Even Better Than the Real Thing: A Romantic Comedy, page 1
EVEN BETTER THAN THE REAL THING
MELANIE SUMMERS
Copyright © 2022 Gretz Corp.
All rights reserved.
Published by Gretz Corp.
First edition
EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-988891-47-7
Paperback Edition ISBN: 978-1-988891-48-4
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
For Mary Beale—a kickass 17th century painter whose talent was so immense, she managed to support her family (including her husband) through her art.
You captured your subjects with such compassion. You brought out the beauty in the ordinary. You paved the way for women to be considered serious artists at a time when painting was thought to be ‘too vigorous a pursuit’ for the fairer sex.
How to show ‘em, Mary,
mel
Contents
Praise For Melanie Summers
Books by Melanie Summers
Books with Whitney Dineen
A Note from the Author…
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
BONUS EPILOGUE GIVEAWAY!
Coming Soon: No Ordinary Hate
Available Now: The Royal Treatment
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Praise For Melanie Summers
“A fun, often humorous, escapist tale that will have readers blushing, laughing and rooting for its characters.” ~ Kirkus Reviews
A gorgeously funny, romantic and seductive modern fairy tale…
I have never laughed out loud so much in my life. I don’t think that I’ve ever said that about a book before, and yet that doesn’t even seem accurate as to just how incredibly funny, witty, romantic, swoony…and other wonderfully charming and deliriously dreamy The Royal Treatment was. I was so gutted when this book finished, I still haven’t even processed my sadness at having to temporarily say goodbye to my latest favourite Royal couple.
~ MammieBabbie Book Club
The Royal Treatment is a quick and easy read with an in depth, well thought out plot. It’s perfect for someone that needs a break from this world and wants to delve into a modern-day fairy tale that will keep them laughing and rooting for the main characters throughout the story. ~ ChickLit Café
I have to HIGHLY HIGHLY HIGHLY RECOMMEND The Royal Treatment to EVERYONE!
~ Jennifer, The Power of Three Readers
I was totally gripped to this story. For the first time ever the Kindle came into the bath with me. This book is unputdownable. I absolutely loved it.
~ Philomena (Two Friends, Read Along with Us)
Very rarely does a book make me literally hold my breath or has me feeling that actual ache in my heart for a character, but I did both.”~ Three Chicks Review for Netgalley
Books by Melanie Summers
ROMANTIC COMEDIES
The Crown Jewels Series
The Royal Treatment
The Royal Wedding
The Royal Delivery
Paradise Bay Series
The Honeymooner
Whisked Away
The Suite Life
Resting Beach Face
Crazy Royal Love Series
Royally Crushed
Royally Wild
Royally Tied
Stand-Alone Books
Even Better Than the Real Thing
WOMEN’S FICTION
The After Wife
Books with Whitney Dineen
The Accidentally in Love Series
Text Me on Tuesday
The Text God
Text Wars
Text in Show
Mistle Text
Text and Confused
A Gamble on Love Mom-Com Series
No Ordinary Hate (Coming Soon)
A Note from the Author…
Dear, dear reader,
I sincerely hope this book finds you and yours doing well. It’s been another crazy year in the world, and for me, personally. We’ve uprooted our lives and have moved to the beautiful west coast of Canada (from the beautiful-but-cold prairies). It’s been terrifying, thrilling, exhausting, and has completely thrown me off balance at times. All good things.
As I wrap up the last of the edits on Hayden and Finley’s story, we are unpacking boxes and finally getting settled in our new home, about a ten-minute walk from the ocean, where I am certain I’ve always been meant to live.
Even Better Than the Real Thing is a stand-alone story of an American girl with a dream and an English soon-to-be earl seeking revenge. It’s about family history, what it is to be loved, and how we can all turn the page on our stories and start fresh.
Fair warning: there are a couple of brief open-door sex scenes, but I hope you’ll find them tastefully done, as they really are about the emotional push and pull taking place between our hero and heroine, and not so much the actual insert tab B into slot A stuff.
As always, I wish you love, happiness, and health.
