What's Love Got To Do With It?: A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy! Read online

  “Or you could make me think that you’re leading me to my aunt’s house and then abduct me in some clearing somewhere…” I say, thinking aloud.

  He bursts out laughing again. “You’re right, I could…” he admits. He waits a few seconds before saying any more – the pause reveals good comic timing – and then says, “But I won’t.”

  I trust him. I don’t know why but I believe everything he says.

  “It’s because I have electric blue shoes, right?” I ask with a smile.

  He goes back over to his pickup and opens the door to climb in. “Of course! I could never abduct someone who’s wearing such weirdly coloured accessories: they’d find your body immediately,” he replies with a chuckle.

  Whether he admits it or not, this is a sexy colour and he knows it.

  “It’s not ‘weird’! It’s very fashionable at the moment!” I reply with a frown of annoyance.

  “If you say so…” he laughs and then starts the pickup. All I have to do now is follow him.

  *

  The pickup of the man who hates electric blue pulls up in front of a pretty house with planking walls and a dark roof. It is surrounded by a garden full of flowers and bushes and shady areas from tall trees. The grass is perfectly mown and the plants beautifully kept. I can’t help but smile at the thought of what a perfectionist Aunt Jill is – or at least, she is with her plants and flowers. She doesn’t care about much more important stuff, but she’s absolutely hardcore about the height of the grass or the shapes of the bushes. I guess each of us decides our own priorities in life.

  I pull up behind him and stop the car. The cowboy gets out of his truck and waits for me to join him. “There you go: Jill Ferguson’s house,” he declares with satisfied look on his face.

  I recognise it immediately. It’s true that I haven’t been here much over the last few years, but my mother used to bring me to see Aunt Jill quite often when I was a child. I used to like it here, and I used to like hanging out with her. I remember that we had a lot of fun together. She used to be pretty eccentric, and I hope she still is. I think that happy people age better.

  “Home and dry,” I say with a grateful smile. “Okay, well, thanks a lot…” I suddenly realise I don’t know his name.

  “Greyson,” he informs me.

  “Thanks a lot, Greyson. I am Kayla,” I reply, and stretch my hand out to shake his. He takes it very firmly, and the contact between our hands is surprisingly intense. Well, to be completely honest, it’s not that surprising.

  “Yes, I know,” he says as if it was perfectly normal, and then turns round to walk back to his car.

  I give him a curious look. “And just how, exactly, do you know?”

  He stops for a moment and then climbs into the pickup. “I know everything,” he says, giving me a wink.

  Greyson’s car has just left when Aunt Jill appears and starts running over to greet me. She’s just how I remember her except for one small detail: her hair is blue. Not completely blue and absolutely not electric blue, but close enough. Greyson must have decided the whole family is crazy and that our obsession with this colour is in our DNA, something we’ve passed down from generation to generation. And to judge by the sight of Aunt Jill, I can’t totally exclude the idea.

  “Kayla!” she says while she hugs me. She’s small and skinny, but she’s gripping me tighter than a boa constrictor. I must remember to ask her about her training routine.

  “Aunt Jill! You haven’t changed at all!” I exclaim in surprise. I didn’t want her to look old, of course, but she looks even younger than the last time I saw her.

  “Oh, what nonsense,” she replies immediately. “I’ve changed plenty – but for the better.” She really is the same person I remembered: straight shooting and a little crazy. “Let me take a good look at you instead… That big city’s air isn’t good for you at all, my dear – why, you’re as pale as a sheet!” she informs me. To be fair, this year we haven’t really had a proper spring yet, which is why my complexion is still so winter like. I also have dark hair, which makes my skin look even paler than it actually is.

  “I’ve been writing a column about night life in New York, so I never really get much of a chance to spend any time in the sun…” I say, trying to justify myself as best as I can.

  She glares at me. “I know. It’s obvious that you don’t take good care of yourself. But your bag is fabulous!” she exclaims, staring at it ecstatically.

