Tripping on a Halo: A Romantic Comedy Read online

  “He can still file a restraining order against you. And I don’t have to tell you what that might do to your trust evaluation.”

  “I haven’t done anything to him,” I pointed out, twisting off the lid to a bottled water and popping two Excedrins in my mouth.

  “Except be creepy. Super duper creepy.”

  “I’m not creepy. I’m… watchful.” I don’t bring up my fear—that something terrible is going to happen to Declan if I don’t protect him. Whenever I mention words like ‘premonition’ or ‘guardian angel’ she turns super weird on me. I can’t exactly blame her. It does sound absolutely psychotic, if you aren’t in my shoes, straddled with fears of an architect’s death, and struggling with the piercing onsets of doom I feel.

  The truth is, something was going to happen to Declan Moss. Something terrible. Something deadly. Something I could stop.

  The traffic ahead of me cleared, like a sign from God that I was right, this was meant to be, and I better hurry, dammit. I pressed the gas a little too aggressively and almost plowed into a Jeep.

  “I’m following you,” Ansley announced, like that would sway me from anything.

  “Suit yourself.” I waved the water bottle in the air in a nonchalant way I hoped was visible four cars back. “I’m sure Caleb doesn’t need to be picked up from the babysitter.”

  “I’m booking you an appointment with Roger. Next Tuesday. He has an opening at three.”

  “I’m not talking to Roger. Dr. Eaton’s got me covered. One shrink is enough for me. And if I did go—which I’m not—I’d have to tell him you’ve been thinking about John Diaggolo’s penis.”

  She sputtered out a string of broken sentences. “I haven’t—I don’t—I told you that six years ago.”

  “And God, I still remember how beautiful you said it was. Veiny, right? Like a Coke can, I think that was the analogy you used. It scarred me, envisioning it. Envisioning it corrupting my sweet older sister. Maybe I do need to talk to someone about it. Thank God he has an opening. I really need to work through the entire thing in my—”

  “Just STOP.” She swore under her breath. “Fine. Jesus! I swear to God, I’m never drinking around you again.”

  I smiled. “I love you.”

  “You don’t. You hate me, and you’re proving it by heading downtown in this traffic.”

  I watched as she changed lanes, heading for her turn, and I lifted a hand in a wave. “Give Caleb a hug for me.”

  She growled into the phone, ended the call, and I swigged the last bit of the water.

  Where was I? Oh yes.

  I am grateful for my sister and all that she brings to my life.

  4

  This man was giving me a headache. I rubbed my temples and coaxed the stubborn muscles to unclench my brain.

  Oblivious to my discomfort, Dr. E kept talking. “Let’s talk about your mother.” The shrink linked his fingers and examined me in the bored manner of someone halfway into a really long Wednesday. He probably kept someone in his garage, chained up by their ankles, and—instead of cutting them up in tiny bits like a normal psychopath—peppered them with questions about their childhood motivations for drawing stick families. At least my crazy was bright and obvious, and celebrated in glorious fashion. His breed—that of manipulation and observation—came with a giant price tag and the ability to yank my trust away.

  And that’s really why I was here. Not to talk about my mother, or my obsession with Declan Moss (though he loves to talk about both) but because my competency has to be verified before I receive my trust. And Johnson, Platt, and Falk—the pencil pushing pricks that control it—won’t loosen those purse strings until this fart-knocker signs off on my sanity. I’ve got five more quarterly sessions to suffer through, though my enjoyment levels have increased dramatically since he added a bowl of Tootsie Rolls to the center of his coffee table.

  I sighed, examining the strap of my purse, and waited him out.

  Dr. Eaton hated silence. I realized this on our second appointment. His MO was to sit mute and wait for me to expel verbal vomit, but if I did the same thing? His pen started tapping and he’d eventually break by repeating my name, then moving on to another question.

  “Autumn?” Dr. Eaton cleared his throat. Step 1, complete.

