Page 3 of The Heart Shot
“I don’t want to marry you, Ben.”
His mouth gaped like a fish, as if he couldn’t fathom that someone could feel that way about him. He finally removed his bony fingers from my wrist.
“You’re making the biggest mistake of your life, Els. You’ll never find anyone better than me.”
I huffed out an unamused laugh, shaking my head, then looked Ben dead in the eye. “I don’t want anyone better.” I turned my back on my almost-fiancé, calling over my shoulder, “I don’t want anyone at all.”
Elsie
Four Years Later
Thisis the most ridiculous thing I have ever read.
A headache hammered against my skull as I sat at the peninsula in my kitchen, working on a blog article. If the article wasn’t for a popular lifestyle website, I probably would have considered turning the job down. This particular writing gig was not my first choice, but I had bills to pay and the potential exposure from this website could be huge. That was the unfortunate part of being a freelance writer—I had to write what people hired me to write, even if I hated the content.
While the article was technically based on a true story, I could only see it as a work of fiction. This type of stuff didn’t happen anywhere but in romance novels.
I sighed for the millionth time. This website was paying me far too much for me to do a subpar job, though, so I was going to grin and bear it by forcing my annoyance, irritation, and skepticism into a tight little box. Maybe those feelings would suffocate.
I rubbed at my forehead, staring at the first paragraph my fingers had rebelled against typing.
I mean, who wanted to read an article written about an unlikely meet cute between two strangers who fall in love at first sight? It wasridiculous. Those types of scenarios didn’t happen in real life. It was probably a one-in-a-bajillion chance. And yes, bajillion was absolutely a real number.
If there was one thing I had learned in life, it was that love wasn’t real. It was a nice notion in books, but in real life? Not a chance. These people I was writing about were delusional. Their supposed love-at-first-sight would end eventually, and then this article really would be a work of fiction.
If it wasmystory, the article wouldn’t end with the characters getting together. It would end with them seeing reason—that love was nothing more than a cruel illusion—then they would go their separate ways, living happily ever afteralone.
The blinking cursor taunted me as I stared at the screen. I let out a long breath.
Come on, Elsie. Just write the dang thing so you can get paid. You don’t have to believe everything you write.
Something soft brushed against my arm, immediately soothing the jagged edges of anxiety pricking through my stomach. My cat, Rhys, whom I had named after my favorite fictional character, rubbed his body along my arm and shoulder, his soft purring calming me.
“You’re the only man I need, Rhys,” I murmured, giving his head a scratch. “At least I know that cat love is real.” All it took was a little feeding and brushing and he would love me forever. Could I say the same thing about a man? Absolutely not.
A small meow was his only response before he jumped off my lap and scurried up the cat tree in the corner. My eyes tracked him across the room before scanning my little bungalow. It was cozy, yes, but also empty. As much as I didn’t believe in love anymore, I couldn’t deny that living alone was not my cup of tea.
I hated coming home to an empty house, but I wasn’t willing to do anything to change it. Nor would Iriskchanging it. There were other ways to feel less lonely than being in a relationship with a man. Namely, my cat, Rhys. Who needed people when you had a cat?
Slamming my laptop shut, I shoved it into my backpack and headed for the door. While I was an introvert and preferred being by myself, sometimes the silence of my house was suffocating, and I needed to get away for a while. I grabbed the keys from the bowl next to the door and stepped out into the warm, fall day, repeatingI don’t need a manto myselfthe whole drive to the local coffee shop, where I would force myself to finish that blasted article once and for all.
“I’m sorry, you want me to do what?” I shoved the rest of the giant pretzel that served as dinner into my mouth, tossing the wrapper into a nearby trash can.
“Oh, don’t freak out, Elsie,” my best friend, Maya, said, arching a perfect brow at my outburst. “It’s just a photoshoot.”
I zoomed through the mall at what felt like supersonic speed to get away from Maya’s begging, wishing I hadn’t agreed to meet her as a way of procrastinating finishing that article.
“Elsie, slow down,” Maya called, her tennis shoes squeaking on the tile floor as she struggled to catch up.
“I would hardly call this ‘just a photoshoot,’” I snapped as my own sneakers squealed to a halt.
Maya rolled her eyes, putting her hands on her hips. “Honestly, Els, if I had another option I would take it, but I needthisphotoshoot, and you’re the only person I can ask.”
And by that, she meant I was her only single friend who could participate in such a shoot—one where I’d have to pretend to be in love with a stranger. On camera.
“It’s just for an hour. Then you never have to see the guy again,” she added as I rubbed my forehead, secretly hoping there was a chocolate store somewhere nearby where I could drown my sorrows.
I cursed the day when Maya decided to take photography classes at the local community college four months ago. She always loved taking photos, but a couple years ago she made the decision to turn her photography hobby into a career. Unfortunately, it was hard to grow a successful business in little Meridel, Iowa, a small town on the western edge of the state. Maya hoped the class would increase both her connections in the photography world and skills, which would open more doors for her.
