Page 15 of How to Write a Rom-Com

“Be right back with that,” he says over his shoulder.

The lunch crowd is made up of a diverse group. I’d expected Hudson Hollow to be an old-folk town, but to my surprise, it’s not. The booth lining the opposite wall is lined with middle-aged women, some younger with kids, and some older. A couple of men in dress pants appear to be on their lunch break at the end of the bar, and a few teenagers are giggling in the corner. All in all, Hudson Hollow seems like a smaller version of the suburban town I grew up in, only with much bigger houses, and much more space in between them.

It’s certainly charming, I have to give it that. The matching brick storefronts, and the pristine asphalt streets lined with clean white sidewalks—it is reminiscent of a coastal town in Montauk or the Jersey Shore. Everything is a small business, and I’m sure the owner of each store on this strip has an interesting backstory. I can’t wait to explore each and every one.

I pull out my notebook and sketch out a map of Hudson Hollow as I know it so far. I can’t help but smile as I draw the lake, like I’m drawing my own version of the Hundred Acre Wood. I barely notice when Liam slides a plate across the bar at me until he subtly clears his throat.

“Thank you,” I mumble, quickly snapping my notebook shut.

“You know they have maps on the internet now? You probably even have one on that rectangular electronic device you have there,” he says sarcastically, motioning to my phone.

When I look up, he lifts the side of his mouth up in a sideways smile. Yep, that was my heart dropping to my stomach for a moment. Holy moly, those dimples.

“Ingenious,” I mutter, pursing my lips at him.

“Are you an artist or something?” I can sense a tone of skepticism in Liam’s voice. I don’t know him, so I don’t know how he acts around new people, but he seems wary of me. Maybe he’s just slow to warm to people.

I clear my throat so I can quickly think of an excuse for why I was just drawing a map of the town like a creeper. “No, just a creative mind.”Now change the subject. I crane my neck. “You need a bigger place; it’s packed in here. Is it like this every day?”

“Not always. But it was a three-day weekend, so we have a higher volume of people passing through.”

“Makes sense,” I say, nodding. I swirl around in my chair, watching him stack some empty plates on the bar. “Have you always lived here?” I ask. Divulge your information, Liam Miller. I need to know more about the contemplative thoughts that make your brows furrow so. If you are going to look like the perfect small-town hero, at least give me something to work with, man.

He puts the plates down and leans against the back of the bar. “Yep. Born and raised. I went downstate for college, to the CIA.”

“The CIA?”

“Culinary Institute of America,” he explains.

“Oh, so you’re like a serious chef?” I say, and immediately regret it. I silently kick myself. “Not to say there are non-serious chefs. I just mean—”

“That maybe you should think before you speak?” he finishes, tilting his head. My cheeks flush under his knowing gaze. Maybe my comment about small townsdidbother him yesterday.

“Exactly,” I say, hiding my face behind my hands. I’m not equipped to handle undercover work. I amnotcool, calm, and collected. I am flustered, neurotic, and flaky. Elle would be so much better at this.

“So, what is it exactly you do? Apart from insulting everyone you meet, that is,” he asks. He does his best to hide a smirk.

“I’m in publishing,” I say, shrugging, hoping to move the conversation along. When he just blinks, I add, “I’m a book editor.”

“Cool. What sort of books do you edit?”

I'm not ashamed of what I do, but I don't always like to admit what kind of books I work on. There's a taboo around romance books that I wish didn't exist, and people really don't understand how important they are to the industry as a whole, and to our readers. Once, a guy I went on a date with assumed that I edited porn books for a living. That was a fun dinner.

But maybe Liam is different. Maybe I should let him draw his own conclusions.

“Romance books,” I say confidently. Let him form his own opinion about it. Let him make a joke. Maybe I don’t care what people think.

“Ah, like the Hallmark movies?” he asks, not a line of expression on his face.

“Kind of,” I say, surprised. “You know about those?” Not to stereotype, but in my history with buff, good-looking guys, I haven’t come across one who knows a thing about Hallmark movies.

“They wanted to film one here once. I talked to one of the director’s assistants,” he says, trying to hide the smile on his lips.

“Talked to?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.

“Okay, maybe more than talked to,” he admits with a shrug.

“Does that mean you don’t have a small-town high school sweetheart like the plot of every great Hallmark movie?” Liam grunts in reply.

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