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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Helena Hunting

  Cover design by Elizabeth Turner Stokes

  Cover illustration by Monika Roe

  Cover copyright © 2019 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

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  First ebook edition: April 2019

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Hunting, Helena, author.

  Title: Meet cute / Helena Hunting.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Forever, 2019.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018044736| ISBN 9781538760185 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781549121944 (audio download) | ISBN 9781538760178 (ebook)

  Subjects: | GSAFD: Love stories. | Legal stories.

  Classification: LCC PS3608.U594966 M44 2019 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018044736

  E3-20190215-DA

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue: Fangirl Down

  Chapter One: Blast from the Past

  Chapter Two: Orphans

  Chapter Three: Numb

  Chapter Four: Fangirl Resurrected

  Chapter Five: Life Repackaged

  Chapter Six: Flip-Flop

  Chapter Seven: The Middle Woman

  Chapter Eight: Aunt Flow Woes

  Chapter Nine: Dinner Date Interruptions

  Chapter Ten: Tamponology 101

  Chapter Eleven: Firsts

  Chapter Twelve: Post-Kiss Favors

  Chapter Thirteen: Dinner Date for Three

  Chapter Fourteen: Girl Time

  Chapter Fifteen: Just Dance

  Chapter Sixteen: Tread Lightly

  Chapter Seventeen: Little Lies

  Chapter Eighteen: The Birds and the Bees

  Chapter Nineteen: Dinner Date Disaster

  Chapter Twenty: I Hate You

  Chapter Twenty-One: We All Fall

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Down, Down, Down

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Bad Judgment

  Chapter Twenty-Four: The Pieces

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Forgiveness

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Amends

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Just Desserts

  Epilogue: Number 1 Fangirl

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Helena Hunting

  Advance Praise for Meet Cute

  Newsletters

  For every brother who’s ever gone a

  round for his sister

  Prologue

  Fangirl Down

  Kailyn

  Eight Years Ago

  The key to success is to visualize it.” The soothing voice commands my attention, mostly because I’m wearing earbuds and it blocks everything else out. I resist the urge to check my schedule again—I know exactly where my class is since I walked the route yesterday and focus on the podcast. It’s my first day of law school and I’m determined to go in with a clear mind. “Close your eyes and visualize what your success looks like. Visualize success.”

  “Visualize success,” I murmur, and close my eyes as I cut across the open field. It’s a shortcut and also a place where students hang out between classes.

  “Exhale your anxiety,” the motivational podcast woman exhales into my ear. “And breathe in success.” Podcast Woman sucks in a windy breath.

  “Inhale success.” The fresh scent of grass and trees tickles my nose, and I think maybe someone nearby might be wearing cologne, because I get a whiff of that, too.

  I crack a lid, just to make sure I’m not wandering off course.

  “What does your success look like? Visualize that success. Say it with me…”

  I close my eyes and repeat it, visualizing finals and graduation and getting the best possible internships, having the best average in the class, getting the best job. I repeat the mantra as I continue across the open green space, more and more excited for my first class. I’m going to kick all the asses this year. I’m going to beat every single one of my classmates and climb my way to the very top. Like Mount Everest, except not terrifyingly dangerous.

  I’m in the middle of visualizing winning my first case when I’m startled by a loud shout. I open my eyes to find a Frisbee hurtling toward me. Worse than the Frisbee, though, is the huge guy jumping to catch it—the air he gets is rather extraordinary—unfortunately, it’s sending him on a collision course, and I’m the object he’s due to hit.

  My knapsack slips from my shoulder, and I trip over it as I try to avoid either the Frisbee or the guy. The mantra in my ears silences as the headphones pull free.

  “Watch out!” someone yells.

  I spin around, disoriented, and am slammed into by the guy with the amazing vertical.

  “Oh shit!” he yells.

  I grab on to his shoulders as I stumble over my stupid knapsack and pull him down with me. We land on the ground with an oomph. I’m still gripping his shirt, trying to figure out how this happened, and thinking about how much this is not how I visualize success at all.

  “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” He braces himself on his forearms, pretty much doing a push-up on top of me. I’d be impressed if I wasn’t so embarrassed.

  “I’d be a lot better if people watched where they were going,” I mutter as I try to extract my limbs from his without doing any damage to either of us. He’s straddling my leg, so any sudden movements and my knee and his man parts will meet in an unfriendly way. I note that he smells like fresh laundry, deodorant, and a hint of cologne, accented by watermelon gum.

  His face is only about six inches from mine, so his frown is up close and rather personal. “You walked through the middle of our game.”

  I glance toward the group of Frisbee players, realizing he’s right. I was so busy visualizing my own success that I totally screwed up their game.

  “I’m so sorry. I was listening to a podca—” I look back up at him, and my explanation gets stuck in my throat when I stop to really take him in.

