Unexpected

By Laylah Abrams

A celebrity heiress and a waiter—er, artist—discover their tabloid story might really be a fairytale.

Celebutante Claire Morgan is an expert at playing the air-headed-heiress gossip sites expect. Sure, she's got degrees in business and computer science, but people are much more interested in the designer of her last gown or who she's dating (for the next minute). Besides, posing for the paparazzi is safer than letting anyone get too close.

 

Waiter and struggling artist Nick Holden probably should have majored in engineering instead of following his dream. It's a little late now, but with his grad school scholarship in jeopardy from a creative slump and only so many times he can deflect his doubts with dumb jokes, the last thing he needs is Claire and her friends breezing into the restaurant at closing time. Even if she is more beautiful than a Monet.

 

When one of Nick's wisecracks turns Claire's spokesmodel smile sincere, it's clear the pair has more in common than they thought. Staying on opposite sides of the velvet rope, they begin a fling that is far from meaningless. While hiding their growing feelings, Nick spurs Claire toward the tech career she wants and she inspires new vision in his art. But they'll need to trust each other and drop their acts if they're going to live happily ever after.

 

Can the gossip girl find love with a no-name artist? Or will they let their storybook ending slip away?

 

UNEXPECTED is an unconventional romance about two opposites working backward toward love. For fans of The Cinderella Deal by Jennifer Crusie and The Love Hypothesis by Ali Hazelwood, this modern fairytale will draw readers in and have them laughing—and sighing—until the end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inkspell Publishing
• Release date: Nov 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9781958136706

Book preview

PROLOGUE

"S o, Cinderella or The Enchanted Princess ?"

Claire squinted at the two thumbnail images on the screen, then scowled at her best friend. Wait. You were serious? You actually invited me to your parents’ place to watch cartoons?

Candie shrugged and gave Claire an innocent smile, one of the real ones, like back when they were kids. She hardly ever got to see one of those smiles anymore. Her heart turned a little gooey ... until Candie answered, Since Vince canceled, we can totally girl out. Maybe you can meet him at New Year’s, though?

Claire somehow didn’t roll her eyes. Maybe. If Candie was still dating him then. Six months was her record so far.

What would you rather watch? Candie gave Claire a sidelong glance. Not some boring documentary?

"I was going to vote for Shaun of the Dead ..."

Candie shuddered. "No. That’s much worse. Anyway, these aren’t just cartoons. They’re classics."

"I don’t know how Cinderella ever became a classic. She has a horrible life until some rich guy decides to marry her. Why does it always have to be a rich guy?"

Now Candie was the one with her brows raised, trying not to roll her eyes. Um, what exactly do you have against rich guys? She waved a hand, encompassing the home theater in which they sat—with a fifteen-foot screen and seats for thirty—tucked in a corner of the Harrington family mansion.

Point taken, Claire answered. But they knew each other for a couple hours. How does that make sense?

It’s love at first sight. It’s romantic and sweet.

Not really. Unless looks are the only thing that matter.

Candie cocked her head. And nodded. Yup.

Claire laughed.

Hey, instalove is in the news all the time.

"In the tabloids, Claire said. And you know how real those are." Headlines about Claire loving and leaving a different man appeared on a monthly basis. Candie headlined at least weekly. And retweeted the articles.

"Well, these are happy stories. Candie added under her breath, You could use some of that."

Claire straightened in her velvet chair. Candie had noticed. Even from across the country? Claire’s well-trained smile wavered, and she reached out to squeeze her friend’s hand. I’m okay, Candie.

Candie squeezed back. So you say. What you really need is a guy to sweep you off your feet.

Claire withdrew her hand. Not gonna happen. She didn’t get swept away. She preferred her space. Wasn’t that what all the magazines said about her? The familiar emptiness, growing over the last few months, welled up. She breathed in. No, she was not lonely. She was fine. What’s the other movie about? I’ve never heard of it.

Candie clicked a button on her remote and read the description on the screen. A beautiful princess—

You see? Why is being beautiful always the important part? Her mouth twitched. Why can’t she just have a nice personality? She covered a laugh as Candie glared at her. Okay, okay. Keep reading.

‘A beautiful princess is put under a sorcerer’s spell. With ice in her heart, she is trapped alone in a tower forever. But can a peasant turn into a prince, break the spell, and rescue her?’

That’s silly. How is a peasant supposed to turn himself into a prince?

