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I wrote to you last year about my hopeless crush on my neighbor, and how I was drowning in all that unrequited love. And don’t worry, you gave me great advice—advice that brought me my husband.
He wanted me too, Hattie. All that time; all those years. But he was worried about the age gap and stubborn and so determined to do right by me that we nearly missed our chance altogether.
Kind of funny, right? I can laugh about it now.
It’s so much easier to see that funny side when I finally know, right down to the bottom of my soul, that this is it. We’re settled. We’ve chosen each other, and we’re thrilled with our choices. He proves that to me every day.
I know you’re an advice columnist, Hattie. You deal with problems, not happy endings. But hey, maybe you need a win occasionally too? After all, you’re only human, and all these tales of woe must crush you sometimes. I know in your position I’d stress about my letter writers constantly, hoping and praying that they find some relief.
So here it is, Hattie: a victory for your scoreboard.
Dear Hattie: one.
Repressed older men: zero.
Last week, our lives changed again—in the best way. I threw up for the third morning in a row, (that’s not the amazing change, I promise), and now it’s confirmed: our first baby is on the way.
My older brother is thrilled. I thought he might be all over-protective and weird about me hooking up with our older neighbor, but when he came home and saw us together three months in, he whooped and high-fived a stranger so hard the guy nearly toppled over. He doesn’t know he’s going to be an uncle yet. The pedestrians of our small town had better take cover.
So: no problems this time, Hattie. Just a thank you.
Your longtime fan,
Stubborn Heart
* * *
Thanks for reading Chef’s Kiss! I hope you loved it. :)
For our favorite advice columnist’s story, check outDear Hattie!I give people relationship advice all the time. So why can’t I figure out my gorgeous work nemesis?
And for a bonus instalove story, grab your copy ofRide or Die.She’s sweet and innocent—and that’s like catnip in this strip club. It’s okay, though. I won’t let the pretty bartender out of my sight.
Happy reading!
xxx
Teaser: Dear Hattie
It’s ten AM on a Monday morning, and I’m sprawled in the office ball pit. With my skirt tucked carefully between my thighs, I’m buried in bright plastic balls, staring up at the skylight high, high above. It’s raining.
Everything is open plan in this godforsaken building, so basically everyone can see me losing my mind in here.
I don’t care.
I miss Simone.
Besides, dignity is overrated before lunch on Mondays. And if our corporate overlords didn’t want us to play in the ball pit, they shouldn’t have replaced the lobby water feature with this monstrosity. Right?
More weird looks from passers-by. A bark of laughter, somewhere across the lobby. The rain drums on the skylight, and I’m shivery beneath my blouse.
Whatever.
The Pretzel Media complex is already echoey as hell, what with all the sparkly white floor tiles and high, industrial ceilings. Classic start-up chic. But sounds are extra warped from my spot in the ball pit, and even as people whisper about me as they walk past, it sounds weird. Like they’re far, far away, and I’m listening through a long cardboard tube.
Is that Harriet Fry?
Should we call a doctor?
