “Oh my god,” Poppy whisper-squeals. “Is that Selena Banks?”
I turn to look at the gorgeous woman sitting at a table near the bar. Even incognito in jeans and Ray-Ban shades, there’s no missing her. “Now, why couldn’t I have run into Wes looking like that?” I ask, taking in the glossy dark hair and luminous skin.
Poppy grins. “Because you’re not a mega movie star, who probably spends five hours a day making her face look that perfect.”
“What’s five hours between friends? So, I’ll miss some sleep,” I quip, still staring. Me, and half the hotel lobby, too. Now I see why she’s always on the cover of some magazine, or being voted ‘Most Perfect Being to Ever Grace the Earth’: the woman is stunning, and exudes a kind of charisma that makes it hard to look away, even when all she’s doing is sipping on an iced tea, chatting to some guy.
“I love her,” Poppy sighs. “She was amazing in Vampire Quest, and she and Ryder are the hottest couple… Is that him?” she asks, squinting for a better view. The guy she’s with leans back, gesturing for a waiter, and my heart plummets to the sub-basement level.
Because seriously? Like I haven’t suffered enough today.
“That’s not Ryder,” I gulp, hit with resignation and dread all at once. “It’s him.”
“Who?” Poppy frowns.
“HIM!” I hiss again, ducking behind a potted plant. “Wes!”
“Your Wes?” Poppy gasps. “The ghost of ex-boyfriends past Wes? Oh my god, does he know Selena? Are they dating?”
“Don’t stare!” I try to yank her back, but it’s too late. Wes looks over, and sees her gawping. And then notices me standing there, too.
He raises his hand in a wave.
Mothertrucker.
“What should we do?” Poppy whispers, frozen beside me. Then Selena Banks – Selena Banks! – turns and follows his eye-line. She murmurs something to him, then smiles at us, beckoning.
“She’s inviting us over!” Poppy squeals.
“Don’t you dare go,” I try to stop her, but Poppy is like a deer in the headlights, powerless to resist the Hollywood charm. She drifts towards their table like a woman possessed.
“Poppy!” I hiss. “Come back!”
“I can’t!” she says helplessly. “Her pores are so clear!”
I have no choice but to follow: still sweaty, still drenched in green smoothie, only now the mess on my shirt is congealed and drying, and the ‘mild whiff’ is a full-on sewage stink.
This is officially the worst day of my life.
“…And you should have totally been nominated for an Oscar,” Poppy is saying breathlessly when I arrive at the table. “You were robbed!”
“Well, thank you,” Selena gives us a friendly smile. “You guys know Wes?”
“Katie is… an old friend of mine,” Wes jumps in, and I try not to wince.
Friend.
I mean if your friend slept over four nights a week, and learned your breakfast order by heart, and knows the face you make when you orgasm, then sure, we’re just great pals.
“Wes is the best,” Selena coos. “He’s my knight in shining armor, aren’t you, babe?”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Wes chuckles, because why not? Babe. If this was a contest in who won our breakup, he wouldn’t just be claiming the gold medal right now, he’d be taking a victory lap around the stadium, hoisted on the shoulders of the women’s relay team.
“Katie’s doing great, too.” Poppy blurts suddenly. “She has a blog. And a book deal. It’s coming out next month, she’s famous. I mean, not your kind of famous,” she adds, to Selena. “But she has millions of readers, and tons of clients. She’s brilliant,” she adds, giving Wes a pointed look.
God bless my friend.
“That’s awesome!” Selena exclaims. “What kind of blog?”
“Uh, it’s kind of a relationship/ human behavior thing…” I say vaguely, but Poppy jumps in again.
“She’s the Break-Up Artist.” She says proudly. “If you’re trying to get over someone, or figure out how to end things, she’s your girl. She’s helped thousands of people move on from the toxic assholes in their lives.”
Another glare at Wes, and I know I should stop her, but it’s not like I can brag about my own achievements. At least now, he knows I’m more than just a girl who can’t even drink a smoothie right.
“The Break-Up Artist…” Selena repeats thoughtfully. “What a great idea.”
There’s a pause. The place where Wes might say something pleasantly polite about my life, too. ‘Way to go, Katie.’ ‘Good for you.’ Hell, even a general murmur to acknowledge that I continued to exist after he decided to nope on out of our relationship. But instead, he just sits there, looking totally casual. Like I’m a former classmate, or someone he waved at a couple of times on the train. Not the girl who fell asleep in the crook of his arm, and tied herself up in knots trying to make him happy, who thought the sun shined out of his perfectly-formed derriere.
I guess I learned my lesson there.
“Well, it was great to meet you, but we should get going,” I say, before I can embarrass myself in some as-yet unknown way. “Good luck with, umm, everything.”
“You too!” Selena beams. “Hopefully, we’ll see you again soon!”
Sure, at the next swanky premiere, maybe. Or on the beach at St. Barts for New Year’s. I give another smile and nod, but as I drag Poppy away, I know, I’m never laying eyes on them again. Never mind that Wes clearly runs in different, gold-plated circles to me now; my self-esteem could never stand it.
The Gods of Romance would never be so cruel.
At least, that’s what I think…
TO BE CONTINUED…
What happens next? Katie and Wes’s sizzling rom-com is just getting started! THE BREAK-UP ARTIST is available now!
Love romantic comedies? Enjoy the sizzling new standalone romance from USA Today bestselling author, Lila Monroe!
I’m an expert in break-ups. From the slow fade, to extreme ghosting, to, ‘but you never said I couldn’t send pics of my junk to your step-sister on Instagram’ - I’ve seen it all… and built a mini-empire along the way. My blog, the Break-Up Artist, uses my past heartache to help people move on - and avoid weeping on the floor at 3am consuming their body weight in spray cheese and Oreos. Ahem.
Now, I have a new job that could mean the big-time: helping a famous Hollywood it-couple navigate their tricky break-up. Except not everyone wants them Splitsville. The movie studio needs to keep them together to promote their big movie, and they’ve sent someone to make sure I fail in my first VIP gig.
Wes Baxter. Also known as my ex.
Also ALSO known as, the guy who broke my heart so thoroughly, I had to turn myself into a self-help guru just to get over him.
I’m determined to follow my own advice (no drooling over Wes’s perfect abs, or remembering how he rocked my world) but being trapped together at a luxe country retreat isn’t helping things… And neither is Wes’s early-morning naked swim habit. Soon, love is in the air, the sparks between us are hotter than ever, and I’m seriously questioning my ‘no backsies’ policy.
Wes swears he’s changed. He wants to try again, and he’s got an annoyingly sexy way of convincing me. But can second chances really work? Or has the Break-Up Artist finally met her match?
Find out in the sizzling new romantic comedy from USA Bestselling author, Lila Monroe!