  “And you haven’t even seen my shoes…” I say, showing them off very proudly.

  She bursts out laughing. “If only I was about fifty years younger I’d steal them from you. But as I’m eighty-two already, I think that might be a little dangerous.”

  “Well, thanks for admiring them anyway,” I say. “Finally, someone who appreciates beautiful accessories.”

  “Why, who had the cheek not to like them?” she asks so seriously that I love her even more.

  “Oh, nobody important… I had to ask some guy for directions to get to your house. He was driving along the highway and stopped to help me. He’s called Greyson, do you know him? Tall, blond…” I say, trying to keep my voice and my expression as neutral as possible.

  I must have failed though, because now she’s looking at me with a very curious expression on her face. “Honey, this town is very small and everybody knows everybody. So of course I know Greyson.”

  Yes, I was afraid she might. “And is he trustworthy, as far as you’re aware? Or is he a serial killer?”

  My aunt starts laughing as if I had said the most ridiculous thing in the world. “Oh my God! Greyson a serial killer? No, he’s not a serial killer. I can assure you that you’re completely safe with him.”

  Personally speaking, I wouldn’t use the word ‘safe’ to talk about a man like that. He might have a reassuring face, but apart from that he doesn’t look safe at all. He’s a mystery. I can’t say why, but I know men enough to recognise one who might be dangerous for me. And I’m not talking about the kind of danger where you get dragged into the woods… The risk concerns me, mostly: I might end up doing something stupid. I need to be careful, because I came here for a very precise reason. Or actually, for two very precise reasons, one of which is official and the other of which must remain secret. Both things will keep me busy enough, though, so I mustn’t waste energy with dumb daydreams.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter anyway. I doubt I’ll run into him again,” I conclude, although I’m clearly just trying to reassure myself.

  But with my aunt, things are never that easy. “Oh I’m sure you are going to run into him again. And often too.” She makes it sound like a threat – a scary one.

  “Well anyway, let’s forget about Greyson for now. Let’s talk about serious stuff: are you sure that you’re okay with me staying with you for a few months? You’re sure I’m not going to be bothering you?” I ask. I’ve called her to ask if I could stay about twenty times already, but I feel I should ask her again, this time in person. When you look someone in the eye, it’s easier to tell if they’re just being nice or lying.

  My aunt is being honest though, much to my surprise. She looks very serious as she says, “Of course I’m okay with it! I’ve been getting so bored… you have no idea! You’ve come just in time to save me from a very dull period. At my age it’s really hard to meet interesting men…”

  Her words make me smile. “And you can’t imagine how hard it is at my age…” I admit.

  She stares at me sceptically. “Well, at least they’re almost all still alive at your age. You have a wider selection to choose from. At my age they’re mostly underground… It’s a pain in the ass that we women live longer. I’m not joking: it’s a serious problem.”

  “So what’s the problem, then? Just go after younger ones!”

  I’m just kidding around, but Aunt Jill’s answer sounds very serious.

  “I’ve already tried that, my dear, and I realised just how many immature men there are around. It’s amazing.”

  What can I say, I totally agree with her. I should probably have some witty comeback, but I can’t come up with anything. My aunt has succeeded where many others before her have failed: leaving me speechless.

  “Anyway, your room is ready. It’s the same one you used to stay in when you were a kid. Do you remember it?”

  Unfortunately I remember that room very well… My aunt is lovely, but our tastes in interior design couldn’t be more different. I think her inspiration comes mostly from the British nineteenth century, because she really loves floral wallpaper and coordinated accessories. I prefer something a bit more minimalist, personally: white walls, a few pieces of furniture in neutral or grey shades and some tasteful ornaments.

  Trying not to feel too depressed at the thought of the room, I grab my luggage from the back seat of the car and follow her inside. There are flowers everywhere, even more than I remembered. I just hope that they are all fake, otherwise there’s a good chance that I’ll die of hay fever. And in fact, in less than a minute I start sneezing. It’s practically a record.

