Page 1 of Better Than the Movies
PROLOGUE
“I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her.”
—Notting Hill
My mother taught me the golden rule of dating before I even hit the second grade.
At the ripe age of seven, I’d snuck into her room after having a nightmare. (A house-size cricket might not sound scary, but when it speaks in a robot voice and knows your middle name, it is terrifying.)Bridget Jones’s Diarywas playing on the boxy television on top of the dresser, and I’d watched a good portion of the movie before she even noticed me at the foot of her bed. At that point, it was too late to rescue me from the so-not-first-grade-friendly content, so she snuggled up beside me, and we watched the happy ending together.
But my first-grade brain just couldn’t compute. Why would Bridget give up the cuter one—the charming one—for the person who was the equivalent of one ginormous yawn? How did that even make sense?
Yep—I’d missed the movie’s point completely and had fallen madly in love with the playboy. And to this day, I can still hear mymom’s voice and smell the vanilla of her perfume as she played with my hair and set me straight.
“Charm and intrigue can only get you so far, Libby Loo. Those things always disappear, which is why you never, ever choose the bad boy.”
After that, we shared hundreds of similar moments, exploring life together through romantic movies. It was ourthing. We’d snack-up, kick back on the pillows, and binge-watch from her collection of kiss-infused happy endings like other people binge-watched trashy reality TV.
Which, in hindsight, is probably why I’ve been waiting for the perfect romance since I was old enough to spell the word “love.”
And when she died, my mother bequeathed to me her unwavering belief in happily ever after. My inheritance was the knowledge that love is always in the air, always a possibility, and always worth it.
Mr. Right—the nice-guy, dependable version—could be waiting around the very next corner.
Which was why I was always at the ready.
It was only a matter of time beforeitfinally happened for me.
CHAPTER ONE
“Nobody finds their soul mate when they’re ten. I mean, where’s the fun in that, right?”
—Sweet Home Alabama
The day began like any typical day.
Mr. Fitzpervert left a hair ball in my slipper, I burned my earlobe with the straightener, and when I opened the door to leave for school, I caught my next-door nemesis suspiciously sprawled across the hood of my car.
“Hey!” I slid my sunglasses up my nose, pulled the front door shut behind me, and hightailed it in his direction, careful not to scuff my pretty new floral flats as I basically ranathim. “Get off of my car.”
Wes jumped down and held up his hands in the universalI’m innocentpose, even though his smirk made him look anything but. Besides, I’d known him since kindergarten; the boy had never been innocent a day in his life.
“What’s in your hand?”
“Nothing.” He put the hand in question behind his back. Even though he’d gotten tall and mannish and a tiny bit hot since grade school, Wes was still the same immature boy who’d “accidentally”burned down my mom’s rosebush with a firecracker.
“You’re so paranoid,” he said.
I stopped in front of him and squinted up at his face. Wes had one of those naughty-boy faces, the kind of face where his dark eyes—surrounded by mile-long thick lashes because life wasn’t fair—spoke volumes, even when his mouth said nothing.
An eyebrow raise told me just how ridiculous he thought I was. From our many less-than-pleasant encounters, I knew the narrowing of his eyes meant he was sizing me up, and that we were about to throw down about the most recent annoyance he’d brought upon me. And when he was bright-eyed like he was right now, his brown eyes practically freaking twinkling with mischief, I knew I was screwed. Because mischievous Wes always won.
I poked him in the chest. “What did you do to my car?”
“I didn’t do anythingtoyour car, per se.”
“Per se?”
“Whoa. Watch your filthy mouth, Buxbaum.”
