Miles

Eight months later

“And you’re going to be a good girl and go to sleep early for your mom, aren’t you?”

Sarah smiles mischievously at me, and I take that as a no.

“But if you would, I’d be so very grateful. I’d sing you lullabies, and I’d let you eat those sweet potatoes you like so much.”

She balls her fist and reaches for a chunk of my hair, laughing at me.

And that’s a no too.

“But Daddy has to go to work, and Mommy needs to get her sleep tonight. Won’t you please be a little angel for her?”

Footsteps sound along the hallway, and Ben taps my arm. “Dad, I’ll do it. I’ll help Mommy while you go to work.”

“You need to go to bed too.”

Ben rolls his eyes. “It’s only six. I get to stay up a lot longer than the baby.” He holds up his arms, and I relent, giving him Sarah.

She coos and smiles at her brother, and he carries her to the baby mat on the living room floor where he finds a stuffed lemur toy and plays with her as Roxy strolls out of the bedroom, clicking across the floor in red heels and a tight black dress that is holy fucking hot.

It clings to her body, and she looks amazing. She also doesn’t look like a woman who’s staying in.

“Holy smokes,” I say, admiring her. “I’d like to take a picture to add to my collection. What are you dressed up for?”

“Surprise. I’m coming to see your show tonight.”

“You are?”

She marches up to me and drops a kiss on my lips. “Hell yes.”

“What about the kids?”

“Sam is coming over. I decided I wanted to see you play. I’ve spent enough nights in the house, nursing and whatnot. I want to see my husband rock out onstage.”

A smile spreads across my face. She’s seen me perform a few times this year, and honestly, having her in the audience makes each show even better.

When Sam arrives to take over official babysitting duties from Ben, I thank her, grab my wife’s hand, and head downtown to our gig.

“Will you throw your panties at me on the stage?” I ask when we arrive.

“I’ll throw them at you tonight once we get home. But you know what really makes me want to throw lingerie at you?”

“Tell me.”

“When you sing lullabies to the baby. That is crazy hot, Miles Hart.”

An hour later, I’m onstage with my brothers, jamming through our tunes, old and new, including our latest hit, “About a Girl.”

Like Campbell said, it’s always about a girl.

A man will change his life for a girl, and for a woman. My daughter and my wife changed mine for the better.

As I sing with my brothers, like we did when we were kids, when we were teens, when we were young men, I think of how far we’ve come. The ups and downs of our lives. The heartbreak and the hurt and the joy. Somehow, the three of us have not only come back together, we’ve all found the love of good women.

Campbell and Mackenzie are happily raising their teens.

Miller and Ally are married now too, and Chloe is the light of their lives.

As for me? I might be behind them with all these little kids in my home, but this is exactly where I want to be, where I can cherish every second with my girl, and my boy, and my woman.

Later, when the concert ends, I take my wife home and thank my niece for being the best niece in the universe.

Roxy and I check on the kids. Ben is sound asleep, but Sarah is awake and hungry. After Roxy feeds her, I sing a quiet lullaby to my little girl and rock her back to sleep.

Once I make my way to the bedroom, my wife practically pounces on me, smothering me in kisses.

“Told you it turned me on when you sing to her.”

And I take care of my wife, savoring every moment with her.

After all, once upon a time, a wild fling turned into forever and a family.

Unzipped…

Picture this - I’m ready to win back the love of my life, and I’m going big this time. We’re talking boom box, sing her name in the rain, let the whole damn neighborhood know I'm good and ready this time around. After all, if you're going to grand gesture the ever-loving hell out of a second chance, you need to pull out all the stops.

There’s only one little problem.

My college girlfriend isn't the one who shows up when I play my "I'll do anything to win you back" tune.

The woman who flings open the second-floor window tells me my ex doesn’t live here anymore. But she'll help me win her back. Anything for romance, anything for a guy so willing to go big for love. And that's what I want at first. Until I get to know my new “romance coach” and discover she’s funny, clever, and keeps me on my toes. And boy, do I ever need that.

