Add Latte and Stir: Deville's Greatest Hits, #4

By Rachel Abugov

When Hellie Harte faceplants in front of her long-standing crush, bassist Graham DeWitt, she expects embarrassment seasoned with a soupcon of humiliation. What she gets is something entirely different.

Graham is on the lookout for a fake girlfriend so he can convince his bandmates that he's moving on with his life. Hellie fits the bill, because she seems nice enough and gets along well with his kids. Yes, he's the king of instant relationships. Hellie needs a soft landing because she's lost her job, her apartment burned down and she's been the victim of identity theft. It could be a match made in heaven, if only Hellie has the nerve to confess that she's been stanning Graham on the internet before she's outed. And what will happen if her secret identity as RedMenace is discovered? Can their relationship survive?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rachel's Kissing Books
• Release date: Sep 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781999187132

Rachel Abugov

Hello reader! I'm Rachel Abugov and I write kissing books. Some are pure romance, some are rom-com and others are women's fiction, but they are all kissing books.   I'm a cat lady, a foodie,a feminist and a recovering standup comic. I've been reading romance since the bodice-ripping days. I hope you love Freddie and Mike as much as I do. I also hope you'll check out my other books.  Last but not least, go to my website, rachelskissingbooks.com, and sign up for my newsletter. I'll have spoilers, giveaways, exclusive content and cat memes, some with my own cats!

Book preview

Chapter 1

O

f all the bosses I ever had, Becca Zelman was the worst. You’d think a self-described hippie with rainbow-colored hair and a penchant for eating out of Mason jars wouldn’t be a cold-hearted hosebeast. You would be wrong.

In the interest of fairness, maybe my performance wasn’t quite up to scratch. It was the first time I’d ever worked in a call center, and the computer was more difficult to master than the POS terminal at the coffee shop. I could make any coffee beverage without batting an eyelash, assuming I could afford to pay for lash extensions. I even came in fourth in a latte art competition in Bushwick last year. There was no excuse for turfing me out on my first day, before I’d even had my measly half-hour break for lunch. And, by the way, it’s called lunch hour for a reason. Was it even legal to give employees a mere thirty-minute break?  I’d have to look that up.  Right after lunch.

I checked the time on my phone. Ten-twenty-eight. Shortest. Employment. Ever. Usually, I’d make it to the two-day mark before being canned, but I hadn’t even lasted two hours.  Thank goodness I had other irons in the fire. I was sure one of the interviews I’d had would turn into a concrete job offer, this time something I could ace.  Maybe I’d even have a career.  Sounds lofty, but I’ve always dreamed big, ever since I was a teen.

That’s when I discovered music, including my all-time favorite band, Deville. From the first time I heard them, I was in love with the songs. The vibe. And the band members, one in particular. I read everything about them that I could - magazine articles, fan sites, social media, you name it. From there, I started posting on fan sites and before long, I was promoted to the thankless position of moderator. Not enough power to either troll-proof or power-trip. Still, it was an honor. The message board had long since faded away, as message boards do, but I will never forget the way it felt to be part of an inner circle.

A strong case could be made for That Was Then, This Is Now, but Now wasn’t nearly as much fun as Then was.  Then, I was part of a community. We had a whole lexicon of in-jokes, to the point that we stored them in a file that all new members were asked to read. We celebrated each other’s birthdays with wild online parties complete with crazy memes and GIFs. We even had a couple of real-life get-togethers, but those weren’t nearly as satisfying because not everyone could come all the way to New York from places as far-flung as Australia, Denmark and Wales. 

It was after the message board community fell apart that I decided I needed a Real Job. I wanted to go back to school to learn a skill, maybe web design or medical records technology.  There were a few stumbling blocks. I wasn’t poor enough or smart enough to get loans and I wasn’t rich enough to be able to afford to pay the tuition on my own.

So I learned to make coffee instead.

I love coffee. Everyone loves coffee. That’s why the major chain I worked for had two or even three branches on certain blocks.  I had regular customers who tipped generously, and I participated in some of the fun traditions, like messing up people's names.  Tiphaneigh ended up posting her cup on Facebook, and it got a lot of hits.  Stephanie (her real name) was tickled pink. So was I.

