He Will Be Mine Excerpt

He Will Be Mine Excerpt

HE WILL BE MINE is the brand new laugh out loud standalone romantic comedy from Kirsty Greenwood. Here’s the blurb and first chapter!

Nora Tucker is an admin assistant from Sheffield.

Gary Montgomery is Hollywood’s hottest new star.

After seeing him on the silver screen, Nora believes that Gary is her soulmate, her one true love, the man she’s supposed to grow old and wrinkly with. She knows it sounds nuts, she knows it’s completely crazy. But sometimes love is crazy, right?

Only... how on earth is this Plain Jane introvert supposed to get to Los Angeles, infiltrate Gary’s inner circle AND convince him that they’re meant to be? Throwing herself into this mission might be a tall order but it means Nora can stop thinking about that one awful day, two years ago, when everything in her life fell apart...

With the help of a sunny Californian weather girl, a super hot but super grumpy script writer, and a very passionate Adam Levine tribute act, Nora is about to try the impossible and let fate decide her future…

CHAPTER ONE

Nora

There comes a point in the day of every freelancer when they have to consider a single very important question.

Should I bother getting dressed today?

A conclusion can usually be established by considering a small number of follow-up enquiries. i.e:

a) Do I need to leave the house at all?

b) Am I expecting a delivery person to show up at the door?

c) Are my pyjamas as soft as clouds?

d) Do said pyjamas have a bunch of extra room in the waistband to accommodate that massive cheese toastie I plan on having for lunch?

e) Am I at ease with eschewing typical conventions of how a twenty-six year old adult should behave and willing to just sometimes be a lazy-ass bitch without shame or guilt?

I find myself asking these questions a lot lately and my answers usually lead me to the sofa in a drawstring waist. Being a virtual admin assistant might be one of the dullest jobs known to human kind but it’s super laid-back, and working flexible hours from home means that some days (or lots of days lately) I get to have a long bubbly bath mid morning, or a 2pm mega-nap, or read delicious romance novels in between emails or re-watch my one of my favourite movies Sleepless in Seattle starring my favourite actress Meg Ryan whenever I damn well please. It’s a pretty peachy life for your common or garden variety introvert.

I plonk myself onto the living room sofa, peer at the old, slightly tatty Sleepless in Seattle DVD case and I sigh.

‘Not today, Meg Ryan,’ I say to her perfectly adorable face.

Unfortunately I do have to get dressed this morning. I have to leave my cosy little flat and go outdoors and I have to do it for the most rubbish of reasons: my adored mum and dad died two years ago today and my sister Imogene insists we meet for a walk around their beloved local park to visit the memorial bench we got in their honour. There, we will most likely sit and cry for a while and then Imogene will proceed to nag me about my ‘worrying lack of a life’ or maybe try to set me up with some basic bro she knows because I am ‘in my prime fertile years and not exactly in a position to be fussy over guys.’

Yikes.

I gaze at my pale blue soft-as-clouds pyjamas folded on the bed and tenderly pat them. Then I peer over to the stack of romantic comedy films and the Harcourt Royals novels I’d much rather be burying myself into today and tomorrow and the rest of the foreseeable, frankly.

I twist my thick dark waves up into my favourite purple velvet scrunchy, pull on a big t-shirt and some jeans and try not to worry about the fact that the shadowy bags under my eyes could carry a week’s worth of groceries.

‘I already miss you, indoors,’ I whisper theatrically, reluctantly pulling on my raggedy but super comfy trainers and leaving my beloved cocoon.

‘You look really pale, Nora. Are you eating?’ Is the first thing Imogene says when we meet by the river in Brigglesford Village park. She’s dressed in a perfectly clean, dazzlingly white sleeveless blouse and stylish tight black jeans. My one year old niece Ariana is in the pram beside her, dressed in an equally clean and dazzling white sundress. I lean into the pram and smother her in kisses. ‘Hello, my juicy pudding,’ I say, laughing as she blows me a giggly, spit filled raspberry.

I take off my sunglasses and smile at Imogene. ‘Hello to you too, dear sister.’

We give each other a brief, slightly awkward arm pat before setting off down the river path side by side.