  I recognize his face as one I’ve had endless fantasies about all through my teen years. And into my adult ones. As recently as last week, even.

  His slightly annoyed expression shifts into amusement as I stare up at him, slack jawed. I’m still fisting his shirt. He’s still doing a push-up on top of me. Daxton Hughes’s thigh is between my legs.

  “Holy crap!” My voice is too high and far too loud, especially considering my face is less than six inches fr
om his. In fact, it’s a full-on shriek. As if I’m an eleven-year-old girl again. “You’re Daxton Hughes! I love you!” I take him totally off guard when I throw my arms around him, setting him off balance so that he lands on top of me. He’s remarkably heavy, but I don’t care because our bodies are flush against each other. I will never forget this moment for as long as I live. Daxton Hughes is lying on top of me! Too bad we’re not at the beach and both in bathing suits. Or in bed. Naked.

  I’m still hugging him as he drags me up into a sitting position. It’s super awkward with the way we both have a knee perilously close to each other’s crotch. I also register how stiff he is, and exactly what I’ve just said and what I’m currently doing. We’re in the middle of an open expanse of field, and there are people everywhere.

  Horrified, I release him and crabwalk backward, almost kneeing him in the man jewels. I clamber to my feet, taking a step back as he pushes up, rising to his full height. My God he’s tall, taller than I expected, and broad. But I suppose he’s grown into his body since he starred in my favorite TV show. My hands are flapping. Why are my hands flapping? I need to make my body stop doing weird things, but I’m out of control and my nervousness takes over, sending me careening into the land of insanely embarrassing behavior. There are too many witnesses.

  His blue-green eyes, the color of a tropical ocean, are wide, and that momentary gorgeous smile falters. Which I understand, because I’m being that girl. I am never that girl. Except in this moment.

  I gain semicontrol of my hands, toning down the flap to an uncoordinated wave of dismissal, in an attempt to erase those last words. But it’s too late to take them back. I also seem unable to do anything apart from spew embarrassing, nonsensical word vomit all over him. “I mean, I loved your show. Like, so much. It was my favorite, like, ever. I watched it every Tuesday night for years. All through junior high and then by high school they had these It’s My Life weekend marathons and me and my girlfriends would have sleepovers and stay up all night. You were amazing as Dustin. I think season three was my favorite, or maybe season four. Oh my God. I can’t believe you’re standing here. I can’t believe I’m meeting you.” I can’t believe my mouth keeps running.

  With every overly loud admission, his jaw tics. I can’t tell if he’s embarrassed or irritated. Probably both. I wish someone would club me over the head and knock me out so I could stop this train wreck. I’m 100 percent starstruck, and even though I know I’m making an absolute fool out of myself, I’m unable to stop.

  “Can I get your autograph? Maybe you can sign my schedule. Or my map. Oh! You can sign me!” I pick my knapsack up, along with my phone and earbuds, shoving those into my jeans pocket. I jam my hand in the front pocket of my knapsack, grasping for any kind of writing implement. I come up with a fistful of options, including a hot-pink highlighter. “Do you think this color will show up on my arm? Oh! How about my shirt? I mean, the pink doesn’t really match but whatevs, right?”

  He covers my hand with his. He’s touching me again. On purpose! His eyes dart around, and he leans in close. “I’ll sign anything you want, but as much as I love your enthusiasm, and I really do, I’m trying to go under the radar, and you’ve got some cheerleader lungs on you.” His voice is much lower than mine, and I realize it’s an attempt to get me to quiet down.

  I cover my mouth with my palm. “Right. Sorry. Oh my God. I’m so sorry. This is so embarrassing. I just…you have no idea. Or you probably do. I didn’t think you’d be so tall. And you’re even better looking up close. I always thought you must wear contacts. Your eyes are so pretty.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “I really need to shut up.”

  He chuckles. “Your eyes are pretty, too.”

  I crack a lid, and he gives me a lopsided smile as he plucks a Sharpie from my hand and scribbles on my knapsack. I’m never throwing it out, ever.

  “Hughes, we gotta roll out,” someone calls.

  He holds up a finger, then caps the Sharpie and passes it back. “I gotta get to class, but maybe I’ll see you around.” He winks and turns away, breaking into a jog as he catches a bag from one of his friends.

  “I just met Daxton Hughes and he told me I have pretty eyes,” I say as I continue across the quad. A couple of girls sitting under a tree give me a weird look, but I don’t care. This is the best first day of law school ever. Embarrassment hits as I make a quick stop in the bathroom to prevent hyperventilating due to excessive excitement. I fangirled so hard, and he was so nice. And he touched me.

  I always imagined that if I met one of my favorite celebrities, I’d act cool, be all casual about it, treat them like a regular person. Obviously I was very wrong about that.