But there’s a limit to the number of lattes you can make without wanting to try something new. I figured that working as a customer service rep for a company that made coffee machines would absolutely be in my wheelhouse. I wouldn’t be on my feet all the time, my steam burns from the equipment would have a chance to heal and I knew so much about coffee anyway that this would be a no-brainer. Not so much, apparently.  Damn computer. I’d never mastered the custom call center software, which was a variation on the software that everyone else in the room had used in every oppressive call center job they’d ever done and complained about. I was the outlier, and now I was the outsider.

I took a minute to reapply my lipstick before leaving the security of the lobby of the office building to re-enter the job-hunting market. There were a few people milling around the lobby - a contingent of couriers with messenger bags and a few food delivery dudes, with insulated bags containing burgers, sushi or even smoothie bowls. A couple with two young girls were looking around the lobby, and I assumed that they were waiting for someone who was running late. The older girl was upset, and the woman was trying to console her.  The kid wouldn’t stop sniveling.

I watched them with barely masked fascination until the elevator from the 45th floor emptied itself of its contents. More people to gawk at! Huzzah!

A tall guy came off the elevator, surrounded by a bunch of sycophantic office workers who clearly knew that he was the boss and were ready to kiss his ring. I glanced at his hands, but he was ringless. His fingers were long, though. Musician’s fingers. He was dressed in various shades of black with crazy electroshock hair held in place with a black bandanna. Even the high-end baby carriage he was pushing was jet black. Was it him? No way. I was probably hallucinating due to the stress of it all. This was just another garden-variety businessman pushing a baby carriage. Happened all the time.

One of the fawning drones was none other than my former boss, Becca Zelman.  She was trying to argue with Baby Carriage Man that she’d run call centers across the globe so she knew her stuff. Her voice was getting higher and higher, and I wondered if it would reach a frequency that only dogs could hear.  That’s a thing, apparently.

Baby Carriage Man was scanning the lobby, looking for someone. Wouldn’t it be funny if he was somehow connected to Sniveling Girl?  I wasn’t surprised when she broke away from her guardians and ran over, crying, Daddy! Daddy! I was scared that you were never coming back!

Daddy! Daddy! waved at the people who’d been taking care of his daughter, picked her up and wiped her tears away with the corner of his t-shirt. As the couple with the younger girl came over, I realized with a sinking feeling that I wasn’t hallucinating. I was in the presence of half of the members of my favorite band-slash-obsession. Graham DeWitt was the father of the crying girl, Clover Lee Hunter was the mom of the other kid, and me? I was gobsmacked.

The stress, the indignity of losing my job, the fact that I’d run into my heroes - it was more than I could take. I sat down on the marble bench next to the water fountain, hoping the sound of the trickling water would drown out my sniveling.  I was not only sniveling, I was snuffling and gulping and ignoring the fact that a) I was in public and b) the people I’d stanned for so many years were standing in the same lobby as me. Given this tremendous opportunity, I couldn’t even muster an anemic Hi and a neighborly wave. How sad was that?

Crap on a cracker. I had enough sense not to say it out loud because there were impressionable little children within hearing distance and I didn’t want to come across looking like a potty mouth, but you bet I was thinking it.  The only way that I could make things worse would be to trip on thin air as I walked away, making a total fool of myself.  So that’s exactly what I did. I went down with a SPLAT and a few overripe expletives. My lunch bag splatted as loudly as I had, and my phone skittered across the lobby, landing right at the toe of Graham DeWitt’s slightly scuffed boots. Among the people who rushed to help me up were Becca (my former boss) and Graham (my not-so-former crush).

Are you okay?  That was Becca, she of the rainbow hair and hardnosed attitude.  I’m really sorry about what happened, but seriously, you should follow your passion. This job isn’t for everyone.  She gave me a reassuring pat on the shoulder, unintentionally connecting with one of the places I’d landed on. At least, I assume it was unintentional.

Graham DeWitt handed me my phone. Here ya go. It doesn’t look like the glass cracked, he said, inspecting it with a practiced eye. That’s a good thing. My daughter used to use my phone to play the Gravity Game.  I think she trashed three, maybe four phones in the name of science. Nice phone case, by the way.  He smiled. At the phone case. Not at me. What did I expect? It was Deville’s third album cover, and in case you hadn’t guessed, I chose the model of my phone to go with the merch.