As we stroll .Imogene looks me up and down, her eyes lingering a little at my belly and thighs, currently a comfortable size 16. ‘Well obviously you’re eating,’ she says. ‘But are you eating properly? Not just cheese toasties all the time? Are you getting any sun? You do look pallid. It’s July! It’s a heatwave. You should be tanned. Look at my tan!’ She indicates her gym-honed golden arms proudly. They look suspiciously patchy at the elbow.

‘That’s fake tan, Imogene,’ I point out.

She shakes her head firmly. ‘Not all of it. Some of it is natural tan. From actual vitamin D. Most people in this country are deficient in vitamin D, you know? It can cause mood changes if you don’t get enough…’

‘I’ll take a supplement.’

‘And what’s up with your voice? You sound all croaky and raspy. Like Michael Bolton, but not sexy.’

I clear my throat. She’s right. I do sound croaky. But then it occurs to me that I haven’t actually spoken to another human in four days. My voice box is a little out of practice, that’s all. ‘Just a, uh, dry throat.’ I lie with a shrug. I don’t know why I lie. Being holed up in the house on my own a lot isn’t something I should feel embarrassed about. If I don’t mind, then no-one else should, right? I like it there and I’m not doing anyone any harm.

‘You look like you haven’t slept, either.’

Imogene’s right about that one. I haven’t been sleeping properly for, ooh around two years now. Hence those lovely 2pm mega naps I’ve grown so fond of.

‘You know, a little bit of makeup might make you feel better. A bit more put together, you know?’

I touch my face self consciously. I actually can’t remember the last time I wore make-up. I used to wear it all the time – being on the plainer side of pretty meant I was well versed in the art of a bold lip and a couple of lashings of mascara, but I’ve definitely gotten out of the habit recently. It doesn’t matter though. It’s not like I’m seeing anyone or going out much these days.

‘I’m fine.’ I tell Imogene firmly. ‘Stop fretting, you turd. I love you and I know you’re trying to look out for me but I’m all good, honest!’

‘Hmmm.’ She examines me, her eyes flickering with pity, which I’ve got to say makes me bristle a bit. Just because I might not have my shit all together and wrapped in a millennial pink satin bow like her, doesn’t mean I’m someone to feel sorry for.

Rounding the corner, we step into a clearing and approach the black cast iron bench we had put up after mum and dad died. It’s clean and shiny from yesterday’s summer showers. The flower garden surrounding it is in full, colourful bloom: pinks, yellows and oranges scattered here and there like thick oil-paint splotches. It’s a beautiful spot. My stomach folds as we approach the bench. Hearing Imogene start sniffling beside me, I reach out and grab her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Together we look at the golden plaque’s engraving.

Emily and Daniel Tucker. True soulmates to each other, beloved parents to Imogene and Nora.

We park our bottoms, Imogene rolling the pram back and forth in front of her, and for a few moments there’s nothing but the sound of the occasional passerby, the chirrupy birds overhead and the crunch of the gravel beneath the wheels of Ariana’s pram.

I think about mum and dad. At the funeral service, everyone kept saying how they were the perfect couple. They were the perfect couple. Theirs was a true love story. The night they met, back in the late 80s, they saw each other across a crowded garden at a New Year’s Eve party. As the clock struck midnight, and the fireworks sparkled and fizzed above them, they laid eyes on one another and knew instantly that they were meant to be. A big thunderbolt, was how mum described it: right through the belly. Dad told me that when he saw her smiling mischievous face he felt giddy, like he’d been missing her his entire life and now here she finally was. He said he knew that everything from there on out was going to be great. Even the bad parts because he and mum would be together for them and that was all that mattered. The whole thing sounded so magical to me. Like something out of one of the Harcourt Royals romance novels I’m addicted to. They were so genuinely happy together, right until the very end.

I glimpse sideways at Imogene who is still crying gently on the bench, trying to keep it subtle for the sake of Ariana and, I suppose, me. She only allows herself to get sad on this one day each year. The rest of the time she is all go, never stopping, organising everyone around her, making sure that everything is perfect. On the surface, it would be so easy to think that mum and dad dying didn’t affect her as much as it affected me. But I can see that right now her heart is quietly breaking all over again, just like mine is.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say in a small voice.

Imogene looks up at me, her eyes red, her mascara slightly smudged at the inner corners. She reaches a hand out and rubs my arm. ‘For God’s sake Nora. It wasn’t your bloody fault.’

She’s lying to make me feel better. Because the truth is, it was absolutely my fault.

I’m the reason my parents are gone.

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