  I stretched out my toes and examined my nail polish, freshly applied during last night’s Forensic Files marathon. The color was called Pumpkin Carousel and it was the coolest thing I’d ever seen, a black jelly base with orange, green, purple and teal holographic glitters throughout it. Also, if I shifted my toes upward in the right light, you could see a gold glittery sheen that shifted green. Dr. Eaton seemed unimpressed by their kaleidoscope of activity, his pen tapping with homicidal insistence upon the page. I decided to put him out of his misery.

  “I don’t want to talk about my mom.” She was one of his favorite subjects. Like so many, he was fascinated by a woman who sat on a small fortune while eating discount cereal and duct-taping the soles of ten-year-old shoes. To him, she was a case study. To me, she was an open sore, his questions only making the pain worse.

  “Okay.” He set down the pen. “Are you still following Declan Moss?”

  Ugh. His second favorite topic. I slumped against the heavy velvet chair, propping my foot up on the ottoman. “Sometimes.” A slight under-exaggeration.

  He leaned forward and peered down at something on his desk. “Huh. That’s interesting to hear. Your latest credit card statement raises some questions, Autumn.”

  “Oh?” I adopted my best bored expression, while frantically trying to remember last month’s purchases. Another stipulation of my trust is that I have to turn in my receipts each month, proving I’m not being irresponsible with my current allotment, before I get the motherlode. Which is ridiculous, but I’m not about to argue with how I receive my unexpected inheritance.

  “I counted, and there are fifteen transactions at Jasmine Cafe.” He glanced at me. “Isn’t that directly across from Mr. Moss’s building?”

  “Is it?” I frowned. “Huh. They have a hot tea there I love. It’s…” I mimicked the sort of shudder Ansley made when she described sex with Roger. “Ah-mazing.” I made a mental note to start using cash.

  “Right…” he drawled. His pen circled something on the page. “And I also see a deposit for Premier Fitness Club.” He pushed his glasses up higher on his nose. “I don’t suppose Declan Moss is a member there?”

  I sputtered out a scoff and raised my hands in my best impression of bewilderment. “How would I know?”

  “Ms. Jones.” He set down the page. “Let me make myself clear, since you seem intent on these ridiculous attempts to hide your extra-curricular activities concerning Mr. Moss. I don’t think it’s entirely harmful, your fascination with him. In fact, I think it might even be healthy for you.”

  “You do?” This was a surprise. In fact, I’d have laid down odds that he wore a sparkly red banana hammock and swung around a pole as a part-time gig before I’d put down money on him supporting anything regarding me and Declan Moss.

  “You were not able to save your mother’s life, and you feel justifiable guilt over not being there to protect her. If you are transferring this perceived ‘defeat’”—he made little quote marks around the word—"to Mr. Moss by protecting him and keeping him from harm, then it gives you a way to overcome your fears. This is a situation you are in control of, one you can manage.” He gave me a solemn look, and if I didn’t want to smack him for pouring gasoline on my stack of guilt kindling, I’d hug him for encouraging my Declan obsession. “I think you should explore how you feel when you are watching Mr. Moss. And if it gives you a sense of peace, continue it.”

  He leaned forward and his voice dropped. “But be aware that he is a human being. We are fragile, unpredictable creatures. It’s entirely possible that something might happen to him—something you can’t prevent and may not be present for. And if it did, I fear that any healing you are experiencing will be destroyed or
will damage your psyche even more. If you plan on taking this burden on, you need to be aware of the risks involved. For his well-being, but also … for your own.”

  “So, I need to keep him safe,” I clarified.

  “If that’s how you’d like to interpret it. Yes.” He nodded soberly, as if this was a huge revelation and well worth the three hundred dollars this session was costing my trust.

  Keep Declan Moss safe. Well… duh.

  5

  Beneath the table, Margaret O’Keefe’s foot brushed against Declan’s shin and she blushed. “Sorry.”

  “It’s fine.” He shifted in his seat. “Common issue with long legs. I’m probably crowding you.”

  “No!” She shook her head. “It’s fine.”