I was on my feet, slightly shaken up, and ready to make the most graceful exit possible when the occupant of the baby carriage started wailing like they were auditioning for Deville. 

Oh, noes! Looks like you’ve got a hungwy widdle dude, said Clover in a high-pitched sing-song, as Graham dug into his diaper bag and found a bottle. Giving it a shake, he shoved it into his jacket pocket and reached into the carriage with both hands to extricate the hungwy widdle dude.

I’d never seen a baby dressed completely in black. He matched his father garment for tiny garment, minus the bandanna. The infant was clearly distressed, wringing his hands in despair, which was something I’d also never seen. My instincts, such as they were, kicked in. I reached out my arms and said, Come here, little fella. Help is on the way.  I sat down on the bench, and to my surprise, Graham dropped the baby in my arms. I’d like to say that the baby calmed down instantly. He didn’t. Instead, he wailed even louder, and only stopped crying when he realized he was in the presence of a female, and therefore, he was also in the presence of boobies. He started sniffing and rooting around, looking for something to latch onto.  The baby reached for the bottle, Graham handed it to me with a confused look, probably wondering why his role as parent was being usurped. I realized I didn’t know the baby’s name, so I decided to just call him The Baby. On cue, The Baby started sucking noisily, efficiently draining the contents of the bottle before emitting a small burp and wringing his hands again.  All gone, I said, not knowing what else to say.  Is this an all-you-can-eat deal?

Another bottle magically appeared, and The Baby’s rhythm slowed down, to the point that he was starting to fall asleep after only two ounces, a bubble of milk on his lips.  Somebody was vewwy hungwy, wasn’t he? cooed Clover.  She pulled an organic fruit bar out of her pocket, unwrapped it and gave it to her daughter.  Here, AJ, my love. Share this with Daddy. You know how he gets when he’s hangry, she said, kissing her little girl.

The older girl was sidelined. Nobody was giving her any food, or any attention, for that matter. I handed The Baby back to his father, who nestled him in the carriage and tucked him in. I patted the seat next to me and motioned to the little girl to sit down. This may be the most uncomfortable bench in the history of benches, I said. What do you think?

My tushie’s cold, she replied.  She was wearing a tutu and high-top sneakers. So was the other girl.

Did you just come from ballet class?  Yes, I was desperate enough to make conversation with a small child. That was much better than trying to explain to a bunch of people who had it all together why I’d been crying in the lobby of a Manhattan office tower.

No, said the kid, saving her words for someone she actually knew. She was too old to be a toddler and too young to be a tween. Was there even a term for that? At least I had half a chance of learning her name, because she was verbal.

Regardless of the fact that she could speak, she wasn’t a chatty soul at that moment and our conversation was dragging. Time to try a compliment or two.

You choose your own clothes, I bet.

She nodded enthusiastically.  Daddy lets me wear whatever I want.

On cue, Daddy shook his head and I got to witness how his hair moved, live and in person. He had the sides shaved and the top was piled high like a rooster’s comb, assuming the rooster was a bassist in a rock band.  We’d made a million jokes about his hair on the message boards.

We should take off, said Clover after a long moment.  I’m sure you have better things to do.

No biggie, I said.  I was just going home, apply for a couple of jobs and answer a few emails.

Clover looked like she’d had the best idea ever. You need a job? Becca! Why don’t you give her a job in your call center? 

The look of abject panic on my face registered, at least with Graham.  He’d seen his son wringing his tiny baby hands in distress. Now it was my turn.  I grabbed my purse and the plastic bag that had originally held my fruit salad and yogurt. The cup holding the fruit had opened and half of it was in the bottom of the bag. The rest, of course, was scattered throughout the lobby, smeared under the heels of people who, unlike yours truly, had some place to be.

Oh, this lovely lady’s not job-hunting today, said Graham. I could hear his wheels spinning. If he was gonna offer me a job as a nanny, I would have no choice but to decline. I didn’t have the basic qualifications, despite the babysitting course I’d taken in high school. I’d gotten a D, and they were being generous because I’d tried so hard. 

Graham smiled. Sort of. I couldn’t quite decipher the expression on his face. One of his nicknames was Tall, Dark and Brooding, but this was more of a calculating face than a brooding one.