Now I don't want to win anyone else’s heart. I want the woman who's been helping me all along.

Trouble is - she thinks I'm in love with someone else, and when we take off on a road trip, everything I think I know about women is about to be unzipped and turned inside out.

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Prologue

Him

Everything I know about women I learned from an ’80s flick.

For instance, eating birthday cake while sitting on a dining room table is always a good idea.

“Ditto” completely works as a way to let a woman know how you feel.

Men and women can be friends, and friends can fall in love, but it’s best if they don’t fake orgasms.

Finally, learning your soul mate is a fish is not the worst thing that can happen. The worst thing is losing the mermaid you love, so merman-up and be with her under the sea. But if you’re stupid enough to let the girl get away, the surefire way to win a woman back is with a grand gesture.

That’s what I intend to do.

I’ve planned every detail of how I’m going to get the girl back.

Music? Check.

Props? Check.

Totally improved self? It took nearly a decade, but finally I can scratch that off the list.

It’s go time.

Chapter One

Her

There are only a few things you truly need to be successful in comedy.

To make people laugh, to make people laugh, and to make people laugh.

See what’s in there? No, not the laughter, but the people. You need an audience. Or, really, I need an audience. A bigger one.

Make that an exponentially larger one.

I dive into the pool at the gym on a Thursday morning in late May, determined to use my lap time to devise a brand-new, brilliant idea to get that audience for my TV show.

The first order of business—let go of distractions. Thankfully, my phone can’t ring in the water.

Well, I suppose it technically can ring while I’m in the water, but I can’t hear it since I didn’t stuff it inside my swimsuit, and I haven’t yet resorted to wearing a waterproof Bluetooth headset. If I did, I’d ask my best friend, Christine, to have me committed for crossing every acceptable social line.

I push through the water, goggles snug against my eyes, doing my best to open my mind to new ideas and fresh concepts. I reach the end of the lap lane, smack my palm against the smooth blue tiles, and flip around, shooting like a dolphin the other way.

Water ripples from the next lane, and when I turn my head to the side, a man in a black Speedo is torpedoing through the chlorinated blue, his flipper-like feet propelling him.

Big feet? Would that work as a bit? Maybe an episode about whether big feet really mean men have . . . the need to wear big shoes.

Nah. Dick jokes are low-hanging fruit.

But what about Speedos?

Speedos are always ripe for comedy. You can double the laughter if the banana holders are in a funny color, and the funniest colors are usually orange, green, and yellow.

As I breaststroke my way down the lane, I ask myself what Seinfeld would do with a Speedo bit. That was a show that defined top-notch laughs. It didn’t even rely on romance. It didn’t depend on tropes, over-the-top setups, or a quota of jokes based on bodily functions.

Because . . . eww.

All I have to do is connect the Speedo to some sort of social commentary like Seinfeld would do.

What if my heroine is shopping for a new bathing suit for herself? That has potential because bathing suit shopping ranks on the awful list next to root canal and running into an ex while not wearing makeup.

Let’s suppose our heroine is at a department store trying on a bikini, and she spots a guy next to her in the dressing room testing out a Speedo, and she can’t help herself. She has to comment on it, big mouth that she is. She’s trying to be helpful, and she wants to save him from buying the Speedo, but he misunderstands her, thinking she’s hitting on him. That’s perfect, since the heart of Mars and Venus is finding humor in the confusion between men and women about what the other says and what the other truly means.

Satisfied with this direction, I finish my laps and park my elbows on the edge of the pool so I can catch my breath. The scent of chlorine is thick in the air, but so is possibility. I can save my show this season, starting with a bright yellow Speedo.

I climb out of the pool and head to the women’s locker room, feeling pretty damn pleased with myself. After a quick shower, I tug on a pair of shorts and a tank top then root around in my bag for my phone.

I cringe when I see the screen cluttered with notifications fighting their way to get to me.

Seven missed calls.