Well, at least he’s not another rich guy.

True. Claire nodded. And with the self-assurance to take all that on. Very attractive in nonroyalty. But why does the guy need to rescue her? Why doesn’t the guy ever need rescuing?

Why are we having this conversation? It’s just a fairytale! It’s not supposed to be like the real world. That’s the whole point.

Claire did roll her eyes this time. Fairytales. Ridiculous.

CHAPTER 1

NOMAD, THE NEW FINE-dining restaurant at the top of the Harrington Hotel in Soho, which opened in the fall, offers a contemporary atmosphere and an extensive wine list. Still, most of its appeal comes from the notorious family who owns it.

—New York Tribune, food section

THE MINIMALIST CLOCK over the bar glowered at Nick. A full twelve minutes before his shift. He was always on time. Still, he quickened his step as he weaved between tables draped in gleaming white linen and triangular wood and chrome chairs. He skirted the floor-to-ceiling windows on his left. Whoever installed the lighting understood the clientele. The diners couldn’t see anything but their own reflections in the glass. If he drew too near, the windows would give him away.

Glad you’re here a little early, said a voice behind him.

Too late. Nick stopped short and closed his eyes. Not today. Not after the day he’d had.

I was hoping to talk to you about a little scheduling difficulty, continued his manager. Possibly taking on a shift.

Nick’s shoulders tensed as he pivoted back. School, work, sleep. Repeat. Like one of the cog people in Metropolis carrying out his duties. Except he wanted to do this. Supposedly. Sure, he answered, his voice as cheery as a game show host’s. I’m happy to help, if I can.

Greg’s jowls lifted as he smiled. That’s the right attitude!

Of course it was. It’s what got him hired in the fall, with zero serving experience.

I need someone to cover Carol’s shift tomorrow, said Greg. Breakfast and lunch.

Nick’s backpack grew heavier, weighed down by the letter stuffed in the front pocket. All day, it continued to gain mass and expand, like a black hole. He could live without sleep. As an undergrad, the jab of a thumbtack in his pocket kept him awake in class after late nights in a restaurant kitchen. But he couldn’t miss school. I’m sorry. I have a couple classes I can’t skip. 

His boss nodded. Yeah. That’s why we don’t usually hire students. He pressed his lips into a thin line. You know, if you want to keep working here, we’re going to need some flexibility on hours.

Greg clomped into the kitchen as a hollowness seeped into Nick’s chest. If he lost this job, he couldn’t afford to stay in the city anyway. What if you’re throwing your life away following this dream? More than three years later, his almost-fiancée’s doubts persisted in his own head.

He changed into the white shirt and black pants of his uniform in the staff restroom and walked back to the dining area. The sickly beat of light electronica dripped out of the speakers. A businessman argued with his wireless headset as he sat alone. Nick tugged at the cuff of his sleeve. Another night of being looked through like an automaton in the background. Another day on his dreary treadmill, which, perhaps he should admit, wasn’t taking him anywhere.

Diane, the bartender, sidled up and nudged him with her elbow. You’d better put on one of those dreamy smiles, Holden, she said in her Southern drawl. I want some big tips tonight.

A smile tickled Nick’s face. Diane floated through life like a shiny Mylar balloon, not letting anything get her down.

You’re looking a little low tonight, she said. Bad day?

She would listen if he needed to vent. But he had planned every move to get to where he wanted to be, from the classes he selected as an undergrad to the skills he mastered to appeal to grad schools. He should have his life under control. Not really. Just tired.

That’s right. She laughed. You don’t have bad days. Can’t fit them into your schedule ... like fun or relaxation. Hey, any chance you might finally be able to come over for dinner next week? The little monsters want to thank you for their birthday presents, and Mike would like to meet my bodyguard.

A man at the bar leered in Diane’s direction. Speaking of which, Nick said, voice lowered, watch out for your eight o’clock.

She peeped behind them and sighed. "Why doesn’t this mean anything to these people?" she asked, pointing to her wedding ring. She let the band glint in the light and her face glowed, as it always did when she brought up her husband and kids. She believed in happily-ever-afters.

Nick, too, had been raised on them. Your grandfather flew here first, with only fifty dollars in his pocket, his mother used to tell him, her words rising and falling with a slight French accent, despite leaving Tunisia as a girl. She met Nick’s dad after high school, when he was an apprentice electrician repairing old wiring at her family’s house. And that was it. Nick’s parents still looked at each other with the same glow Diane had for her family, and they raved about their only child to anyone who would listen.

