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

  He looks happy.

  Why wouldn’t he be happy? He’s twenty-two years old, hit .360 last year and has a bag full of tasty Thai, with probably a cute little model stashed in a hotel room to share it with.

  As our gazes meet, I open my mouth.

  I love how you play ball.

  I used to play myself.

  My girlfriend just dumped me.

  Instead, I nod, and he walks by without acknowledging me.

  Chapter Two

  Ruthie

  “What do you mean, you’re leaving?” Colton demands with none of his aw shucks demeanor.

  “I mean, I’m leaving. I told you my aunt’s party is tonight.”After we finished the really good pad thai, which Colton insisted on picking up himself, I began the hunt for my earring that had dropped out for a second time. Where did it go? Colton said he…I catch sight of the gold glittering on the carpet beside the bed and grab it with a whoop. “You’re welcome to come with me,” I invite as I put on the earring.

  Can he hear in my voice that I don’t really want him to?

  “But it’s your aunt.” And from the sound of his, Colton doesn’t want to come with either.

  “Who is also my best friend. I told you about Flora.”

  Colton’s eyes roll back and it looks like he’s about to have a seizure before he snaps his fingers. “Flora. Flowers. She has a dog.”

  Out of all the things I’ve told him about Flora, that’s what he remembers? “Yes, she has a dog. And she’s having a party. You can come with me.”

  “We were going clubbing,” Colton says with an unattractive pout.

  “You said you’re going clubbing. I told you I had a party. We’re not joined at the hip.” I sit on the bed to pull on my boots.

  “I just gave you a ring. I thought we could show it off. Take some pictures.”

  The Ring Pop ring. While we watched the movie earlier, I worked on sucking the blue candy stone so I wouldn’t have to wear a hunk of sugar on my finger. Now, only a small blob is left on my very sticky finger.

  “We can do that tomorrow night,” I say as I pick up my coat.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow,” he says, still seated on the bed with take-out containers surrounding him. The room smells of chilis and mango salad; appealing now, but it won’t be in the morning. If Colton thinks I’m going to stay, he’s got another thing coming.

  “When you come back, then.” I drop a kiss on the top of his head.

  “Ruthie! You’re not seriously leaving?” he cries as I head to the door.

  “I’m not serious about a lot of things but I am about this. I’m leaving. Buh-bye, Colton.”

  I close the door a little too hard after I leave.

  ~

  “Ruthie!” I cringe at the sound of Flora’s listen-to-me-I’m-your-aunt voice. “Where’s my chips?”

  I went straight from Colton’s hotel to Flora’s house via public transit since my bank account is too slim for the Uber ride. It takes a while, as does the walk from the bus stop to Flora’s door, with me cursing every time my non-winter boots slide on a piece of ice.

  I remember too late that Flora had asked me to bring potato chips to the party; the party that is already in full swing by the time I arrive.

  “Still in the store?” I smile hopefully, shrugging off my coat and wondering if I have time to run upstairs to grab my shoes.

  “Which is a problem, since I need them here.” Arms akimbo, Flora blocks the entrance to the kitchen, the living room as well as the stairs.

  I’m tall enough to see over Flora’s head and spy two bags of plain potato chips on the kitchen counter. “Look, you’ve got some right there.” I point over her shoulder. “That’s enough. No one here is going to eat chips when they have all the other good food you have out,” I explain earnestly. “And you don’t want to worry about waking up in the morning all hung over and start doing your calorie count like you always do.”

  “That was before,” she says stiffly. “I don’t care about that anymore.”

  I nod in understanding. “Oh, that was a Thomas thing. Well, I’m glad that’s over, because you’re so much more fun when you drink. And why don’t you have a drink? I’ll get you some wine.” Chucking my coat on the newel post at the bottom of the stairs, I head into the living room before Flora can say another word.

  Flora doesn’t have a big friend group in the city, so I know most of them, although there are a few new faces, courtesy of Dean.

  Speaking of Dean, I catch his eye as I wade into the group. He raises his Red Solo cup and I give a wave.