Happy reading,
Melanie
P.S. I may have taken some creative license with the peerage/entailment stuff, but I had to for the story.
P.S.S. The story about Isaac Newton and Robert Hooke is absolutely true. (Well, pretty much.)
Chapter 1
Finley
Today is a very big day. One that took years’ worth of days to get to, and one that, if you mess it up, will pretty much ruin the years to come after it.
I finally have a meeting with Dr. Daniella Beauchamp—senior professor of art history at England’s prestigious Carlyle Institute of Art, expert on women artists throughout the Middle Ages, and person who will either make my career or crush me like a june bug. She’s been the most sought-after advisor in the program every year since the early two thousands. Every professor wants to be her, and every student wants to be with her. In a non-sexual way, of course. Actually, I can’t know that for sure. For all I know, there could be some students who want to be with her. But she’d never do that. She’s above anything tawdry, which is one of the many reasons I’d do just about anything to work with her. Me and just about every other art history student.
The fight to become one of Dr. Beauchamp’s students is more competitive than a Texas beauty pageant. She meets with thirty applicants a year and only chooses three, so the odds are not exactly what you’d call good. But, if you can get her to agree to be your advisor, you’re pretty much guaranteed to go on to get whatever job you want when you finish your PhD, so it’s worth the risk of rejection. I nearly killed myself coming up with what I believe to be an irresistible thesis topic, then spent another solid month working on the proposal, and much to my delight, she agreed to meet with me. First hurdle cleared.
Now, to make the very best impression possible so she can’t say no. And if there’s anything a southern woman knows how to do, it’s to make a good impression. Having grown up in Georgia, I was taught the importance of good manners and social graces—the ‘yes, please, ma’ams’ and ‘thank you, sirs.’
Here in England, I’ve found that southern charm works every bit as well here as it does back home, so long as I don’t sound like I’m from there. Being American is bad enough, especially in my chosen field of study, but being from the south is unforgivable.
As it is, it’s no secret that people who didn’t grow up in the south tend to think we’re all so dumb we’d have to study for a urine test, but just like any other stereotype out there, it’s simply not true. Just like any other place on the planet that has people, Georgia’s got those from all walks of life and all levels of intellect and ambition. In fact, the thirty-nineth president of the United States, Jimmy Carter, was from Georgia, and that’s pretty much as high as you can go in the world, so I’d say Georgia is just as good a place to get start in life as anywhere else. And I’m sorry, but there are just as many stupid people on this side of the pond, only we Americans tend to let their accent trick us into believing they’re smarter than they are.
In the decade since I moved to London, I’ve managed to shed my accent, except
I’ve felt like a traitor the entire time I’ve been here, but it’s better to give up a part of yourself than give up your dreams. And this is one southern girl with dreams so big and shiny, they took her away from everything she knew at the tender age of eighteen.
Today is the culmination of all those lonely nights aching to be back home lying in my twin bed back on my parents’ peanut farm, listening to the sounds of the crickets and the frogs croaking while I drift off to sleep. It’s the climax of going to school part-time while working full-time to pay for it all. It’s ten years of bad roommates, bad meals, and bad-tempered professors. It’s putting up with snooty students who grew up in manors and live in airy apartments that their rich parents pay for, and who laugh at me behind my back (and sometimes in front of my face) when they find out where I’m from. It’s fighting to prove that I’m not some hick that can be dismissed as nothing. It’s working 5 a.m. to 1 p.m. as a data entry clerk for Stuart Private Equity Firm, then rushing over to the university in time for class. Ten full years of developing a thick skin, getting by on no sleep, working on papers until my eyes are blurry.
But if Dr. Beauchamp will take me on today, it’ll all have been worth it.
I took the day off work even though our meeting isn’t until five this evening. I wanted to focus all my energy on preparing and arrive as fresh as possible. I’m dressed in my very best ‘serious art student’ outfit—a white button-up blouse with an olive-green cardigan and black pants. This is in sharp contrast to my usual flowy bohemian style I’ve cultivated over countless Saturday mornings in vintage shops around the city.