If he starts getting personal, I’ll ask you to help me get stuff from the storage room, Nick offered.

Now, don’t change the subject. Dinner next week?

He took a deep breath and smelled the piney tang of paint and turpentine from all the years spent building up his portfolio to earn a scholarship to grad school. Details of his current paintings cycled through his head. He could modify his blending and gradation, maybe make a few changes in his use of light and tone. If he just kept working ... The letter from the dean didn’t matter. He would handle it. I’d love to, but I’m on shift all week except Wednesday, and I need to spend more time in the studio.

Okay, I’ll let you off the hook ... this time. Diane poked him once more. But one of these days, I’m going to have to instruct you on work-life balance.

She returned to the bar, and Nick scanned the dining area again. Only a few small tables. It wouldn’t be so bad. The hours passed quickly once he stopped worrying about school. But as he carried crème brûlée out to a table twenty minutes before close, the hostess gasped behind him.

Oh my gosh. P-please follow me, she said.

He turned, but only the group’s backs faced him as the hostess led them away from the other guests, toward one of the tables by the windows.

On his return trip to the kitchen, Greg brushed past him to greet the group of six. His boss met his eyes and lifted his brows, a silent directive to keep them happy.

Nick let the three couples flip through the menus for a few minutes, then walked over. Good evening, he said.

Oh. He held his friendly smile and didn’t even blink at the same platinum blonde who adorned half the celebrity magazines Diane kept under the bar. A leaked sex tape meant three-quarters of the world could identify Candie Harrington, even in night vision. She checked her stage-thick makeup in a golden compact. Pink rhinestones—the same shade as her glittery top—sparkled on her nails. Hopefully they were only rhinestones.

Welcome to Nomad, Nick continued, then paused again. Sitting next to Candie in a dark blue dress, with a natural radiance brighter than jewels, was Claire Morgan. I’ll be ... uh ... taking care of you tonight.

The former model stood out like a lily pond on a city block, blooming between billboards and taxicabs. As he recited his usual speech about the specials, Claire, leaning over the menu, swept a lock of her chestnut hair away with a fluid curl of her fingers. Like one of Degas’s dancers.

So, please let me know if you have any questions, he told the group. About the menu, I mean. Or, you know, about texture in nineteenth-century French landscapes. I could probably handle that, too.

Claire looked up, luminous blue eyes resting on him as her lips widened in a smile. He wasn’t sure if he introduced himself. He might have forgotten his name.

I feel like risotto. You can get that, right? the third woman in the group asked, or rather, commanded, without even picking up a menu.

Nick turned toward her and tried to concentrate on something besides Claire Morgan’s eyes. Like how there was no ideal time to ask cooks to make something not on the menu, but eleven o’clock at night wasn’t even close. Absolutely. I’ll see what we can do. And does everyone else—

"We have to go shopping tomorrow, Candie said to her friend. It wasn’t like Nick was standing there trying to get the rest of their orders or anything. Even if it’s still colder than the Arctic. The only fun thing about coming to this miserable city is I can usually find a super cute pair of shoes. She reddened and glanced at her date. And seeing you, of course, Vince."

Vince shrugged.

If only you’d move to LA with me, she said, pushing her bottom lip forward.

The thing is, Wall Street’s in New York.

If you’d like, I can come back— began Nick.

Well, I’m with you, Candie, said her risotto-loving friend. "Liam and I would never choose to leave LA for New York this time of year, but I have to be at that gala tomorrow. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t an eighth-generation Prescott. I wouldn’t have to go to these boring things if I came from nobodies, like you."

Candie winced.

Nick’s fingers tensed at his side. When he was in college, classmates at Yale had whispered, His mom’s a public-school art teacher, and his dad’s just an electrician. As though hard work was embarrassing.

Claire’s eyes flashed from Candie to narrow at their other friend. She leaned back in her chair, admiring her nails. It’s just as well, she said. Could you imagine me and Candie in that crowd? Honestly, Zoë, what’s the point of a party with no red carpet to pose on?

Zoë’s face pinched. Was that a clap back against Risotto Girl?

You definitely do a great job of looking sexy, said Claire’s date. It must have taken the man hours to get his slicked-back hair just so, and to pick out the exact hue of skinny pants to complement his burgundy leather shoes.

