Pleasantly Popped: A Sweet Romantic Comedy (Love & Alliteration Book 3) Read online

  Pleasantly Popped

  Holly Kerr

  For Mary

  Chapter One

  Ruthie

  I have to stop kissing him but my mouth won’t listen.

  When I fall into the hotel room, Colton’s mouth is still attached to mine.

  What a nice mouth it is.

  I pull back a millimeter and gasp for air. “Hang on a sec.”

  “For what? We’re in.” The key card is still in his hand, now firm against my back but neither of us had the wherewithal to close the door. The staring couple in the elevator with us has followed us down the hall and stand gawking at the make-out session.

  I reach back, still encircled by Colton’s arms, and push the door closed. “He’s not who you think he is,” I call as it shuts in their faces. “Have a good night.”

  “But I am who they think I am,” Colton says loud enough for the gawking couple to hear.

  “Yes, but do you want them to know that?”

  The kiss began in the elevator when I launched myself at him to stop the overly curious couple from recognizing him as Colton Pruitt, former rookie sensation, and now the new second baseman for the Blue Jays. In my mind, Colton had enough attention during our brunch, smiling and chatting with anyone who was ballsy enough to approach.

  Quite a number of women had been ballsy enough to stop by our table to introduce themselves, noticeably giving me the cold shoulder or an outright glare.

  I really don’t like being ignored, so I leaned over and kissed him right then and there in the restaurant as the arm of my sweater trailed in his huevos rancheros. Once I pulled away, I noticed the envious stares from every single woman in the place, as well as most of the married ones too.

  The kiss continued after we stumbled out of the restaurant and walked to the hotel, Colton tucking me under his arm to keep me safe from the winter chill. At five eleven, I can’t be tucked by many men, so his height is one thing I like about Colton.

  I also like the way he kisses. He might be a down-home, good ole boy from Tennessee still with peach fuzz instead of a full beard, but the boy can kiss like a Canadian looking to keep warm in the cold weather.

  He’ll fit right in in Toronto.

  I playfully push him away in the elevator, but they don’t comment on Colton’s fast hands at the plate for nothing. That’s when the couple start the staring contest and I have enough. I always like to give people something to stare at, especially when I know it’s not me that’s caught their attention.

  After that, Colton gives me all of his attention we kiss all the way up to the fourteenth floor, down the hall to his room, even as the chambermaid gawks at us. I’d like to continue with the kissing, but being alone in his hotel room makes things a little more complicated.

  I give a weak attempt to pull away but Colton catches me with a laugh, his arms strong and tight around me. Still dressed for winter, we dance to the bed with awkward, giddy moves which sends a spat of nerves spearing my stomach.

  But I push past it and shove Colton onto the bed, loving the sight of his body falling like a felled tree. He kind of looks like a tree—big and broad and sturdy, like a Tennessee maple, full of sweet sap ready to be tapped.

  Is that even a real tree? It sounds like it could be a tree.

  I straddle his hips, still wearing my fluffy white faux fur, kissing along the stubble of his jawline. He has the strong, square jaw of a Dudley Do-Right—what you’d expect a Canadian Mountie to look like.

  I nip at his earlobe with my teeth and smile at the sharp intake of breath.

  Colton pushes his hands into my hair. I dyed it yesterday in anticipation of his visit, changing the cheery cherry red to a more muted rose gold, so I know it feels soft. It might still smell a little like ammonia, but as long as he uses his hands rather than sticking his nose in it, we should be fine.

  His fingers knock against my earring, a gold filigree leaf the size of a deck of cards, and it falls onto the bed.

  I take the opportunity to break the kiss and sit up.

  “Maybe you should take your coat off. Stay a while.” Colton’s down-home accent is barely apparent with his husky tone.

  “Maybe.” I swing a leg over him and kneel on the bed. Picking up my earring, I slot it back through the hole. “I’ve got a party to go to later,” I remind him. “My aunt Flora is having a Christmas party and I have to go.”

