The Love Square
By Jessica Calla
Genre: Adult Romance
Released
January 12, 2016
Clare Davis hates everything about L.A. Well, almost everything…
Accustomed to a small town life in Nebraska, Clare is miserable in her new role as manager of an L.A. bookstore. She yearns to return to the simple life on her family’s farm. That is until she literally runs into up-and-coming movie star Dylan Barnes.
Dylan resents the Hollywood limelight. Awaiting the premiere of his first feature film, it would be nice to meet someone real—just not someone who rear-ends his BMW with her oversized truck. Dylan is instantly attracted to Clare and her Midwestern charm. And as he shows her the wonders of California, Clare can’t resist falling in love with the Golden State and its newest star.
From West Coast to East, friendship and love are equally complicated…
On the East Coast, Dylan’s childhood friend, Alex Popovich, loves his carefree life as a minor league ballplayer. He’s the man-whore of Brooklyn, playing the field in more ways than one. So when real feelings for his best friend erupt, Alex isn’t interested.
A gorgeous ballroom dancer-slash-office worker, Jenna Stecco wants her best friend, Alex, to take a leap from friends to more. Busy having one night stands, Alex is quick to let Jenna go, telling her it’s time to give up lost hopes and move on with life.
Complicated turns full on crazy with a tangled love square…
When Dylan returns to New York City, he meets up with Alex and is introduced to the stunning Jenna. Believing Clare is unavailable and Alex isn’t interested, Dylan and Jenna share a night of passion and embark on a long-distance relationship.
Everyone is thrown by this love square, as Dylan, Jenna, Alex, and Clare struggle with their feelings for each other. When Jenna reveals a secret that will change their lives, all hell breaks loose.
As the love square crumbles, the four friends must find a way to rebuild or risk losing love forever.
Clare
Clare’s new position at Books, Etc.’s downtown Los Angeles
store wasn’t getting any easier. She’d had another terrible day trying to meet
corporate standards. She’d fired half of her café staff, customers had yelled
at her—one man even threatened to call the police—and she’d been too busy to
eat lunch. Book two of a popular three-part young adult series had just
released, causing absolute havoc, and she’d watched someone shoplift a copy
from right under her nose. She’d run around the store like a madwoman through
gaggles of giggly teenagers, moms with strollers, and retirees using her store
like a library, breaking all of her bindings and drinking the last of her
coffee, for which her inept staff forgot to charge.
All this, and when Clare finally walked out the door, the
darned sun shone bright in the sky. Doesn’t it ever rain in California?she
wondered as she waved good-bye to her assistant manager through the display
window.
Clare climbed into her giant pickup truck with the Nebraska
plates—talk about standing out a like a sore thumb—and felt homesick, hungry,
and bitter. She yawned. Tired. Mostly tired. She’d kill for a nap and a burger
from John’s, her favorite pub back home.
Clare maneuvered the truck out of the store parking lot and
onto the freeway. After twenty minutes of stop-and-go traffic, she had traveled
no more than two miles.
“Ahh!” Usually she found yelling at the top of her lungs in
the privacy of her truck therapeutic. Not today. She plugged in her phone and
rocked out to her AC/DC playlist, attempting to forget her day.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, traffic opened up.
Clare pressed the gas and moved into the left lane, singing T.N.T. and making
steady progress until she saw the red brake lights in front of her.
As she slammed on her brakes, her heart stuck in her throat
and her body tensed. She stood on the brake pedal, praying, but no matter how
hard she pressed down, there was no stopping the collision. Clare squeezed her
eyes shut as her tires shrieked along the asphalt, followed by the sound of
glass breaking and metal crunching.
I just killed someone, Clare thought as she opened her eyes
and unclenched her grip on the wheel. Her hands shook as she felt her body to
make sure she was in one piece. Satisfied, she peered through her cloudy
windshield and saw the little BMW in front of her, crunched like an accordion.
She unbuckled her seat belt and jumped out of the truck.
“Oh my God, oh my God,” she murmured. She ran toward the
crushed car as its angry owner kicked the door open and stepped out.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” he yelled.
Clare stood in shock, staring at the most beautiful, angry man
she had ever seen, berating her on the freeway. She looked him over, making
sure he was intact, then looked him over again. He ran his hands through his
longish hair, which was not quite brown and not quite blond. His scowling face
looked as if it had been carved from marble with its chiseled jaw and high
cheekbones. His tense, gold-colored eyes glared at her, and she blushed. After
her flush of hormones passed, Clare shook her head and regained her senses,
assessing him as a six-foot-tall jackass.
As cars weaved a traffic pattern around the accident scene,
the man turned his back to her and cursed, surveying the damage. “Are you
kidding me?” he said as he dropped his head back and looked to the sky.
Overcome by the stress of her day, when Clare was satisfied
that neither of them was injured, she marched to the man and poked him in the
chest with a shaky finger.
“Hello?” she yelled.
He continued to stare at the remains of his car.
“Hello?” She prodded his rock-hard chest again. “Aren’t you
going to ask me if I’m all right?”
“Obviously you are all right,” he said as he pulled out his
phone and tapped the screen.
Yep. Jackass. She stomped back to her truck and grabbed her
insurance card out of the glove compartment. When she returned, the man covered
the bottom of his phone and whispered, “Highway patrol.”
Clare crossed her arms over her chest, grasping her paperwork,
waiting for him to hang up. When he finally took the phone away from his ear,
she flung the card at him. “Here’s my insurance information.” She used every
ounce of energy to hold back her tears as she walked away.
“You could say you’re sorry, you know,” he called after her
over the sound of the traffic.
