Tripping on a Halo: A Romantic Comedy

  by Alessandra Torre

  Copyright © 2018 by Alessandra Torre

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Digital ISBN: 978-0-9997841-6-7

  Print ISBN: 978-0-9997841-7-4

  Editing: Marion Archer

  Proofing: Angie Owens, Erik Gevers, Perla Calas

  Front Cover Design: Perfect Pear Creative Covers Image: Wayhome Studio

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  October

  November

  December

  January

  February

  March

  April

  May

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  Love Chloe Sneak Peek

  Also by Alessandra Torre

  About Alessandra

  Acknowledgments

  1

  I had a giant penis in my purse. I’d let a bit of air out of it so I could squish it down, its plastic inflatable body contorted into odd angles, bits of it poking out of the top. I’ve been carrying the thing around for three days now. Yesterday, I needed to find my Smoothie King rewards thingy in the bottom of my purse, and I’d had to haul the penis out and lean it against the counter in order to find the teeny purple swipe card. The guy behind me chuckled, and the cashier looked horrified, but that was probably due to the two kids who had just skipped in, a frazzled soccer mom in tow.

  I’d apologized to all involved parties and struggled to get the penis BACK in the bag, which was a time-consuming struggle that led to me being banned from Smoothie King. I know what you’re thinking. Extreme, right? I mean, BANNED? It was a five-foot inflatable dong. Give me a Sharpie and squint a little, and I could turn it into a snake. Or a really tall mushroom. It didn’t even have balls, for piglets’ sake.

  I kept my arm clamped down on the humongous bag and rounded the corner, hoofing it a little to keep Declan Moss in my sights. He was a dozen yards ahead of me, his suit fitting on that tall frame like it was custom. It wasn’t. Three weeks ago, I saw him pick that pinstripe number out at Men’s Warehouse. My playlist had been disrupted by a painfully annoying 90’s song and I’d almost missed his exit, his steps clipping out the food court and toward his truck faster than a Supermarket Sweep contestant.

  My headache, which had started two hours ago and was peaking upward at an alarming rate, spiked, stopping me for a brief moment. I struggled, my panic rising, and continued forward, increasing my speed. I glanced at my watch. Normally he was in the office by now, my attempted entrances routinely thwarted by the brunette bitch at his front desk, who was a ninja at keeping me out. Declan approached the cross street at Madison Ave and I craned my neck, right, then left, looking for oncoming traffic.

  A dump truck barreled from the right, toward the intersection. Pain radiated through my head and I struggled to focus on Declan, watching as his head dropped, his attention pulled to his phone. He glanced left, then back down at his cell, continuing to move forward.

  The truck rumbled closer, rattling over a pothole, and I willed Declan to look up, to stop moving, to see the danger. His fingers moved over the phone’s slick screen and he moved another step forward.

  I imagined his new suit ruined, appendages jerking, those sexy glasses cracking, body SPLATTING. Another lightning bolt of pain ricocheted through my temple.

  I dropped my bag and dug my hand in, the penis popping out like one of those snakes in a can. A big, swollen, flesh-colored snake. I grabbed it and swung it through the air. “HEY!” I screeched. “PURPLE PEOPLE EATERS!” I could have yelled his name, but I was trying to stay under the radar.

  The people in my immediate bubble took a few steps back, giving me a wide berth. A girl wearing yoga pants and a sports bra lifted her phone and took a photo of me. I squatted down as low as my skinny jeans would allow and then sprung towards the sky, tossing the penis into the air. I snuck a look at Declan, who had glanced over his shoulder and was now turning back to the street, his head shaking. The pain in my head lessened, and I let out a sigh of relief at the dump truck, which was now safely past, no gorgeous architect under its wheels.

  A dude with rolled up pant legs and an EAT VEGAN shirt stopped in front of me. “You need help.”

  I snorted as the penis fluttered down and slumped on the sidewalk beside us. “I’m good.” I glanced back at Declan, but he was gone, across the street and into his building, the huge skyscraper sucking him in.

  It was the second time I’d saved his life, and I still hadn’t gotten a sniff of gratitude in return. But, that was fine.

  I reached down and pulled at the penis’s stopper, watching as the nude appendage deflated with a loud sputter, its purpose fulfilled.

  Letting out a sigh, I glanced up the building’s face, and wondered where he was inside of it.

  It didn’t matter. I knew where to find him next.