  “And here I thought our party was just getting started.”

  With a tight smile, I reach down where I dropped my bag and pull out my cell phone. Colton props himself up on his elbows and looks at me with an incredulous expression. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “We just ate!” he cries in a strangled voice. He looks exactly what he is; an over-excited man-child who thought he was getting lucky. With a fond smile, I lick my thumb and wipe his upper lip where my pink lipstick left a stain.

  Nope. That’s not coming off.

  “I’m always hungry,” I admit, finger combing his mussed hair. Even during a game, Colton is well put together, preferring his hair combed with shaved sides rather than some of the longish and dyed hairstyles of his teammates. Wearing his nicely pressed button-up and navy pea coat, Colton looks like the good boy he is. Not my usual type, but I couldn’t resist.

  Not many could. He is adorable. But playtime is over and I need a snack. “UberEats,” I explain, waving my phone.

  “Now?”

  “Now is always the time for Uber Eats.” Within moments I have my order sent. “Twenty minutes, but probably quicker because they’re just around the corner.” I shrug off my coat and drop it onto the floor before I settle against the pillows. “Where’s the remote?” I pull off my black boots with difficulty and they join my coat on the floor.

  “What?”

  “The remote?” I ask patiently. “There are a ton of Christmas movies on TV and I thought we could watch one why I wait for my snack.”

  “You want to watch TV?”

  “It’s a snowy Saturday afternoon in Toronto. What else would you want to do?”

  I hold my breath until the confused expression changes to resignation and Colton heaves himself off the bed.

  That went well. It’s never easy putting the brakes on things when they’re starting to move fast, but it’s better to do it quick. Like pulling off a Band-Aid, it hurts more when you take your time.

  I’ve had countless—maybe I could count how many, but for the sake of my father, it’s better not to—conversations with boys and men, first dates and long-term relationships both, about why I’m not about to have sex with them.

  Some take it well. Some don’t, and I’ve made many a hasty exit.

  Some are respectful. Some are mean, necessitating another quick goodbye.

  Most are confused, like Colton.

  But he locates the remote for me and settles against the pillows without a word. “What do you want to watch?” he asks. He is a good boy. Someone taught him well.

  I take the remote from his hand. “I’ll find something.”

  A few minutes later a Hallmark Christmas movie with one of the sisters from Full House is on the TV and I sling Colton’s arm around my shoulders, just so he knows I haven’t forgotten him.

  Why are hotel beds always more comfortable than my own bed? I resist the urge to crawl under the covers, but that would confuse the poor boy even more.

  I met Colton three weeks ago when my cousin and one-of-my-favourite-people, Patrick had crossed the border with me, heading into Buffalo for the famous chicken wings. Th
e Anchor Bar is the best—and has the crowd to show for it.

  Colton says he noticed me right away.

  It took him exactly seven minutes to come over and introduce himself and we’ve been texting and FaceTiming ever since. If I have a type, it’s not Colton, but he seems like a nice guy; easy-going and fun on the outside with a determined streak inside. Plus he’s cute enough for me to overlook the three-year age difference. He may be all smoking-hot man, but I suspect he’s still a kid inside.

  When I went to Las Vegas with my aunt Flora for her wedding, I remember asking her now significant other, Dean Coulson, to find me a friend. Fast forward eight months and I’ve found my own significant other.

  Sort of. Maybe.

  The movie is interrupted by the knock on the door. “Go away,” Colton cries.

  “It’s for me,” I say, climbing off and heading for the door.

  “Someone is at my hotel to see you?”

  “I ordered food, remember?”

  I open the door with a smile for the delivery guy, who goggles a bit at the sight of me. Then his eyes widen even more when he sees Colton lounging on the bed. I smell the rich, buttery goodness as soon as the zippered cooler is opened to reveal two large bags of popcorn straight from the nearest Cineplex theatres.