  Silence fell, and he was out of practice with this. He should have taken Nate up on his offer to double date. The man was a chatterbox. Now, without his conversation starters and jokes, the silence grew, suffocating him.

  “So…” she picked up her drink, spinning the ice around in it with her straw. “Your profile said you were an architect?”

  He nodded. “I worked at one of the big firms for a few years, then started a practice with my roommate from college. We focus mostly on commercial projects.”

  God, this was dreary. He tried to remember what her job was. Something in engineering, but an odd specialty. “Where’d you go to school?”

  She smiled. “Here at Florida State. I got my degree there and stayed. This isn’t exactly Silicon Valley, but I stay busy enough to pay the mortgage.”

  Tech Engineering. That was what her profile had said. He tried to find a subject centered on that and failed. “I’m sorry.” He grimaced. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been on a date. I’m a little out of practice.”

  She laughed, and she had a nice laugh—the sort that caused her whole face to light up. “It’s fine. Honestly? This is the fifth date I’ve had this month. I’d much rather be in your situation.”

  He winced. “Ouch. Are you that picky or were they that bad?”

  She held up her hands. “I think it’s that I’m that bad. Five dates and only one follow up call.”

  He leaned forward. “Impossible. You’re…” Sweet. Smart. Attractive. Too bad they had no spark of chemistry.

  She raised a brow. “Intimidating. That’s been the common consensus.”

  She wasn’t intimidating, not compared to Benta Aldrete, who he and Nate had spent all day with. That woman was a force of nature. Compared to her, Margaret seemed like a pleasant change of pace. Still, he nodded to validate her hypothesis. “A beautiful and intelligent woman is intimidating to a lot of men.”

  She watched him closely. “But not you?” There was a hint of desperation in her voice and it was most likely that which had scared off other men. Even the question made him feel uncomfortable, as if he was being forced into a second date before they ordered appetizers.

  He shook his head. “I’m not intimidated.”

  She gave a tentative smile. “Good.”

  This was bad. He was leading her on, couldn’t decipher his own feelings to save his life, and they had barely sat down. He shouldn’t be dating. It was too soon after his breakup with Nicola. He was like a lost bunny, caught in a trap with chickens, headed to slaughter.

  Margaret’s eyes caught on something behind him. “Oh my God…” she murmured. “You won’t believe the woman that just walked in.”

  His back stiffened. Of course his stalker was here. He’d picked the restaurant specifically in hopes the swanky address and valet parking would keep her at bay. He’d sat with his back to the door, had taken a roundabout route from home and had all but sprinted into the restaurant in hopes of avoiding her. Everything for nothing. She was here and would probably do something absolutely ridiculous. He forced the stress out of his voice and picked up his water glass in the most casual manner he could manage. “Really?”

  She leaned forward and shot him a mischievous look. “Don’t look, but she’s got the most enormous breasts you’ve ever seen.”

  His shoulders relaxed. Not that he’d examined his stalker’s breasts, but from a side glance, they’d appeared perfectly normal sized. Nice, if you liked small breasts, which he always had. Which was why what had happened with Nicola had been so jarring. It—

  “Hello, Declan.”

  He lifted his head and almost dropped the glass of water. “Nicola.”

  His ex stood beside their table, one hip cocked, her skintight dress barely containing the basketball-sized breasts she had purchased shortly before their break-up. According to her new bras, which he’d peeked at while she was in the shower, they were double Es. Double Es that looked like triple Fs on her tiny frame. He tried to look around them and to her face, a difficult feat given his seated position, her close proximity, and the four-inch heels she wore.

  “Hi.” His date smiled wryly up at Nicola. “I’m Margaret.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Nicola cooed. That was another thing she’d adopted. After her breasts had come an entirely new wardrobe, giant new eyelashes, blonde hair and a raspy voice that giggled and fawned.

  She leaned on the table, facing Declan, her elbows jutting into the sides of her breasts and pushing the giant balloons together. “You haven’t been returning my calls.”