  “Are you OK?” asks Aunt Jill, turning towards me.

  The first thing I need to do today is look for a pharmacy. There must be at least one even in this place, right? I really need some powerful antihistamines. In big dosages.

  “Absolutely,” I smile.

  She seems reassured and leads me to my room. She throws the white door wide open and gestures for me to go inside. Oh god, help! This is even more nineteenth century than I remembered! It looks like she’s gotten even more obsessed with that style than she was last time I was here.

  “Wow, the room is really…” I start, but I don’t manage to finish the sentence. I can’t find a word that accurately describes the scene without being offensi
ve. There probably isn’t one.

  “Outstanding!” she says.

  You bet it is! There’s an antique style wrought iron bed covered by a blanket decorated with gigantic hydrangeas. To its side there’s a white wooden night table, decorated with painted flowers which appear to be rising up its legs and blooming on the top. I have no idea what species of flower they are supposed to represent, and to be honest, I don’t want to know. On the other side of the room there’s a huge vanity table which matches the night table and which has a very big mirror. I’ll admit that this last detail is quite interesting; a woman could spend hours in front of a mirror like that.

  “So, do you like it?” Aunt Jill asks hopefully.

  She is obviously very proud of it. I give her a heartfelt smile. “It’s wonderful, Aunt Jill. Thanks so much for your hospitality.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing, really…” she replies, sounding almost embarrassed. “I’m so happy to have you here. I can’t say that I really understand what you’re doing here, but I’m not one for looking a gift horse in the mouth.”

  “It’s just like I told you: the newspaper sent me here because they want me to write a new column – something a bit different from what everybody else is writing. They want the stories of a girl from New York who tries to have a new social life in a small provincial town.”

  “A social life? Here?” She bursts out laughing. That’s what I thought… “I’ve been trying to get people to do something in the evenings for years in this community. But they just won’t cooperate, and when you do everything by yourself the results are never great.”

  “Well I’m here too, now, so we can try and organise something together,” I propose.

  She smiles at me sweetly.

  “I guess we can…” she agrees. She clearly doesn’t want to get my hopes up. We’re two women, one with blue hair, the other one with blue shoes and a blue bag. I bet all the locals will just love what we come up with…

  I mean, how could they not?

  2

  As soon as I finish dinner, I decide there’s no time to waste and drive into town. I feel much safer this time now that I have a fully charged smartphone beside me. There’s no way I can get lost with it by my side. Well, I’m sure that I can still find a way to get lost, if I try hard enough… Anyway, I have two missions to accomplish: first of all I need to find a pharmacy and buy myself some antihistamines, and then I need to start checking out Heber Springs’ night life.

  It’s Saturday evening, so I’m guessing that at least today the local youngsters will be out partying. I’m not expecting to see people dancing on tables, of course, but I’m confident that there will be a few decent bars. After all, in the summer the place is full of tourists who come for the swimming and the water sports at the lake nearby.

  I remember that there was even a nice beach; my mom used to take me there sometimes and we would pretend that we were at some chic coastal resort.

  According to the locals, this used to be a well known spa area back in the nineteen twenties. The smelly thermal spring is apparently still there, somewhere, and they say bathing in its waters is very good for you. Since my aunt said that the average lifespan here is quite high – she actually said that there are a lot of people who are about a hundred years old – I’m starting to wonder if the water might actually be miraculous. Maybe I’ll try it, one of these days.

  My search for a pharmacy is a complete fiasco, however, and after driving aimlessly about for a while, I give up and park in front what seems to be the only bar in town. The sign isn’t very promising, but I know from experience that you should never judge a book by its cover.

  I push the heavy wooden door open and walk inside, finding myself in a rather dark room. I can see that there are a few people already inside but nothing that could qualify as a crowd. So where are all the local youngsters? Do they even exist?

