The Meet Cute | Chapter 3
ROMANCE SERIAL | A contemporary romance following a bookish artist meeting her favorite faceless author for the first time, only to find the author is not who she believed.
Author’s Note: If you’re new to the story, you can start here for TW’s, an in-depth intro, & complete chapter list. This is 18+ adult fiction.
“Hey, rude man—wait!” I shout up the stairwell. “Get back here! You owe me an apology!”
“Shit,” He startles, peeking over the railing a story up from me.
“I said get—back—here!” I punctuate each word as I chase him up the steps. His feet quicken, picking up his pace. He must be taking them three at a time.
“So you’re not just rude, you’re also a coward!” I try to jab at him, anything to slow him down. I’m not particularly athletic, but I am an artist—quitting is not in our vocabulary. I keep going even as my lungs and legs protest.
The unmistakable sound of a door hinge whines open, filling the stairwell with a gust of fresh air. Where the hell is he going?
When I finally catch up with him, he’s just standing there in the doorway with that stupid look on his handsome face. For a moment, all we do is stand there. His chest rising and falling as heavy as mine. Does he even remember me from the elevator? I follow his eyes to the stain on my dress.
“It is such a pretty dress,” he says as if more to himself than me. His deep voice is much smoother when he’s not yammering at the speed of light.
“You ruined it.” I snap, stepping towards him. Nice voice or not, he’s irked my last nerve tonight. I walk him back and out onto the landing.
“No—don’t let!” The door snicks shut behind me as I place my hands on my hips. “Dammit—” he groans.
“Yeah, that’s right—you thought you were getting away with what you did?” I say, stepping forward, years of pent-up people pleasing, fighting its way to the surface. “If you’re going to come into our spaces—the least you can do is have some gods-damned respect.”
“Gods-damned?” He asks almost earnestly.
“See,” I point at him, “A real reader would understand that reference.”
“What makes you think I’m not a real reader?” he retorts.
I narrow my eyes, pointing my finger at his stupid, amused expression. “I don’t care if you read at a second-grade level—apologize for what you did.”
“I’m sorry.” He offers too quickly.
“No—” I shake my head.
“No?” he asks. I’m almost as confused as he is.
“Yes, no!” I say, doubling down anyway. My bare feet pace in place. He just watches me. Waiting. It’s unnerving. “I’m still angry,” I finally admit.
“I can see that,” he says evenly.
“Then apologize again—better this time.”
“I’m sorry I bumped into you and ruined your costume?”
“It’s not a costume—it’s cosplay—” I correct.
“Your cosplay,” he concedes. “I’m so sorry I ruined your cosplay dress.”
I pace, and the silence stretches.
“Better?”
“I think I need an apology for the elevator, too.” I gesture for him to keep going.
“I didn’t see you there—in the elevator, I mean. I didn’t see you standing there until I did,” he says, downing the water in one gulp. “My deepest apologies for that as well,” He smiles. He fucking smiles like he’s enjoying this. “I’m sorry I didn’t see you.” A pause as he takes me in again. “How could anyone miss you standing in any room…” he trails off.
I nod my head in either direction—he waits for my verdict as if he cares what I think.
“The dress is pretty, isn’t it?” I ask rhetorically despite myself.
“Stunning,” he agrees. He looks less rigid than he did a moment ago, and I feel my shoulders relax again. “And the apology?” he asks. The brightness of mirth does something to his face to make him more attractive; I mean, he was already attractive to begin with, but that smile—well, I can’t stop staring at it. “Is it everything you dreamed it would be?”
“I’ve had better,” I shrug.
This gets a warm chuckle out of him, and I can’t say that I hate the sound, but I cross my arms at him anyway.
“I truly didn’t mean to upset you. I know you’re a fan of—”
I let my arms drop immediately, the audible smack against my thighs stealing the words right out of his mouth.
So that was her. Jenna is J.T. Rose.
“Well, yes, I am a fan—” I admit as casually as I can. “But I suppose you gathered that when you dragged her away from me.”
Something like confusion brackets his eyes.
I see the moment he recognizes that I’ve figured it out.