My stomach pitches with worry. It’s never good to have seven missed calls as a TV comedy writer. The only thing worse is when your phone mocks you with quiet.

Silence equals no work.

But this many missed calls? It’s the universal sign you’re about to get served Really Bad News.

Like when a dude in a fedora shows up on your doorstep. Are you Finley Barker?

Yes.

You’ve been served.

Hustling out of the community center and into the bright morning sun of Hope Falls, I drop my rhinestone-studded purple shades on my eyes—because life is too short to wear boring black sunglasses—and race-walk out to the quaint side street, stabbing at the contact information for Bruce Fargo, the VP at LGO, the TV network that carries my show.

I swear he answers before it even rings. “Finley,” he barks. “What took you so long? I’ve been calling you all morning. It’s been hours.”

I look at my waterproof watch. “I was doing cardio,” I say, defending myself as I walk past a vineyard in the heart of our wine country town. Cardio is like a free pass, right? Everyone in the entertainment business knows workouts are sacred. “And I was only away from my phone for thirty—”

“Network brass is breathing down my neck.”

“With a twenty-two-episode offer for a second season renewal?” I ask, my voice rising as high as Minnie Mouse on helium.

My show hasn’t even been renewed for a second season yet.

He scoffs. “Funny. Why don’t you work that kind of dry humor into Mars and Venus?”

“Thanks, I’ll —” But before I can say try my best, he slices into my words with a serrated knife.

“Your show is on the chopping block.”

I stop, grabbing the wooden fence post next to a vine of Chardonnay grapes. My legs turn into rubber bands, and my stomach becomes a salad spinner.

“Are you serious?” I ask, the words tasting like dreams dying on my tongue.

“I’m as serious as a pimple on a teenager’s face. You think I’d joke about that?”

About pimples? Doubtful. About my show’s fate? I wish he were joking, but I know he’s not.

Hope leaks out of me like air from a punctured balloon. “How far on the chopping block? Are we talking the executioner has the ax out and my head is already hooded, or am I being walked to the guillotine—”

He has no patience for analogies. “This is how it’s going to work. Tad and Chad are demanding a strong storyline,” he huffs, naming the top execs at LGO. “Like blow-my-mind-and-make-me-die-laughing-so-fucking-hard-I have-a-hernia storyline.”

“I can do that,” I say, optimism returning. This is what I do. I write storylines. That’s not too far on the chopping block. I breathe a small sigh of relief. “I had all these ideas this morning, and I’m about to start working on a new story arc. The first episode will make them laugh till it hurts.”

“Yeah, that’s the issue.”

My stomach plummets. “What’s the issue?” I ask slowly.

“They’re asking for that knock-their-socks-off storyline before they even agree to renew it.” He pauses, giving weight to his already-heavy words. “For six episodes. That’s it, sweetheart.”

I press a hand to my stomach as if I could quell the churning. But it’s a cyclone inside me as I learn my show is on death’s door, and I don’t know if CPR is enough to revive it. Mars and Venus is my baby. It’s my dream. I’ve worked on it for years. I fought to have it made.

“Six episodes?” I repeat, as if the words will change if I say them again. A six-episode storyline on spec simply to claw your way out of the ratings basement is like Luke, Leia, Han, and Chewie trying to escape the trash compactor.

Meaning it’s epically unlikely, except on film.

“Count ’em. You only get a half dozen episodes, and that’s if you can turn the ship around with a brilliant storyline. Otherwise, there’s no green light. It’s Goodnight Moon.”

I furrow my brow. “I don’t think that’s what Goodnight Moon was about,” I say quietly.

“The kids’ book? Never read it. So let me make this clear in TV writer lingo.” He takes a beat, his voice somehow going gruffer. “They’ll sunset you.”

Bruce loves to grab sayings from TV shows and movies, usually ones involving cool and cruel crime bosses issuing directives to underlings. “Got it now?”