  I sigh and try not to feel too discouraged as I approach the bar and take a seat on one of the tall stools. The barmaid is a very blonde girl with short hair and a pretty black t-shirt. As soon as she notices me, she comes across.

  “Hi,” she smiles. “Where are you from?”

  “What makes you think I’m not from around here?” What, have I got a sign on my forehead saying ‘out-of-towner’ and just never realised it before?

  She bursts out laughing. “Well, everybody knows everybody else around here… And anyway, you’re dressed like a real big-city girl, if you know what I mean…”

  I take a quick look at my tight jeans, grey top and matching short pullover… I am still holding my electric blue bag and wearing shoes of the same colour. As far as I’m concerned, my outfit is way too casual for a Saturday evening – but apparently it’s not casual enough for Heber Springs.

  “You’re right. I come from New York,” I admit. I am obviously outside my natural habitat. I’d been hoping to pass undetected, but now I realise I’ll have to work on that.

  “Cool,” she comments, and doesn’t add anything else. “Okay, what’re you drinking?”

  “A Cosmopolitan, please.” I really need to drink something reassuring and familiar if I want to survive the evening.

  When she hears the word ‘cosmopolitan’, the girl starts staring at me as if I’ve said something completely bizarre or have suddenly grown a second head. After a while, she says, “Errr, I’m sorry, we don’t have those…”

  “Ok, no problem. I’ll have a pink Martini then,” I say, hoping for better luck.

  This time the barmaid looks as though she’s about to burst out laughing, even though I don’t understand why what I said sounds so funny to her. I’m about to go into a rant about how decent drinks are one of our generation’s rights when I hear someone actually laughing and I stop. I turn around and there he is. Weird that I didn’t notice him immediately. Well, it’s not really that weird, since it’s so damn dark in here.

  Three stools from me, Greyson is sitting with a glass of beer in his hands and looking amused. I guess I am the object of his hilarity. Maybe he should start paying me since I’m apparently his main source of entertainment.

  “Why are you so obsessed with colours?” he asks while still chuckling.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Electric blue shoes, pink drinks…”

  “Why?” I say pugnaciously. “Is black a more acceptable colour?”

  After a quick look, I reckon he’s wearing the same clothes he had on this afternoon. Did he really not get changed before going out on a Saturday night? I stare at him in outrage. I wouldn’t expect him to get a manicure – although his hands would be forever grateful – but he could at least have put on a shirt… As long as it wasn’t a flannel one, though! The only place for a flannel shirt is in the incinerator. The only justification for a shirt like that would be if he was a lumberjack – although if I was a lumberjack myself, I’d do my best to change that cliché about how they dress.

  Maybe that’s just what Greyson is. Maybe he actually is a lumberjack, but a lumberjack who hates flannel shirts! That’s why he wears scruffy old t-shirts.

  “Are you a lumberjack?” I ask abruptly. As usual I opened my mouth and spoke without thinking. I shouldn’t have done that.

  He smiles and looks at me. “I’m afraid that’s personal information…” he replies in a deep voice, sounding like the narrator of a thriller.

  I’ll admit it: he’d be sexy even in a flannel shirt. What can I say… Life is unfair – some of us have too little, and some of us have more than we know what to do with.

  Someone wearing clean jeans and a dark blue shirt pops up from behind him. Now that’s what I call a halfway decent outfit!

  “So Greyson, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend here?” he asks as he approaches the bar.

  Clearly amused, Greyson shakes his head and raises his eyes to the ceiling. “Jim, man, you never change,” he scolds him. “She’s been here for less than two minutes.”

  “I’m not the kind of guy who likes to waste time…” his friend jokes.

  “Yeah, I noticed,” Greyson replies.

  “Well, Greyson has no manners so I guess we could just introduce ourselves to each other, what do you think?” he asks me. He’s quite tall and has dark hair and grey eyes, and he has a pleasant and reassuring appearance. He stretches out his arm to shake my hand. “My name is Jim.”