Clare froze and took a deep breath, then spun and charged back
toward him. The pressures of her day had finally become too much, and she
couldn’t help herself from screaming. “Sorry? Sorry?” She waved her arms toward
nowhere in particular as she continued. “You want sorry? Okay. I’m sorry
there’s so much gosh-darned traffic in this stupid town that you can’t even use
your gas pedal. I’m sorry the sun is so friggin’ bright you can’t see straight.
I’m sorry your mama raised you so wrong that you don’t even ask if I’m okay before
you start calling me names and cursing Jesus. I’m sorry everyone in this city
is such a jerk… I’m sorry…” Clare huffed and puffed as the tears fell.
“All right, calm down,” the man said. “Don’t cry…” He picked
up the card and looked at it. “Clare, is it? Okay, I’m sorry. I should have
been nicer.”
“I just hate LA,” Clare said, her shoulders sagging as she
wiped away her tears.
“Please stop crying.” The man bent down to look into her eyes,
squinting at her with concern. Clare studied his face and caught her breath,
wondering how one person could be so good-looking. It didn’t seem fair. Stupid
California. She took a deep breath and let the tension release on her exhale,
using the back of her hand to wipe her tears. “I’m sorry I hit you,” she said,
her bottom lip quivering.
He shrugged and sighed. “I’m sorry I overreacted. But I
literally just drove it off the dealer’s lot like ten minutes ago.”
“Oh no! You have got to be kidding.” She tried but couldn’t
stifle a giggle.
The hottie jackass grinned too, flashing a mouthful of pearly
whites. She knew those teeth from somewhere. “Chalk it up to bad luck. I’ll
have to go get a gosh-darned new one,” he teased.
“I can’t believe you’re making fun of me,” Clare murmured.
“I couldn’t resist. Nebraska?” he said, pointing to her
license plate. “I didn’t know people actually lived there.”
“There are one or two of us. No traffic where I’m from,
though.” Clare plopped onto the median of the freeway, ignoring the dirty looks
of the commuters rolling by.
The man sat down next to her. “I’m Dylan,” he said. “Dylan
Barnes.” He presented his hand for her to shake.
Clare took it. “Clare Davis.”
“LA hater, huh?”
“That’s me.”
“So why do you stay?”
“Trying to prove something…to someone… I don’t know.” What am
I doing here? she thought. She could go home, quit the Golden State, and be no
worse off. Except she’d have to face her mother. Her boyfriend. Her boss. Her
friends. They’d all doubted her ability to morph into a coastal-city girl and
embrace the West Coast. Maybe they were right.
Dylan sighed. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I hated
LA when I first got here.”
Clare sputtered, “Yeah, right. You look like you were created
right from the soil under the Hollywood sign.”
“Do I? That’s a little scary.”
Something about the gleam in his eye made her ask, “Do I know
you from somewhere?”
He smirked. “You travel this freeway a lot?”
“Every day, practically.”
Dylan stayed seated on the median staring at the passing cars.
Without a word, he bent his arm, thumb out, to point behind them. Confused,
Clare turned and watched the cars travel the opposite side.
“I don’t get it,” she said.
“Look up.”
Clare looked from the cars up and over the highway to the
billboard she admired every day on her way home from work. It advertised a
fragrance called Lust, and Clare had taken to calling the hot, half-naked guy
holding the bottle Lusty.
She looked between the billboard and Dylan. Then back to the
billboard. “Well I’ll be a tornado in December. You’re Lusty?”
“Lusty?”
“Holy cow. Lusty! You know, that billboard should be taken
down. It’s so gosh-darned distracting.”
Dylan smiled. “Anyway, that may be why you recognize me.”
Clare stared in awe. The billboard didn’t do him justice. She
wondered if his abs really looked like Lusty’s, or if Lusty’s were retouched.
The wailing of sirens pulled her from her trance as two officers on motorcycles
approached the scene. “Oh my. Are they actors or real?” she asked.
“Probably both,” Dylan whispered.
He walked away from Clare and reached into his mangled car,
then reappeared with his paperwork. The officers took down the information they
needed and called for a tow truck.
When there was nothing left to be done at the scene, Clare
offered Dylan a ride. She climbed into the truck as Dylan opened the
passenger-side door.
“I don’t think your truck is big enough,” he said, hoisting
himself into the seat with the help of his long limbs.
“Yeah, I was hoping to go bigger but with the price of gas and
all…” Clare smiled. “Where to, Lusty?”
“I don’t know. A rental car place, I guess.” Dylan took out
his phone as Clare turned the key. They both jumped off their seats when T.N.T.
blared through the sound system.
“Crap! Sorry about that,” Clare yelled as she turned down the
volume. “In Nebraska we spend a lot of time driving around in our pickups
listening to loud music.”
“No wonder you’re getting into car accidents. That’s probably
not the best idea in LA. I’d never pin you for an AC/DC kind of girl.” Dylan
studied his phone. “There’s a car rental place about five miles away.”
“Great. That should only take about ten hours to get to.”
“Ha. You Nebraskans are funny. I know the area. Want me to
drive?”
Clare shrugged, completely at ease about letting a stranger
drive her truck. Maybe he’d brainwashed her with his flickery eyes. Maybe he
was a serial killer. Well, whatever. He sure is pretty to look at, and today is
as good a day to die as any, she told herself as she and Dylan switched seats.
Jessica Calla is a lawyer by day, romance writer by night. Her favorite time is the kids’ "bedtime," when she's free to open the laptop, battle with the blinking cursor, and pour out the contents of her heart. Jessica is a member of Romance Writers of America, involved in the Contemporary, Young Adult, and New Jersey Chapters, and is a member of the Women’s Fiction Writers Association. She lives in central New Jersey with her husband, two sons, and her dog. Besides reading and writing, she enjoys movies, coffee, and chocolate and considers herself addicted to Diet Coke and Netflix (in a good way).
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