  I spend too much time in the bathroom making sure I look half-decent, and I’m forced to speed walk all the way to my building. By the time I arrive I have only two minutes to spare. So much for getting a good seat. It’s fine. Visualize success.

  I enter the lecture hall through the back door, so I don’t have to pass the professor on my way in. I’m sweaty and disheveled as I scan the room. Only a few empty seats remain. I murmur excuse me as I shimmy down the aisle, forcing people to move their feet and bags. As I close in on the open seat, I approach a set of outstretched legs and mutter another excuse me. I’m so high on the awesomeness of my morning that I don’t see the messenger bag strap. I trip again, and end up sprawled over the set of legs.

  “What the fu—” A takeout cup lands on the floor, and coffee splatters my face and shirt, a puddle forming under the seat I planned to take.

  I struggle to right myself without putting my hand in the puddle of coffee. “Oh my God, I’m so sor—” For the second time in the past twenty minutes, I look up into familiar eyes. “This is like that episode from season two!” I’m careful to keep my voice down this time.

  Daxton smirks, maybe remembering the episode I’m referring to. The one where the girl trips and falls into his lap and then they end up dating for the next three seasons.

  Before he can say anything, the guy beside him pipes up. “Jesus, Hughes, can’t take you anywhere without some fangirl throwing herself at you, can we?”

  They all burst into laughter, but Daxton rolls his eyes. “Don’t be a dick, McQueen, and move your damn bag. It’s your fault she tripped.”

  He rearranges his legs and helps me right myself. I drop into the empty one beside him, throat tight and cheeks heating with embarrassment thanks to his friend’s comments. It’s too late to find another seat, and I’ve already drawn enough attention. People are staring and snickering. I have to adjust my feet and keep my knapsack in my lap so I don’t step in the spilled coffee. I’m so glad my hair is down today, because my face is on fire.

  “Should we put bets on how many restraining orders you’re going to have to file this year?” one of his friends asks loudly.

  My stomach twists and my skin feels hot and damp. My eyes threaten to water, so I dig my nails into my palms. The incident in the quad was one thing, but now there are all these eyes I can’t escape for the next hour.

  Thankfully, the professor calls the class to order, and the snickering beside me quiets. At the end of class I keep my eyes on my bag as I shove my books back inside. A folded piece of paper drops onto my desk.

  “See ya next week.” Daxton gives me a half grin and shoulders his knapsack, following his friends down the aisle.

  I wait until they’re gone before I flip it open.

  Exactly like season two ;)

  Like a love-struck idiot, I carry that note around with me for the rest of the year and then tuck it away in my underwear drawer for safekeeping. Every time he says hello to me I practically swoon. When he arrives to class after me he sits behind me, and he smiles when he passes me on campus. And when the mock trials start up in class, we’re always against each other. It feels a lot like flirting.

  But when it comes down to it, regardless of how friendly the competition seems, we’re all looking out for ourselves. So in our final year of law schoo
l when I go to him for help, I shouldn’t be surprised that he screws me over so he can have the thing I worked so hard for.

  Fat lot of good all the visualizing success does for me in the end.

  Chapter One

  Blast from the Past

  Kailyn

  Present Day

  The problem with temp assistants is that they don’t know the rules. Such as rule number one: Take down the name of the client before you book them an appointment. My regular assistant, Cara, is on vacation and I miss her so much right now. The only thing I know about my mystery client is that they’re a couple looking to set up a trust for their daughter. Pretty freaking broad. And I have zero time to call for details because they’ll be here any minute.

  My mug is halfway to my mouth when my temp assistant throws my door open. “Your next client is here!”

  Half a second later she’s ushering in a couple who look to be in their mid- to late fifties. A few steps behind them is a much younger man. A man I recognize.

  The same man whose teenage self is forever immortalized on my It’s My Life mug. The mug isn’t particularly flattering, boasting an image of Daxton sobbing with the hashtag #mondayforever stamped under his tear-stained face.

  I almost lose my grip on the mug. As it is, the liquid sloshes over the side and runs down my hand. Thankfully, it’s just water—yes, I drink it out of a mug. I like cups with handles. I rush to set the mug on my desk and wipe my wet hands on my skirt.

  I guess my clients are no longer a mystery. “Mr. and Mrs. Hughes, it’s so lovely to meet you!” Shit. My voice is so pitchy.

  I shake their hands as they introduce themselves as Craig and Evelyn, and then turn to Daxton, who’s only half paying attention since he has a phone in his hand and he’s clicking away on it. Probably plotting to take down another friend.

  He’s still ridiculously gorgeous, possibly even better looking than he was five years ago. He’s filled out, the lankiness of his twenties giving way to a physique I’m sure he spends many hours a week staring at in a mirror while he lifts weights.