  His eyes met Margaret’s and she tilted her head at him as if to say Really, Declan? Why haven’t you returned her calls?

  He smiled tightly. “Nicola, this isn’t really the place or time to be having this conversation.”

  She huffed out a sigh, her eyelids drooping, and trailed a long red fingernail along the back of his hand. “We can’t exactly have a conversation if you won’t answer the phone.”

  “Margaret, I’m sorry.” He pushed back his seat and gave her a grim nod as he rose. “Could you give me one moment?”

  She spread her hands as if to give him all the time in the world. Pressing a firm hand on Nicola’s back, he ushered her toward the front of the restaurant.

  “You can’t be doing this,” he gritted out.

  “Excuse me!” Nicola planted her heels into the carpet, yelling loud enough to cause the closest tables to look over in alarm. Declan stepped back and raised his hands in surrender.

  “You know,” she hissed. “I’m here on a DATE.” She nodded to the right, and Declan didn’t turn, feeling sorry for whatever poor bastard was witnessing this. “You’re embarrassing me.” She attempted to cross her arms over her chest but struggled, the massive appendages too large to allow a successful linkage of forearms. It was shocking, given the physics of her new anatomy, that she was able to stay upright.

  He rolled his eyes. “Good. Go to your date and I’ll go to mine.” He turned and stopped when her hand grabbed at his bicep, her nails digging into his shirt.

  “You know,” she said softly, and in the look that flashed over her features for the briefest of moments… he saw the girl he once fell for. “I loved you.”

  “And then you changed.” He pulled away. “Go back to your date, Nic.” It was amazing. At one point, the thought of her dating someone else would have crushed him. Now, he only wanted her to move on and stay out of his life.

  She stood there for a moment, a limp shell, her breasts even more ridiculous without the bravado behind them. Then, like a peacock lifting its feathers, she pulled herself back together and turned away, her hair tossed, stride strong, breasts re-extended.

  He waited, watching as she rounded the hostess stand and slid into a chair across from a guy with a gold watch on his wrist and a bolo tie. Maybe this was the infamous douchebag she had cheated on him with. Was he the one who had paid for all of her surgeries? He wasn’t sure whether to wish the guy luck or knock out his teeth.

  Letting out a hard breath, he headed back to his table. Go figure, his first date in the six months since they’d broken up, and she was here. What were those odds? Was he just snakebit in attracting crazy women? Thankfully, his table with Margaret was on the other
side of the restaurant, though he didn’t see how he’d focus on the rest of the meal, knowing Nicola was in the same room.

  Taking a seat across from his date, he picked up his napkin and smoothed it down over his lap. “Sorry about that.”

  She raised her eyebrows over the rim of her water glass. “Interesting girl you got there. Is that your normal type?”

  The thought of trying to explain Nicola, and her evolution through the last six months of their relationship, was exhausting. He struggled to relax his features into a rueful smile. “Not quite. Though she had been, at one time. When I met Nicola, she had a much more … natural … look.” A sunny smile, slightly crooked nose, a bit of an overbite. She’d had purple dreads when he’d met her, sweaty and slightly drunk, in a crowded concert in Panama City Beach.

  She’d been so much fun. Relaxed. Carefree. She hadn’t cared about the balance in his bank account, or worried over what people thought of her, or the condition of her manicure.

  The changes had been gradual. Subtle. He’d barely noticed the changes until he woke up one morning, looking at a woman with a white bandage covering half her face. It was funny how it took the first physical transformation of her to really take note of her emotional transformations. Over the three years of their relationship, she had completely changed. The fun, lighthearted hippie was gone, replaced with someone hyper-focused on her social status, Instagram followers, and Declan’s future earning potential.

  “My ex always wanted me to have plastic surgery.” Margaret tapped at the end of her nose. “You know. This beak.”

  “I think you’re perfect as you are.” He opened the menu and struggled to find a new topic.

  Yeah. It was definitely too early to be dating again.

  6