  I like Dean. He’s big and brawny and built just the way I like them. But he’s all Flora’s and I’m happy for her.

  Anyone has to be better than that turd Thomas, but she’s got a good one in Dean.

  I stop short at the winter wonderland Flora has created in her living room. Pine boughs, cedar swags and poinsettias are everywhere, along with candles and fairy lights. The tree commands the attention by the window, a majestic balsam fir that is almost too big for the room. But Flora loves her trees as much as her plants, and has decorated it with red, white, and gold sparkly balls that would be a constant temptation for any cat.

  Good thing Flora is more of a dog person.

  I run the gauntlet of the room before ducking upstairs to change into the green velvet slippers that go perfectly with my jumpsuit. I take a minute to freshen my make-up, fix my curls that still droop in fat ringlets to my shoulders and push off any thoughts of Colton.

  Back downstairs, the party swirls through the house. I notice the guy standing by the tree because the expression on his face says he doesn’t feel even a little bit of Christmas spirit. In a room full of laughter and good cheer, his shoulders slump as if in defeat and a scowl creases his face. It’s hard not to notice him.

  Plus he has really good hair.

  The hair is the reason that I can’t stop staring—thick and dark brown, with curls drooping over his forehead from a widow’s peak. It’s the type of hair that most men would ruthlessly cut, embarrassed by teasing remarks like MopTop and years of having their grandmothers exclaim over their curls.

  They’d eventually regret the cut because women love hair like that. At least I do.

  Along with the hair, the rest of him isn’t bad either. He’s an inch or so taller than I am with a stocky chest that might lead to fat if he’s not careful. The white sweater he’s wearing looks soft. I bet he’d give good hugs.

  But not for me, because he’s not my type. There’s no way I’d want to be with a man who has better hair than I do.

  The scent of Christmas rises above the smell of meatballs and artichoke dip that Flora has put out for her guests. Heads turn in my direction as I hover in the doorway; possibly because I’m the tallest woman in the room, probably because my fashion sense is eclectic at best. I found the green chiffon pantsuit in a vintage store and thought it would be perfect for Flora’s Christmas party.

  It’s only a little creased from sitting on Colton’s hotel bed.

  I veer to the food table for a taste, smiling at friendly faces, smiling even wider at those I don’t know. Flora’s English bulldog, Cappie, sits expectantly beside the table and I pass him a meatball before I have a taste.

  There are only a handful of people here that I know well, but I’ve never had a problem with groups. As I pop another meatball in my mouth, I look over the crowd. M.K. and Clay don’t seem to be here yet, because Theo would be grabbing more attention than I am.

  The living room is full of baseball players; at least I assume they are, since Dean practically lives and breathes the sport. Talking, laughing, loud men; the average age looks to be thirty-five to forty, but there’s not a beer belly in sight. The room seems full of well-built, attractive men.

  I recognize a few of them from the one time I went to see Dean play on his men’s team. I’m sure I’ll be going to see more games when he starts with the Jays; either in Toronto or for the Triple A team in Buffalo.<
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  Oh, and because of Colton, too.

  I glance down at the plastic ring on my finger.

  I probably shouldn’t have accepted it, especially since I don’t even know what it means. Does Colton consider us engaged? Is it more of a promise ring? Or is it like I hope, that it’s a sweet gesture from an infatuated man-child?

  My shoulders slump. I’m going to have to talk to him about that.

  He had been adamant that he wasn’t coming with me, and considering the sulk he’d been in when I left, I’m glad he didn’t.

  “Ruthie!”

  My cousin Patrick waves from across the room and I push my way over to where he’s holding court by the drinks table. “Why the sad face?” he asks as he greets me with a hug.

  “What sad face?” I smooth my face into my usual laissez-faire/happy-girl/nothing-bothers-Ruthie expression before he pulls away.

  “You, for a second.” Patrick cocks his head at me like he’s trying to see into my soul. I push at his shoulder to stop because sometimes it’s like Patrick can read my mind. “When did you get into town?”

  “A few days ago.” The bar area is crowded, at least two people deep around the table waiting with glasses ready to get at the wine and beer. I spy a lonely bottle of bourbon at the end and look for an opening.