Why, thank you, Ethan. Claire smiled, her eyelashes fluttering.

She actually batted her eyes at him. Nick quashed the urge to gag. I can come back if you need a few more minutes, he said.

No. Wait. We know what we want, said Candie.

They did not. While each of them decided what they would eat and drink, the others interrupted with the best nightclubs in New York and gossip about someone’s new summer home. Really, the opposite of the things taking up his headspace. When Nick was an undergrad, he could have majored in engineering or computer science, like his dad wanted. He would still hate his job now, but at least he wouldn’t stress about having one.

Ooh, ask the waiter, said Zoë, and smacked her lips shut as she smothered a laugh.

Her date, Liam, snorted. All right, then. We’ll let him settle this. He turned to Nick. Tell me something, waiter.

Other conversations broke off. All eyes at the table fixed on Nick.

See, my parents gave me a yacht for my birthday. Which is a better name—

Or less dumb. Which is a less dumb name, interrupted Zoë.

"Which is better, continued Liam, Loaded ... He paused. For the Win ... His chest puffed. Or I Make Ship Happen?"

Several replies coursed through Nick’s head, none of which would help him keep his job. I’m not sure I have an opinion.

See, said Zoë. He thinks they’re dumb, too. Especially the last one. It’s something my dad would use.

Whatever, said Liam. He looked at Nick again and sneered. Though, you don’t need to worry about stuff like that, do you? Maybe if you become, like, VP of serving. He guffawed.

Nick’s jaw tightened. To them, he wasn’t a real person with intelligence or drive. Or dreams he strove toward. No, I don’t need to worry about naming yachts, he said, meeting Liam’s eyes. Usually just about grown-up, important things. But if I ever want one, I won’t have my parents buy it for me.

Liam dropped his eyes and cleared his throat. Claire smiled at Nick again.

"And I’d name it Zombie Apocalypse," he added.

This time, she laughed. A soft, intoxicating jingle. Her cheeks creased as she smothered it, like ripples playing on a stream.

Oh my god, Candie said, the wings! I’m totally getting the wings!

Nick took their orders. They didn’t get much food, but he dashed back and forth carrying drinks for them, usually in response to snapped fingers and a, Hey, you! Still, he held his head high, refrained from dumping overpriced bottled water on anyone, and tried not to stare at Claire.

As he loaded another round of drinks onto his tray at the bar, Diane pecked at her phone. Gotta let Mike know I have to be here to close up, she said.

Did Greg leave for the night? Nick asked.

Yeah. Before he left, he said to make sure Candie and her friends feel welcome, even if it gets a little late.

So he gets to leave at closing time, but we don’t?

Yup, she replied. Though, seeing them in person is almost worth it.

Nick weighed the sound of Claire’s laugh against the snapped fingers of her date. Maybe. Nick still had reading to do for his morning class and the comfort of his bed at some point would be nice. They’d have to say something if it got late enough, right? Or did Greg expect them to be there all night?

Back with their order, Nick lifted each glass off the tray. Candie’s drink was always pink. Claire’s was always simple. Her eyes were on him. Again. When he leaned to place her drink on the table, his sleeve brushed her shoulder. A wisp of her scent floated up, floral and exotic. She peeked at him with something not quite a smile.

Thank you, she said softly, her cheeks touched with pink.

Warmth spread from his chest to his fingertips. You’re welcome. She couldn’t possibly ... could she? Of course not. She was Claire Morgan. And he was a waiter in her friend’s restaurant.

I won’t be in New York then, but I’m sure Claire would love to go, said Candie.

At the sound of her name, Claire looked toward her friend.

I know you two met on New Year’s, she continued, talking to Claire’s date, Ethan. Vince says you’re doing stuff on Wall Street. Then she turned to Claire. And you’re into your family’s business. You two probably have lots in common.

Candie, Claire said with a hint of warning.

Well, maybe you won’t be so mopey all the time if—

Candie!

Tales of Cold-hearted Claire discarding men were common at the supermarket checkout. Had Candie tried to set her up? Why would she need to? And mopey? Not from what he could see.

The next time Nick came around to the table, Ethan was talking. "I manage the investments in the fund. It’s like putting your money in a bank, but I use the money to buy and sell securities ... uh ... stocks and stuff ... and you end up with a lot more money than you