Pulling out my phone, I use it as a mirror to triple-check my makeup as the tube whisks me from my crappy shared apartment in Croydon to glorious Mayfair where the Carlyle Institute is happily situated across the street from The Savoy and one block north of the River Thames. A rush of excitement comes over me. I’m here. I made it. Almost.
A text comes in from my best friend in the world, Chalani Singh—fellow data clerk at Stuart Equity whose desk butts up against mine. We used to pretend we couldn’t hear each other’s drama when we’d get private calls, but at some point, we both realized it was pointless, and just gave in and started commenting.
Chalani: Knock ‘em dead today, Fin!
Me: Fingers crossed that she’s sitting in her office right now wishing she could have an American for once.
Chalani: Or that everyone else she’s meeting with sucks arse.
Me: That too. How’s work going?
Chalani: I’m working my fingers to the bone as usual.
She’s not. Chalani is a bonafide computer genius who started at the firm six months after me. She quickly whipped up a program to automate our job, which made my life infinitely better. Life before Chalani was getting up at four a.m. every day to work my butt off, then rush to the university to take classes, and go home to eat, study, and do homework until I dropped. Life after Chalani is getting up at four a.m. to go sit at my desk while I get all my course reading and online research done, rushing off to the university for three hours, then relaxing/having a bit of a life (before going to bed at nine p.m.).
Literally our only job now is to show up at 5 a.m. to run the numbers from the Asian markets. We turn on our computers, open a few programs, then do whatever we want until our shift ends at one (which, in Chalani’s case, means reading gossip columns and scrolling through Pinterest). Only the two of us know about the software she installed so everyone else thinks we’re busy little bees, working away in the back corner, keeping all the numbers straight.
Me: Well, I’ll work double-time tomorrow to make up for my absence.
Chalani: You better. I’ve had at least one hundred clever things to say and no one to hear them. It’s awful.
Me: Bless your heart.
Chalani: Don’t you ‘bless your heart’ me. I know what that means.
Me: No, you don’t. It’s like aloha—so many meanings. I better run. My stop is next.
Chalani: Good luck!! You got this!
Lord, I hope so…
Chapter 2
Hayden
There are two types of people in this world: those who want something from you, and those who pretend they don’t. Relationships of every type are transactional in nature and the sooner one accepts this, the better off you will be. My parents began to impart this wisdom upon me at a very young age, and it's perhaps one of the only things either of them gave me for which I have even the remotest hint of gratitude.
Their brief and awful marriage was purely transactional—he requiring both the respectability that comes with marrying ‘the right’ girl and the heir she could (and did) give him, and she requiring money and status. Once she had assisted him in securing the family bloodline, he fucked off and did whatever and whomever he wanted, until one day (when I was four, apparently), he fell madly in love with one of the whomevers and left us. Since my purpose of existing in order to carry on the name had been served, he felt no obligation to have contact with me from that point on. My existence served my mother only insofar as to bring in sizable child support payments so that I would be raised in a manner befitting the son of an earl (read: enough cash for a gigantic house and to pay for boarding school so I’d be out of her hair).
I know there are those who grew up believing in real love and that humans are generous and kind by nature, and to them I say with all due respect, you are wrong. They'll cite examples such as the love a mother has for her child, which I would argue is purely transactional. All those years of supposed selflessness in raising one's offspring are merely securing their own future caregiver. The child is meant to pay it back several decades later when one's saintly mother is suffering from the ill effects of aging. A side benefit to child-rearing is the respect and adoration garnered for those who choose to go down that road. Oh, well done, you. You’ve added to the world’s overpopulation problem.
But what about true love? That’s the argument most people come to next. And for this, I have the very same answer: Marriage is the negotiation that never ends. I’ll cook dinners if you do the shopping and the clean-up. I’ll make all the money if you agree to take responsibility for the house, the children, gift-giving, making plans, planning holidays, and looking after my parents when they get old. I’d like sex three times a week. I’d like it once every two weeks. Let’s settle on three times per month with guaranteed relations on my birthday and our anniversary.