To my utter humiliation, he laughs.
He laughs long and deep, the kind that has him leaning over to clutch his knees.
“What’s so funny?” I get out, crossing my arms once more as he stands up to his full height again.
“Nothing—for a moment I thought you—never mind.” A gust of wind blows the empty cup out of his hand and over the rail. The very tall, very high railing. I take a step back towards the door, realizing how high we are up here.
“Well, this was nice,” I say, backing away, only he’s the one stepping towards me now. My back presses against the cool metal of the terrace door. I press my ass against the handlebar, but the door doesn’t budge.
“It’s locked,” he deadpans, tilting his head to lower his gaze towards mine. “You got any apologizing you’d like to do?”
“Not necessarily,” I say, turning to try the door handle anyway. I press it again and again, but it doesn’t budge. I turn to see him standing still behind me.
Is he standing closer to me than he was a moment ago?
What the hell was I thinking coming up here?
I jab my finger at him, “Stay right there.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He says, lifting his hands in mock surrender, that smile returning to his face.
“I’m glad you find this so amusing—” I reach for my phone, “Shit—no signal.”
I return, rattling the door but it just won’t open.
A warm hand engulfs mine, trying to pry it away from the handle. I try to wiggle out of his grip—my hand slams right into his face.
The large man stumbles back. He groans into the pain, pulling his fingers away from his lips to make sure I didn’t draw blood.
“You know, some might call that rude—” He says in a low voice, arching a brow at me.
“I didn’t see you there—” I cross my arms, rolling my neck at him, “And you could be trying harder to get us off of here!”
“I’m exactly where I want to be,” he sighs, shaking out of his gray jacket and lying on it, facing the sky. “No one told you to follow me up here.”
“Well—no one told you to spill my Shirley Temple all over my dress.”
“Would you like another apology?”
“Arrrgh!” I let out, frustrated enough to cry—too stubborn to do it in front of him.
I pace, staring at him on the floor. There’s nowhere to go on this glorified balcony.
“I don’t bite—” he says, brown eyes peeking up at me when I don’t move.
“That’s what they all say.” I roll my eyes as I take a cautious step forward.
“Sit down.” His hand thuds against the ground twice.
“Why do you sound so bossy?” I ask, stalling. Something about being stuck up here with a man who looks and smells like that has all my senses on edge.
“Habit, I guess.” He shrugs, not bothering to meet my eye.
Ugh. I’m sure he’s all kinds of bossy. I start to walk away, maybe I’ll slump against the door and wait to be rescued. But then again. He hasn’t been anything other than inconveniently attractive and apologetic…
“Sit down—please,” he tries again. “You’re making me nervous now.”
“It’s too close to the edge—heights are not my thing.” I finally admit. I wait for him to tease me—to say something to deepen the unease swirling in my stomach. He just regards me for a moment before peering back up at the night sky.
“It’s not my thing either—none of this is...” His tone is warm. Sincere.
“You seem pretty relaxed to me,” is all I can think to say in return.
“Lying down—it helps,” he quips with a pointed look.
I roll my eyes, joining him on the ground.
He keeps his eyes firmly pinned on the sky as I awkwardly manage to lower myself. Neither of us speaks for a while. The minutes go by as the bass of the ball vibrates beneath us. It’s a beautiful night, and I should feel like I’m wasting it up here instead of down there with my friends, but this is—it’s nice.
I chance a glance at him. There’s a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth as if he can feel me staring, but he doesn’t return my gaze. It’s almost ironic that he’s wearing all grey—almost as if he’s styled like Greyson, Lily’s love interest in J.T.’s books. He turns to look at me, and I snap my eyes forward, shifting to get more comfortable. It’s a fruitless endeavor, especially when I can feel his gaze on me.
I squirm and shift, but it does nothing to cool the heat creeping into my face. He’s way better at getting stared at than I am.
“So, you enjoy the dirty ground often.” I word-vomit into the silence. Inwardly, I cringe, but it gets a rumbling chuckle out of him.
