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Told in dual POV, HEARTWORK is a 79,000-word annoyance-to-lovers romcom that combines the meta romance of Iman Hariri-Kia’s Female Fantasy, the heartfelt search for magic in B.K. Borison’s First-Time Caller, and the comedic dating gauntlet of Netflix’s Voicemails for Isabelle. Given your interest in X
Love is Sky Belova’s religion, and she dreams of turning her romance-inspired art into a future her Russian immigrant parents can no longer label a phase. Her summer residency is her big break, so going viral for defending the validity of romance novels to a handsome stranger is simply an embarrassing detour…until arriving at the arts residency and discovering he’s the owner’s son who also lives on the premises.
Sky seizes the chance to wipe the smirk off Archer Callahan’s face and prove to everyone in her life she isn’t living in a fantasy world, betting that she’ll get her happily ever after by filtering potential suitors through her favorite tropes. After watching love hurt his family the entirety of his twenty-eight years, the grumpy hookup app founder built a fortune wagering against the scam we call commitment. So Archer only accepts if, upon failing, Sky publicly endorses his anti-romance app, turning virality into signups.
Except instead of “I told you so”, Archer soothes Sky’s dating disasters and even encourages the rose-colored mentality she’s spent her life defending. After their feud transforms into fun banter and five-chili-pepper-level attraction, Sky learns that while his support was genuine, Archer’s been using her private dating life as social media fodder. Though he tries to win her back by orchestrating second chance into Sky’s next trope, after finally choosing herself over the opinions and expectations of those around her, she must decide if Archer belongs in her happy ending.
ALT STAKES: Though Archer tries to win her back by orchestrating second chance into her next trope, Sky must decide whether the love stories she shaped her identity—and portfolio—around belong in real life or were only meant to exist in fiction.
NOTE: I tried following the dual POV structure, though the first sentence in the second (Archer’s) paragraph made the first (Sky’s) paragraph too long. I felt like it could work in the second because it’s the inciting incident, and not only about Sky.
FIRST 500:
Only One Coffee
When two people are forced—by circumstance, caffeine shortages, fate, or an overworked barista—to accidentally share a coffee order, resulting in escalating tension and at least one prolonged stare over a cardboard cup sleeve.
Often manifests through variations of the classic one bed trope (also known as one room, one horse, one tent, etc.).
Visual markers include lipstick on a plastic lid, steam rising into the air, and a pair of oversized sunglasses.
See Wayne Thiebaud.
Sky
Two thoughts hit me at once: first, this is the last time I follow my best friend’s advice, which has previously included shroom-infused face lotion. The second is that I might be having a heart attack.
All the blood in my body just rushed to my perpetually swoony organ, so I’ll have to circle back to the first thought later. Thump. So many thumps.
I’m at one of those places where the line—more of a cluster, really—is the main attraction. Where the sure-to-be-subpar coffee, made to feel exclusive with a $15 price tag is almost beside the point. However, no one in the shop’s too-sceney-for-eight-in-the-morning collective manages to pull focus from the man responsible for my coronary.
A woman in enormous black Céline sunnies bumps into me on her way out, gripping her matcha like it’s more human baby than seafoam green liquid. God bless her. She jostled me out of my stupor.
Re: my first thought. If a café could have an affiliate link in bio, this one would. Admittedly, the ceramic mugs lining the floating oak shelves below a minimalist black menu board are very aesthetically pleasing.
“Piccolo!” a barista calls out.
I roll the sleeve of my flowy dress in case the counter is dirty and reach for the cup. A masculine hand lands on it at the same time, causing mine to awkwardly entwine with his. My eyes move slowly upward, along the slightly wrinkled, beige linen sleeve of the man’s shirt until they rest on a very tan face about six or seven inches above my own.
The din of the coffee shop fades, my heart stuttering. Is this—could this be what I think it is?
He’s devastating. Attractive in the sort of way that suggests he knows it. The type to have Monica slash Blonde from Surf Lodge and Lauren slash Brunette from Gurney’s in his contacts.
I should stop staring.
“I believe this is my drink,” he—the he—says, grinning lopsidedly and revealing a dimple on his left cheek.
“I believe this is my drink,” I correct him pleasantly, silently commanding myself to be cool.
It’s hard enough locating the silky ristretto shot topped with steamed microfoam in Manhattan, let alone East Hampton. Typical. The more you want something, the more the universe insists on hiding it in the very last rack of a sample sale.
“You sure about that?”
My head tilts. Who’s condescending over coffee? Like, imagine gatekeeping bean water. “Pretty sure, yeah. Fifteen minutes is a long wait, but not long enough for me to forget my order.”