  “It’s still warm.” I pop a kernel in my mouth.

  “I do my best,” the delivery guy grins, displaying a mouth of yellowed teeth that he hasn’t done his best with. I thank him and quickly shut the door in his face.

  “Ta da!” I spread my arms wide, a bag in each hand. “To have the best movie viewing experience, we need popcorn.”

  “I had no idea you can order popcorn these days,” Colton says, excited despite his earlier disappointment.

  “You can get anything you want.” I waltz back to the bed, sidestepping my coat on the floor where I threw it. “I love it.”

  I hand him a bag. “Give me yours, too,” Colton instructs.

  I hug it to my chest. “No, this is my popcorn. I got you your own.”

  “Just give me the bag for a sec.”

  “No! I don’t share.”

  “Mr. Charles M. Schultz, the creator of Snoopy, says you share your popcorn if you love the person. Or something thereabouts. It’s my mama’s saying.”

  “Well you can go off and share with her,” I mutter, my words indecipherable because of the handful of popcorn I shove in my mouth. Who am I to follow the advice of a man who draws comics of dogs and boys?

  Actually, my cousin Patrick is one of the few people I will listen to, and he likes drawing comics. Maybe Charles M. Schultz has something going there.

  “Could I please have your popcorn?” Colton persists.

  Silently I offer Colton my bag, but I don’t say anything about love. It’s too early to say things like that, even too early to think it.

  I’ve spoken too quickly about my feelings once or twice, said the words before they were true. I won’t make that mistake with Colton. He’s cute and fun in an aw shucks way, and I like the way he kisses. But that’s it.

  Colton makes a beeline for the bathroom and I have a twinge of fear about what he’s doing. When he comes out of the bathroom with a heaping ice bucket of popcorn, I squeal with delight.

  We settle in to watch the movie and soon Colton is laughing at the antics of the baker onscreen. I cringe as he digs his hand into the ice bucket. That’s why I ordered two bags of popcorn. I have a thing about sharing, but it seems too awkward to bring it up now, especially since I’m eating the lion’s share of the snack.

  As soon as his hand emerges with a fistful, I dig in like I’m trying to finish the bucket. But there’s something else in there.

  “Ew!” My fingers snag the piece of plastic and I pull it out. “There’s a Ring Pop in the popcorn. That’s horrible! I’m going to call the movie theatre and complain. They don’t even sell those at the concession…” I trail off with a suspicious stare at the candy. A big blue candy diamond.

  “Wonder how that got in there?”

  Now my suspicion is directed at Colton, as he tries to sound blasé but fails miserably. Plus his blue eyes are dancing. “Did you put that in the popcorn?” I demand.

  “Maybe.”

  “Why would you do that?” Candy, even in the package, is the worst thing in popcorn.

  Colton takes it from me, and rips open the plastic

  “Why do you think I want to give you a ring?”

  “Because I like jewelry?” My heart beats double time as Colton takes the bucket of popcorn from my unwilling arms and kneels on the bed before me.

  Over his shoulder, I see the baker and her apprentice lock lips onscreen.

  “Because I like you.” He takes my hand in his and slides the ring on my finger.

  My third finger.

  Crap. Not again.

  Trev

  Freyka is in the midst of grousing about something that happened at work yesterday when Colton Pruitt enters the Thai restaurant where we’re having dinner.

  In the time we’ve been dating, Freyka’s stories have never kept me spellbound, so I’m already drifting as she talks, thinking about the hollowness in my stomach, and wishing the food would get there or we’re going to be late to Dean and Flora’s party. When the door opens, it brings in a gush of cold December air, as well as the man who is arguably the best second baseman in all of baseball.

  “That’s Colton Pruitt,” I hiss, interrupting Freyka. My gaze tracks the young baseball god through the crowded restaurant as he heads for the bar.

  “Who?”

  “Plays with the Jays? Rookie of the year?”