“Only when I’m avoiding huge crowds.” His smile wanes. “There are so many people here—so many enthusiastic women here—”
“And I’m sure it’s such a burden being that tall and good-looking surrounded by admiring eyes.”
“Good-looking, huh?”
“You’re pretty for a rude man—some women are into that—”
“And you? What are you into?” Something in his tone makes my stomach flutter. A feeling I can’t say I’ve felt in a long time.
“We’re not talking about me—we’re talking about you.”
He quietly regards me for a beat, something sparking in his eyes. Do I want him to push? Does he really want to know, or is he just being a guy?
He seems to swallow whatever he was about to say, “I didn’t expect it to be such a big event.” He almost sounds nervous again.
“It’s because of J.T. Rose. When people found out she was going to be here, the tickets sold out overnight.” I feel the lightness return to my voice. “She’s the reason I’m here.” I perk up, trying to still the butterflies in my stomach. I tap the back of my phone where I store my keepsake. “I can’t believe it’s really happening,” I say aloud, maybe more to myself than him. “I’ve been trying to figure out who she is for years—I sent her a message once. It was right after I was going through a hard time; her stories really got me through it. I’d never been so nervous to send something to someone in my entire life.”
I glance over and his eyes are already on mine.
“Sorry,” I laugh, “I didn’t mean to hog the conversation.”
He still doesn’t speak.
“It’s just, I know it sounds weird, but I really do believe that art can connect people in ways nothing else can. And those stories…” I stop myself from going on. “I just can’t wait to finally meet her.”
“I hope the big reveal doesn’t disappoint everyone.”
“How can you say that?” I scold him, “Did you not just hear anything I said? Those books have changed people’s lives—they changed my life—made me believe in myself again. They made me believe in love again!” My mouth snaps shut. But it’s too late. The confession is one I’ve silently carried for over a year now.
He doesn’t respond. And I don’t know what’s worse, not knowing what he’s thinking or that he might have the audacity to say it.
The chilly air nips at my skin, chattering my teeth. Or maybe it’s the sudden rush of nerves. I have gotten so bad at this—maybe my ex was right… I’ve spent too much time locked away with my art that I’m just socially awkward now.
One look at the rude man and he doesn’t look nearly as bothered as I feel. He simply rolls off his jacket, draping it over me. The warmth of his body heat clings to the fabric, sending a shiver down my spine.
“Now that’s something a real reader would do—” I joke, pulling it more tightly around me.
“If your arms are cold, I know your feet have to be freezing too.”
“You’re not touching my feet,” I say, pinning him with a look.
“I only meant that I’m wearing socks and shoes—you are not.”
I narrow my eyes at him, but he’s right, my toes are rather frosty up here.
I nod—too proud to concede. He makes quick work of taking off his shoes. He pulls his foot out of the first sneaker without untying it; something that looks like a piece of paper falls out. His eyes dart to mine as he quickly tucks it back in. I avert my gaze, focusing on anything else but him. Something about seeing a man’s bare feet feels too intimate, even if he’s about to hand me his stinky socks. Or at least that’s what I thought he was going to do.
A warm hand wraps around my ankle, lifting it onto a muscular thigh. He tugs the sock on before doing the other. A shiver creeps up my spine again, and this time I know I can’t blame the cold. He slips back into his shoes, joining me on the floor again.
“What next, you going to offer to hold me so that your body heat will keep me from frostbite?” I tease.
“Do you want to be held?” He asks, something shifting in his eyes. Is he—is he flirting with me? Is it working?
I clear my throat, cursing Kerry to the book gods for telling me this man is yummy because—well, she’s so insufferable when she’s right. “How long do you think it will take for them to find us?
“They won’t.” He lets out a deep exhale. “We’re going to die up here,” he deadpans.
I dig into his shoulder with my fist from beneath his jacket.
“So violent!” He laughs. “And you wonder why I ran from you—”
“So rude!” I snark, “And are you really calling a black woman aggressive?”
“No, not aggressive. Powerful. Black women are powerful; some might be intimidated by that kind of confidence and unyielding will, but power recognizes power. I respect it.”
“Okay, what book did you steal that from?” I ask, only half suspiciously.