  “Who are you staying with?” Patrick persists.

  “You?” I smile as hopefully as I did at Flora only moments ago. “I’m with Flora for tonight but that’s about as long as I can handle the honeymoon phase. They’re cute and all, but can we say loud.” I mouth the word.

  Patrick winces. “I did not need to know that.”

  “But I did,” Adam pipes up with a grin. I like Adam. He works for M.K. at the patisserie, and hit it off with Patrick as soon as they met. The two of them are a perfect example of opposites attracting. Patrick is quiet for one of the Shaughnessy clan, with a barrel-like build that makes everyone think he’s only good for muscling things. But he’s amazingly creative and almost finished his degree for graphic design. He’s wanted to be an artist since he was a kid.

  I envy his passion, in finding his place in life. Right now, my place seems to be just to have fun.

  Adam, meanwhile, is reed-thin and flamboyant, with the ability to be everyone’s best friend. I’ve spent quite a bit of time with him during the slow build up of their relationship and love that he’s become one of my good friends.

  “You’ll take pity on me, won’t you?” I ask Patrick with my most winning smile. “Can I crash at your place?”

  “Get a drink for us and we’ll talk,” Patrick concedes. “You’re better at wiggling into places than I am.”

  I gesture to myself. “Does this body look like it wiggles? I’m more battering ram than worm. Give.” I take their cups and push into the melee surrounding the booze.

  “Red wine for both of us,” Adam calls. “Please and thank you.”

  I’m good at pushing my way through and easily make it to the wine bottles. Giving both Patrick and Adam a generous pour, I hold them between my fingers as I look for the bourbon.

  “Ruthie, pass. I’ll take them.” Patrick has come up behind me and I reach high over heads to pass him the cups, at the same time I lean in to grab the bottle with the other hand.

  I feel like the angel on the top of Flora’s Christmas tree, arms spread and welcoming until someone gives me a sharp hip check. I lose my balance and lurch forward, dropping the bourbon bottle.

  As I attempt to right myself, one of the cups slips out of my hand and somersaults through the air. Red wine sprays everywhere. Most of it lands on Mop Top, who is unfortunately behind me, his cream sweater now an ugly purplish-red.

  My gaze travels from his stained sweater to his furious face and I shrug apologetically. “Oops.”

  Trev

  It’s the first beer I’ve had in over a month.

  Freyka always complained about the smell of my breath when I drank, so being a good boyfriend, I stopped drinking during our brief, not-resulting- in-marriage relationship. It takes me fifteen minutes of standing alone at Dean’s party to the lightbulb moment that Freyka is not with me, nor will ever be with me again, and why don’t I have a beer in my hand? I head for the drinks table.

  The first mouthful is heaven.

  I’m on my third sip, standing behind the tall girl in green, watching her reach high above the others to pass cups. Just as I have the thought that this might not be the best place to linger, I see the bump from Ryan. He’s short and quick on the field but a klutz when he’s had a few drinks.

  Ryan knocks the arm of the woman in the red dress. She sways on her high heels and brushes shoulders with the guy beside her wearing the Leafs jersey, who loses his balance and slams into the girl in green.

  Who drops one of the cups she’s holding.

  A collective gasp rises from the crowd as the cup tumbles end over end while red wine sprays the room. I watch as if in slow motion as most of it lands on me.

  “Jesus!” I cry, dropping my bottle of beer as the wave of wine soaks through to my skin.

  “Oops.” The girl in green clucks in sympathy as the crowd backs away from the mess. “Sorry about that.”

  “It’s all over my sweater.” I pluck at the soggy fabric. It used to be cream coloured, but now a bluish-purple stain covers most of my chest. What isn’t covered with wine is soaked from my beer.

  “Wow. That’s not coming out,” she says.

  “You think?”

  Dean pushes his way through the crowded room. “You making another mess, Ruthie?” He throws the towels he carries on the floor, kicking them around with his foot to sop up the mess.

  Ruthie is my new, least favourite name.