  2

  Declan leaned against the glass wall of his office, his eyes on the street below, where his stalker moved through the crowds, a pool float of some sort under her arm. She was disrupting the flow of traffic, suits skirting around her, her bright pink sweater standing out in the crowd. She came to a stop next to the corner trashcan and tried to stuff the item into the swinging door. It wouldn’t fit and she pulled it out, shaking out the design and attempting to feed it length-wise. He squinted, trying to see the item. Yep. He’d questioned the brief glimpse he’d gotten of her in the crowd, chanting her nonsense, but it was, in fact, a penis. Behind her, a man tried to help, reaching over to open the can. Any hopes she would turn her fixations on him ended as she held up a hand in a clear STAY AWAY FROM ME gesture. What was this girl’s deal?

  “Dec?”

  He turned away from the view.

  Nate held open the door to his office, his brow raised. “You coming?”

  “Yeah.” He followed his partner out into the lobby, attempting to focus on their upcoming meeting. The client was coming in from New York City to review their proposal for a sprawling business complex. They were one of three firms up for the job and needed this one. The market crash hadn’t been good for business, especially for a new company still trying to find its legs and market share.

  Purple People Eaters? Is that what she’d said?

  “You got the presentation?” Nate asked.

  “Yeah.” Nate pulled open the door of the conference
room, and Declan got a glimpse of the client. Benta Aldrete. A thirty-year-old tech exec who had already verbally roasted Nate over their initial proposal. This was their second meeting with her, and the callback had increased their optimism. He reached in his pocket and withdrew the flash drive, confident about their design.

  “We designed the second floor as an open workspace—one where your remote employees could work when they are in town, but also where you could meet with clients, or in small teams.” Nate turned away from the screen and flashed a smile at the woman. It was a lost cause. Nate had turned on the charm at every opportunity and gotten absolutely nowhere with the exotic beauty.

  “A flex space,” Declan added, zooming in on the area.

  “Right.” Nate nodded. “This would solve the need for workspaces without having to chop up the floorplan. And the private rooms here…” he pointed to the edge of the plan. “And here—that would still give you small places for quiet or privacy if…”

  What Declan couldn’t figure out was what had brought this stalker into his life. The Purple People Eater episode hadn’t been her first crazy moment. There’d also been the outburst at Chipotle, and at Trader Joe’s. And those had been the major events. Just as alarming were the minor sightings. Her hidden behind big sunglasses and mixed in among the wives at his softball game. Her ducking in between cars in the Target parking lot. Reports from the reception desk of a blonde’s repeated attempts to get up to his office.

  “…the structure of the complex.” Nate finished, glancing at Declan. He nodded and tried to find their place in the presentation. Nate waited for him to pick up the reins, and then continued on. Declan straightened in his seat and vowed to focus.

  How did this woman pay for things? She seemed available, twenty-four hours a day, to stalk him. Didn’t she work? Hell, he could have sworn he saw her in the airport in West Virginia, a glimpse of her platinum-blonde hair swinging out of view just before he grabbed his suitcase from the baggage claim carousel.

  Nate flipped to the next slide, showing the building’s elevation, the tech complex modern and airy, full of glass and color—everything the client had wanted. They should have a good shot at the contract, especially given their design pricing, which was well below industry average.

  He pushed back from the table and stood, coming to stand next to Nate, their heights almost identical. Nate’s last girlfriend had dubbed them the two Archihotties—an unoriginal nickname she’d driven into the ground. Thank God that had ended, but the nickname had stuck, popping into his head whenever he joined Nate.

  Declan pointed to the proposed courtyard, in the middle of the U-shaped structure. “You’d wanted an area for employees to eat lunch or work outside. The beauty of this courtyard is in its hidden shade. There are retractable screens built into these overhangs. If weather hits or the sun is too bright?” He nodded to Nate and the screen changed, a video playing, showing the extensions at work. Benta smiled, her first positive response, and Declan felt relief flood his chest.

  He and Nate would get the account.

  And he would figure out a way to lose his stalker.

  3

  “It’s just that you’re so normal in every other way.” Ansley peered at me over the lid of her coffee.

  I snorted. “I am normal.”

  “You used to be normal,” she countered. “But ever since this all began, you’ve turned completely abnormal. Pretty certifiable. I was talking to Roger yesterday—”

  “About me?” I interrupted. “Oh God. Please don’t.”

  “He’s a professional.” She set down her foam cup and gave me the serious look, the one she normally reserved for deep conversations about funeral preparations or civil unrest in Nicaragua. “And he’s one of the only people I know who wouldn’t haul you off to a crazy bin.”

  “Dr. E hasn’t hauled me off to a crazy bin.”

  “Which, quite honestly, amazes me. He was a total dick with me.”

  I eyed the cupcake on her plate. “Are you going to eat that? I think the one they gave me was undersized.”

  She pulled the glittery confection closer to her. “Anyway, Roger thinks this is an attempt to distract yourself from Mom’s death.”