“Do I get my real reader badge yet?”
“Nope—not yet. Gotta tell me your favorite book first.”
“That’s hard. I have so many—”
“Oh come on—your reputation is on the line!” I urge him.
“Let’s do favorite genres,” he offers instead.
I side-eye him, but answer anyway. “Fantasy and Romance.”
“Good choices, but that’s two—you can only have one.” He says with a grin.
“How are you making up the rules now? I only went first because I knew you were going to be too afraid to do it.”
“The rules are the rules—no one knows where they come from,” he teases.
“Okay, if I had to choose, I would choose fantasy—as long as it has romance,” I add.
“So your answer is romance,” he chuckles.
“Of course, you would think loving romance is funny.”
“It’s my favorite too.” He confesses more seriously. “I love romance.” He adds with a shrug.
“I just thought you’d be a sci-fi guy.”
“Naw—romance guy, through and through.” He says, propping himself up on his elbow to face me. I join him. “I mean, who doesn’t want that kind of intimacy and devotion…Who doesn’t want their happy ending?” he adds.
“Yes, right... My favorite thing about romance stories is the make-up after the breakup.” I giggle at his scrunched-up face.
“So you’re willing to skip right over the meet-cute and right into the third act breakup.”
“Third act? Oh, you’re really trying to earn that real reader card from me, huh?”
“The meet-cute is the best part,” he insists.
“No, it’s not—it’s so unbelievable. The characters can’t know if they’re really meant to be in the beginning, and honestly, attraction doesn’t happen that fast.”
His eyes trace the planes of my face before holding my gaze again. “Respectfully, I disagree.”
I roll my eyes. “If you can show me a meet-cute, that’s actually good, and the real reader card is yours.”
He sits up straighter, embracing the challenge. “A handsome, strapping young man spills a drink on a beautiful woman at a ball. She chases him up to a rooftop where she unwittingly gets them stuck together, talking for hours under the stars.”
His gaze catches on my lips, and heat pools low in my stomach.
“It hasn’t been hours—has it?” I ask, barely recognizing the tone of my own voice.
“Semantics.” He shrugs.
“So what happens next in this little story of yours?” I dare to ask.
“Hmm—there’s a couple ways this story could go…” He puts on a very studious face. “First, they could die—freeze to death—she’ll be forced to eat his body for sustenance while she hopes to be rescued—”
“That sounds like a horror—I thought we were talking about romances?”
“Right—right—so no alien abductions then?”
“No—not unless they’re hot.”
He chuckles at that.
“Well, they could also realize what a good time they’re having in an otherwise awful situation and share a quiet moment of intimacy.”
“A quiet moment of intimacy? What are you? A chaste Victorian woman reading by candlelight?” Our mutual laughter echoes into the night, falling into the hushed, unsaid thing settling between us.
“I’m realizing what a good time I’m having—” he says, eyes searching mine.
“Me too—” I agree, wanting something I’m too nervous to ask for.
A beat of silence passes between us. How has this rude man made me feel so comfortable in such a short time?
“Can I show you?” He finally breaks the silence.
“Show me what?” I ask barely above a whisper.
“Why the meet-cute is obviously superior to the third-act breakup,” he straightens the dainty crown on my head, sweeping my hair out of my face, letting it linger there.
“You can try,” I answer, leaning into him. He doesn’t rush to meet me halfway. He lingers a breath away from my lips. Gently, he cups my face, his thumbs ghosting over the soft flesh of my bottom lip. Even before his mouth touches mine, I know this is a kiss I will always remember.
I expect it to be awkward, punishing, or clumsy, but it’s neither of those things. How rude of him… When his lips meet mine, it awakens something deep inside of me. Something hot and lush and heady. I whimper, trying to hold back the sudden rush of need. He groans in answer. It’s impossible that he should feel so good—but he does. His lips are soft and firm, coaxing me—patiently waiting for me to decide how far it goes. He brings us to a seated position.