Remember how you’ve been telling me that I gotta put myself out there and start dating again? Well, Cloe, I took your advice and went online, and this lovely lady is my new friend. Why don’t you introduce yourself, darlin’?

Oh, no. He was calling me darlin’ because he didn’t know my name.  I was expected to play the role of adoring new girlfriend. Seriously? There were terms for this. Not very nice ones, either. But this moment of awkwardness could only last about a minute, then Clover and her husband would go their way, Graham and his unnamed kids would go their way and I’d go mine. Years from now, I’d tell my grandkids about the time I met half of Deville, and they’d go, Who?  We’d all laugh.  Ha ha ha.

Hi, Graham’s New Friend. I’m Clover. My friends call me Cloe. This is my husband Ty, and this is our daughter Autumn Joy. Everybody calls her AJ. Of course, you know Gray and the kids.

Handshakes all around.  Smiles. And for one brief moment, there was no angst, infantile or otherwise.

I suppressed a sniffle.  I’m Hellie Harte. Helena, actually. But everyone calls me Hellie. 

That’s a very funny name. It sounds like a bad word, observed Tutu Girl. Am I allowed to say it, Daddy?

Yes, of course, said Graham. You’ll have to excuse Bowie, Hellie. Saying my name made me not hate it, at least not in that moment. Bowie’s very literal-minded.  Everything’s black-and-white with her.  I hope The Baby is better at determining shades of gray.

Oh, no. Maybe his real name was The Baby. Celebrities and baby names...

I’m sure The Baby will pick up on subtle nuances like a champ, said Becca, heading towards the elevator. Hellie, sweetie, call me when you have your online store up and running. I’d love to see those fabulous hand-dyed napkins of yours.

Sure, I said. I didn’t remember telling anyone about my fabulous hand-dyed napkins. Mainly because I’d never done anything more artistic than random, unintentional ketchup stains. There was a reason why I didn’t own any white shirts.

We should go, guys, said Graham. He was unfolding a little platform-thingie on the bottom of the carriage, so Bowie could stand and ride if she was too tired to walk. Very clever. Too bad they didn’t make one for adults, because I was still dinged from my faceplant. 

Heyyyy. Who wants tacos for lunch? Graham was obviously trying to rally the troops and his fake enthusiasm went right over Ty and Clover’s head. But I was sure The Baby had noticed the nuances, as unsubtle as they were.  He was ready to move on to the next adventure, in this case, Taco Tuesday.

After a round of goodbyes and Pleased to meet you, Hellie. We’ll get together soon comments as well as an unexpected hug from little AJ, Ty and Cloe left. Graham and I were hovering over the baby carriage in case there was another round of distress from The Baby. 

Well. This has been... interesting, I said, reaching into my pocketbook for my Metrocard.

You’re taking off, Hellie? I thought you were gonna join us.  Don’t you like tacos?

Yeah, I like ‘em. But I can’t really justify spending money when I have a delicious lunch right here. I pointed to the fruit remnants and the yogurt, which had leaked into the bag.

Aww, hell naw. You’re not gonna eat that, said Graham, looking into the bag and shaking his head.  Bowie, can you run to that trash can over there?  Take Hellie’s bag. She won’t be needing it. She sprinted to the trash bin and skipped back.

Good job, Bowie, he said enthusiastically, hugging his daughter. His hair bounced as he leaned over. So did Bowie’s. I see a basketball career in your future, Ms. DeWitt. So now you have no food, if you could call it that. It would be my pleasure to treat you to lunch.

What? You’re used to getting whatever you want, so you think you can buy me with an order of tacos?

Who said it had to be tacos? You can have a burrito or a quesadilla. And how can you say no to churros? They give you a little pot of melted chocolate-hazelnut spread to dip ‘em into. For the record, I didn’t buy you. I bought a call center. And I’ll be buying you lunch to thank you for helping me save face in front of Ty and Cloe. I know Bowie would love you to come along. She really likes you. So does Banner. C’mon, Hellie. It’s just lunch.

Okay. You know that amazing feeling when your longtime crush says your name?  That melty feeling just like the cheese in a quesadilla? I’d need a different name to really experience it. Because Hellie? It’s not such a wonderful name. The only thing that’s worse is my full name, which usually gets paired with Handbasket. 

No. That’s not true.