  “Yesterday was not my fault and neither was this!” She draws herself up to her full height, which is an inch or two below me. Her cheeks are pink from guilt or outrage, I can’t tell. But as much as I loathe the sight of her right now, I can’t seem to turn away.

  “Did you see anyone else spill wine on me?” I demand, stepping back to let Dean mop up the floor. “I was too busy watching it being poured on me.”

  “You got me, too, you know,” she accuses.

  I scan her green jumpsuit, wondering how something the colour and shape of a Christmas tree can be so sexy. “I see no wine on you,” I say, wrenching my gaze away from the three undone buttons and the ropes of necklaces she’s wearing.

  She slaps at her bare shoulder. “Here. I’m all wet. Beer. I don’t like beer.”

  “I knew something was wrong with you,” I mutter.

  Dean heaves a deep sigh. “This is off to a good start. Ruthie, take Trev upstairs and find him one of my shirts to put on, would you? It’s either that or clean up the mess,” he adds when faced by her truculent expression.

  Ruthie flounces off. I glance at Dean. “She’s a treat.”

  “It’s probably guilt. She’s usually pretty cool,” Dean says, still kicking towels around the mess. “She’ll get you cleaned up.”

  “Sorry about the mess,” I say, even though none of it is my fault. I reach for the now empty beer bottle on the floor and set it on the table.

  Dean shrugs. “Price you pay for being the host.”

  I push my way through the room where Ruthie is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. “I thought you wanted to clean up.”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  “I would have gotten out of the way in the first place.” With a swing of her hair, she heads up the stairs.

  Now I have no choice but to check out her butt in the green jumpsuit.

  No one can deny that all of Ruthie, from the hair to the outfit, is an impressive package, but it doesn’t help my mood.

  “In there.” She jerks her head in the direction of a partially closed door. “Take your shirt off.”

  Maybe walking behind her does help my mood a little. “Shouldn’t you buy me dinner first?”

  Her eyes widen with surprise. Green. She has green eyes.

&
nbsp; But then the smile creeping at the corners of her mouth vanishes like she turned a switch. “You wish. Would you rather get in the shower with your shirt on, or have me deal with it without your body attached?”

  Before I can comment on either, she continues on to what I assume is Dean’s room. I push open the door to the tiny bathroom and with a grimace at the clammy feeling of wet cotton against my skin, pull off my sweater.

  Off, the stain is even worse. I stuff it into the sink and run water over it, wondering what takes out red wine.

  “Oh.” I look up to see Ruthie’s reflection in the mirror. Her eyes are wide, her cheeks still flushed. I’ve never seen the colour of lipstick she’s wearing, a cross between pink and magenta, with a silver undertone. As I stare at her mouth, she swallows audibly. “Here.” She looks away and holds out a sweater. “It’s Dean’s.”

  I don’t mean to smirk, but I can’t help it. It’s a combination of Ruthie’s visible reaction and the flatness of her tone. Like she’s trying to pretend the sight of me didn’t affect her.

  Leaving the water running, I take the shirt, making sure my hand brushes hers.

  I’m not sure why; habit maybe? Even though this Ruthie is not my type. Too bold, too colourful. Too…I stare at her mouth. What colour is that anyway?

  With a forced blink, I turn and pull the sweater over my head. “I didn’t think it was Flora’s.” It’s a gray V-neck; a nice sweater, but a size too big. The V dips low enough to see my chest hair.

  When I look at Ruthie, she’s staring at my chest as well.

  “It’s only a little too big,” she says, pushing me aside. She turns off the tap and begins squeezing the water out of my sweater.

  “What are you doing with my sweater?” I demand as Ruthie squeezes it out. “It’s still got a big stain.”

  “Yes, I know. I’ll put some vinegar on it and—”

  “Vinegar!”

  “Have you ever done laundry?” she asks sharply.

  “Have you?” I retort.

  “Actually, not really.” She smiles suddenly, a mischievous grin that does something strange to my stomach. “I prefer to take mine home to my parents. Or at least leave it here. Dean’s pretty good with my unmentionables.”