  It was an opinion shared by Dr. Eaton, though I wasn’t going to give Roger that victory. I huffed out a breath, uninterested in either psychologist’s opinion. “This isn’t about Mom. And I don’t expect you to understand.”

  Ansley continued staring me down as if I was torturing small puppies in my spare time.

  “I’m not doing anything wrong.” I folded the napkin in front of me in half, then thirds. “I’m keeping him safe. That’s it.”

  “Find a different hobby,” she urged. “Something that isn’t going to get you thrown in jail.”

  My watch chimed, the timer going off. I pushed to my feet and silenced it. “Got to go.”

  She stayed in place, watching as I collected our trash. “Really? Where are you heading?”

  I ignored the question, downing the rest of my milk in one loud suck of the straw.

  “Autumn,” she said loudly. “Where are you going?”

  I balled up the napkin and tossed it in the trash, my steps quickening. If I was going to get to Declan’s office before he left for work, I needed to hurry.

  The traffic wasn’t cooperating. I tapped my fingers against the steering wheel and forced myself to go through my daily meditations, concentrating on anything BUT the traffic which, according to the law of attraction, would magically cause the traffic to clear up, since I wasn’t thinking about it. Only, given my course of mental acrobatics, I was thinking about it. I sternly schooled my thoughts back to my list of affirmations.

  I will find a ‘real’ job.

  I repeated the phrase several times, envisioning the perfect job—one full of happy, friendly co-workers, doing something … my mind always faltered on the what that was occurring. There was a reason I had two degrees and a resume filled with entry-level jobs. Nothing seemed to stick.

  At the moment, my days were being filled with scrapbooking. I had one exceedingly happy client who paid me in slightly burnt apple crisps and information. Granted, scrapbooking was a complete waste of my education, but it was infinitely more enjoyable then any of my ‘real jobs’ had been.

  I eyed the right-hand lane and put on my blinker, creeping up a little in hopes that the pick-up truck to my right would let me in. He didn’t. I sighed and returned to my list.

  I am grateful for my current position in life.

  I took a moment, sending rays of thankfulness into the universe. It was the easiest of all of my mantras. I had so much to be thankful for. Money. After twenty-eight years of scraping loose change out of the couch cushions, and struggling under the staggering weight of my student debt, I was now rich. Well… I would be rich. As soon as the dates turned over on my thirtieth birthday and my trust was released. Assuming, of course, I could maintain my sanity in Dr. E’s and the Leon County Court’s eyes. In the meantime, I had a generous allowance that my cupcake and scrapbooking addictions barely touched.

  I am grateful that I am healthy.

  Oh, my freaking popsicle stick, if this traffic didn’t MOVE I was going to miss him altogether. I shouldn’t have met Ansley for lunch. I was playing with fire that my sister would be able to have a succinct conversation that didn’t involve a detour down Lectureville. And Roger wasn’t any help. Go figure she married a psychologist. If she’d married the hot guy from the appliance store? I’d have a new washing machine and a lot less ‘helpful’ advice.

  I eyed the navigation system in my car and debated about cutting across on Orange Ave. Declan was probably packing up right now. Rolling up plans and stuffing them under his elbow, though apparently that was a movie architect thing and not a real architect thing, because the most I’d seen him carry into his office was a giant bag of subs from the Capital Deli.

  My phone rang, Ansley’s face filling up the screen. I hit the ignore button and enjoy
ed a moment of peace, then a second call came through. I sighed and answered it. “What?”

  “Tell me you aren’t going to his office.”

  “I’m not going to his office.”

  “Bullshit. I’m behind you. You’ve got no other reason to be heading up Blairstone right now.”

  I cursed and craned my neck, looking into my rearview mirror and seeing my sister’s minivan a half dozen cars back. “How did you get out of the restaurant so quickly?”

  “He’s going to file a restraining order against you.”

  I pulled open the center console and rooted around, moving tampons, Altoids, a dog-eared paperback and nail clippers out of the way, sighing with relief when I saw the bottle of Excedrin at the bottom of the pile. “He can’t file a restraining order against me. I’ve never even talked to the man.”

  That wasn’t exactly true. Six months ago, when all of this started, I tapped his shoulder in line at Publix and asked if he had a piece of gum. He’d glanced around slowly, shook his head, and pointed to an enormous display of brightly covered wrappers to our right. Then he’d taken a large step forward, crowding the woman ahead of him, who’d sniffed a little but then smiled.

  Everyone smiled at him. It was annoyingly difficult to protect a man who attracts people from every direction. What if one of them was a stalker? A killer? A vengeful ex-girlfriend who wanted to cut off his ears and store them in a jar in her kitchen cabinet?