I swallow past the lump in my throat. I will not let Bruce hear me cry. “I understand. I know what sunset, used as a verb, means.” My heart is a limp doll in my chest, torn down the middle.

He sighs, and it borders on sympathetic. “The sooner, the better. And, hey, I believe in your talent. I’ll fight for you, kid.”

I’m not a kid. I’m twenty-nine. But that’s neither here nor there. “Thanks, Bruce.”

“Also, it’s just going to be you. No other writers for this,” he says, since most TV shows have a head writer as well as a team.

“I can write it solo. I write most of the key scenes anyway.” I swallow any remaining morsel of pride. “Any advice on how to proceed with the storyline for these six episodes?”

Bruce is the network VP in charge of my show, so he has a vested interest. The more successful the shows he brings to his higher-ups, the more money he makes.

“Yeah. Go make up some funny stuff, and don’t take too long.”

“Besides that.”

“Fine,” he huffs, and I imagine he’s tapping a pen on a too-big desk. “How about a bit with a monkey? Monkeys are always funny.”

“A monkey?” I ask, incredulous. “A monkey is going to save my show in six episodes?”

“Monkeys are comedy gold.” His tone tells me he’s dead serious.

“Should this primate be a recurring character or a new series regular?”

“Slap a diaper on him and make him a regular.”

That sounds like when you remember a show from your childhood as brilliant, but when you watch it again years later, you ask with abject horror what your younger self was thinking.

“Do you think perhaps a monkey in a diaper is old-school funny?” I ask, trying to let him down gently.

“I’m old-school funny, honey, and you’re new school. Your new-school hipster show about men and women just being friends isn’t cutting it. So maybe you ought to lean on old-school funny.”

Ouch.

I’ll have the bruise marks on my ego for days from that gut punch.

“I’ll do that, Bruce. I’ll work on old-school funny,” I say, since I don’t have any bargaining chips.

“But listen, Fin. I’m rooting for you. Maybe add a kissing scene too. Some flirting. Dress your lead in fishnets. You want to run anything past me, you know where to find me.”

“Thanks,” I say, but he’s already hung up.

I stare at the phone as if it’s a device from an alien planet.

Maybe I should have tucked it into my bathing suit. Maybe it would have been better waterlogged.

With leaden feet, I walk to my lemon-yellow, two-story rental home on the outskirts of town.

I unlock the door, my mind speeding away from me as I recall the bundle of enthusiasm the network execs wrapped me up in when they picked up the show after years of me pitching, writing, revising, getting rejected. Lather, rinse, repeat.

It’s about real life! We love it! Don’t make it like everything else on TV. We want something different! Be quirky! Screw the tropes!

That’s what I delivered for the first thirteen episodes—a baker’s dozen of shows that were critically acclaimed, but disastrously under-watched. The ratings are so low it feels like I could personally email every viewer and ask for tips for new storylines. Hell, I could visit their homes and serve them pancakes for breakfast while shooting the breeze on what they like and don’t like about Lane and Amanda, my hero and heroine.

My stomach rumbles as I lock the door, wanting those pancakes.

As I head toward the kitchen, shock still rippling through me, I wonder if there is un-mined comedy in pancakes. Some hilarious bit about that time Amanda went to a friend’s house and her friend served those terrible pancakes from Trader Joe’s that taste like soap, and Amanda called them soap cakes, and that becomes a bit on what to do when a host serves awful food?

Best friends and former roomies Amanda and Lane would laugh about it, and it would help them buddy-comedy their way back to living under the same roof.

But as I turn on the coffee maker, I don’t know if soap cakes are funny.

As the coffee drips, I don’t even know if Speedos are funny. And I should know the answer to that.

Most of all, I don’t have a clue how the hell I’m going to pull this off in a mere six episodes.

The ironic thing is that deep down in the squishy, soft part of my heart, I knew this was coming.

But knowing something is coming doesn’t make it hurt any less.

With a cup of joe in hand, I flip open my laptop and try to play with all the ways a lime-green Speedo can spawn humor.

Find out what happens next in !