  Freyka gives a disdainful little swish of her hair. “I’ve never heard of him.”

  Colton leans against the bar, talking easily to the waiter. Take-out maybe, or just here for a drink. No one approaches him, but I notice a few heads turn in his direction. It’s no wonder, since his face has been all over the sports pages for the last few months, plus his new deal with Jambo Juice has him on TV ads and plastered on the sides of buses.

  Apparently, acquiring one of the cardboard cutouts with his likeness from the juice store can net you more than a few bucks on eBay.

  I shift in my seat like I’m ready to run. “I want to meet him.”

  “Do not think of approaching him.” What Freyka’s voice lacks in volume, it more than makes up in ferocity and I turn to her with confusion. “I will not have you embarrass me like that.”

  “Why would it embarrass you? You’ve never even heard of him?”

  “This is why I hate sports. A man’s attention span is so miniscule from watching grown men throw little balls around, trying to reclaim some of their youth, that you can’t even sit for five minutes with me without being distracted by a pseudo-celebrity.”

  I shake my head like a wet dog trying to follow Freyka’s logic.

  And then I make the mistake of glancing at Colton Pruitt.

  “Trevor!” Freyka hisses. “I’m talking to you.”

  I cock my head to the side. “I think the term is berating. And I’m not sure why.”

  “You’re being rude.”

  And you’re being something I’m not going to say. Instead of speaking my mind, which is never a good idea with Frekya, I resist the urge to grind my teeth and instead smooth my expression like I do when my class acts like annoying little brats. “I definitely didn’t mean to be rude,” I apologize.

  Frekya sniffs, her tiny nose upright with annoyance. “You need to pay more attention to me.”

  “I probably do,” I concede, thinking of how often I tune out during her stories.

  “And you need to give up sports. Watching and playing and—”

  “That’s not going to happen,” I interrupt, picking up my water to take a sip.

  “I insist. If we’re going to be married—”

  “What?” Cough, cough, choke on the water.

  “We’ve been dating for almost six weeks, Trevor. Where did you think this was going?�
��

  “Well, after we eat, I thought we were going to Dean’s party,” I say slowly.

  “You’re thirty-five and not getting any younger.” She purses her thin lips, creating ugly lines around her mouth. Wrinkles are one thing—anger lines are another.

  I rear back in my seat, just as horrified by her accusation as the transformation. “I’m thirty-four. Who said anything about thirty-five?”

  “I’m twenty-seven, and I’m looking to my future,” she continues like she never heard my correction. “You’re it.”

  My hand grips my glass like a safety rope. True, Freyka and I have been dating for a bit but I’ve never said one word that would give her the indication that I’m looking to settle down.

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” I manage.

  “What are you saying, Trevor?” she snaps.

  Her use of my full name is not a turn-on. Only my mother calls me Trevor, and then only when I’ve done something wrong. “I’m saying, I think you might be jumping the gun,” I offer. “Getting a little ahead of yourself.”

  At the bar, Colton’s laugh booms out. I make a fervent wish to switch places with him.

  “Stop looking at him,” Freyka hisses in a shrill voice.

  “I’m not! And if I was, so what?”

  “Do you not want to marry me?”

  I spread my hands. “I don’t know if I want to marry you, because I don’t know you well enough to know that. It’s been a couple of weeks, Freyka—”

  “Six weeks!”

  “Six weeks. Do you really know me enough to plan a future with me? Now? Already?”

  With an angry toss of her dark hair, Freyka pulls her jacket from the back of her chair. “I know tonight I’ve heard plenty that tells me I definitely don’t want to have dinner with you. Don’t call me again.”

  And with that very anti-climatic break-up, Freyka stalks out of the restaurant.

  I don’t turn around to watch her go because Colton Pruitt is walking towards me with his takeout. Even I can admit he’s a good-looking guy; he looks relaxed and confident but not cocky. I’m sure women would find him attractive.