Page 20 of Not Exactly a Small-Town Romance

I can neither bake nor write articles.

Alternatively, I should be coming home to save the family business or as a celebrity in disgrace.

Neither of those applies, either.

Nobody writes movies starring assistant casting directors. The closest thing to my situation isThe Devil Wears Prada.

Mine would beThe Demon Casts Chick Flicks.

Since I won’t be baking cupcakes or raising money for a failing farm, I’ll have to double down on the meet-cute. There’s no other way.

The plan comes to me.

First, stop in the coffee shop of every appropriate town I encounter.

Second, wait for my future husband to walk in.

Third, rush toward him, trip, and spill my coffee.

I’ll be careful. Iced coffee only to avoid burns. Angle the splash so I won’t ruin anything fancy. In fact, I’ll get most of the coffee on myself, and only a dribble on him. That way, if he isn’t offering to clean me up, I can offer to clean him up.

Yes! That’s a standard opening beat of every romance. The pair gets in close, wiping up the mess.

Proximity is important.

Then their eyes meet.

It will work.

Italwaysworks.

I tap my phone to bring up Google Maps. I need a small town and a coffee shop. How wild would it be to have a success on the first day? The very idea brings me out of my funk.

I approach my first tiny town a half hour later. I could have easily bypassed it on the freeway, but I changed the route to follow a small highway that bisects the community. Main Street is adorable, with stonestorefronts boasting a hardware store, a beauty parlor, and YES, a coffee shop!

It’s called Good Brew.

I mean, how perfect.

I park a block away so that my car won’t be too close if my new man and I get a chance to walk awhile after the big spill. We’ll need time to establish that we want to see each other again.

I check the rearview mirror, fixing a smudge in my eyeliner. More lip gloss. He needs to think about kissing me, even though that’s not allowed for a while. I think we need to have an interrupted kiss before we can do the real thing.

Oh, this is exciting!

Will he wear flannel?

Be a little older? My age? Have a beard?

I’m open to anything. They’ll all be different from the hot messes I’ve dated in LA.

I peel myself off the seat, which has adhered itself to my thighs in the car.

As I walk the block, I realize flannel will not be a thing. It’s sweltering today, and we’re in the middle of the desert, only a couple of hours outside Vegas.

I don’t see a soul as I take my time looking over the storefronts. I can picture the scene as it would be filmed by a camera on a dolly on the opposite side of the street.

EXT. A SMALL-TOWN MAIN STREET—DAY

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