Abandoning his coat, I pull him in closer, parting my lips for him. The soft roll of his tongue meeting mine blurs every line I should be drawing tonight. His hand finds the small of my back, pulling me into him. I hike my dress up, straddling his thighs. The sound he makes urges me closer as his hands roam the length of my curves, deepening the kiss, and nothing has ever felt so good. I kiss him the way the heroine does after a battle—I lose the rational battle with myself. I lose myself to the moment, finding the grey and diving in.
I slide deeper into his lap, bringing our bodies flush together. “Is this okay?” I ask.
“Yes—is this?” his hands bracket my hips as he aligns our bodies.
I nod. Half a decade with my ex and a single kiss has me questioning everything I think I know about my own pleasure.
“Beautiful.” He breathes, kissing down my neck, my clavicle. “I should be punished for ruining this dress.”
His lips find mine again. I rock my hips against him, writhing and ready. But he keeps his hands on my waist. I want them everywhere. I want him…
My hand drifts down between our bodies.
“Wait—I” he abruptly pulls away
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I stiffen, “I should have asked if—”
“I do, I just—There’s something I should tell you first,” he explains.
I wait, giving him the space to speak as my blood cools. He swallows, throat bobbing. “My name is Jared,” he admits with an unreadable expression.
“I guess I should at least know your name before things go any further,” I admit, cheeks warming. I bury my face into his neck, muffling the giggle that escapes me.
“Fuck—” he groans. “No, that’s not what I mean—” He takes a deep breath and pulls away, making me meet his gaze once again. “I’m Jared—I’m the—”
“There she is!” The first voice startles me right off his lap.
“We found her.” The second one is Axal. They tuck the loose waves of their bob-length hair behind their ear, taking in the scene. My dress is skewed, and he’s all but kneeling in front of me. “Okay, project search party is over! Nothing to see here!” They say, shooing the giggling crowd away.
I hang my head, letting out a nervous laugh. “It’s not what it looks like,” I try to explain.
“Sure, it isn’t.” They say, reaching for me next to a stunned Jared. “Let’s get you out of here—looks like you’ve had enough apologizing for the night.”
“It was a pretty good apology,” I murmur low enough so that only they can hear. Axal laughs, stepping into the stairwell.
“Hold on, gimme a sec, I’ll be right there,” I say, holding the door open as Jared finally rises to his feet. Dusting himself off.
“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow? At the event, I mean.” I ask, trying not to flush. I’m cool. I can be cool about this.
“Yeah—tomorrow.” He says, eyes still heavy-lidded. He reaches over me, holding the door open.
“After you,” he ushers me in the door.
“Just let me know where to find you; gotta get you those socks back.”
“I’ll be at booth 313.”
“Right, duh!” It’s the first booth on my list. Probably on everyone’s list. I’ll finally have my chance to properly meet Jenna tomorrow.
“Bring the dress, I’ll have it cleaned.”
“That just might earn you your real reader badge,” I tease.
He walks me to an elevator I wish I knew existed when I chased him up here.
“If the crowds are too much, just reach out to the ADA team. There are plenty of ways they can accommodate you. Just ask.” I tell him.
“I’ll do that.” He says.
The elevator dings, and I’m relieved that it’s at least a metal box and not another glass one.
“You’re not getting on?”
“No, I’m going to walk down.” He answers.
“Goodnight, Jared.”
He smiles, but I swear it doesn’t meet his eyes. “Goodnight, Celeste.” The doors start to slide shut, but he slides his hand between them. “Wait, I have to know—”
“Know what,” I ask, as the doors start to shut again.
“The meet-cute—superior or not?” he rushes out.
“Who’s to say—we haven’t broken up yet,” I get out just as the elevator doors close.
Meet the Author
Divinity Rae (she/they) is a romance and fantasy indie author, multi-passionate human, professional yapper and self-proclaimed wielder of whimsy. When she’s not writing or rushing to the theater so she doesn’t miss the previews, you can find them with their face in a book, playing their switch, or doing a fun cozy craft.
Divinity writes stories action, spice, and heart that explore themes ranging from grief and love after loss to low stakes meet cutes and kisses.
Here on the newsletter you’ll find her books, author updates, personal reflections, and film and culture commentary.