The Honey-Don't List

Witty and downright hilarious.

—USA Today bestselling author Helen Hoang on The Unhoneymooners

The Honey-Don’t List

New York Times Bestselling Author

Christina Lauren

PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF

Christina Lauren

What a joyful, warm, touching book! I laughed so hard I cried more than once, I felt the embrace of Olive’s huge, loving, complicated, hilarious family, and my heart soared at the ending. This is the book to read if you want to smile so hard your face hurts.

—Jasmine Guillory, New York Times bestselling author of The Wedding Party, on The Unhoneymooners

Readers will laugh out loud.… Perfect for fans of Jasmine Guillory and Sally Thorne.

—Booklist on The Unhoneymooners

"Witty and downright hilarious, with just the right amount of heart, The Unhoneymooners is a perfect feel-good romantic comedy. Prepare to laugh and smile from cover to cover."

—Helen Hoang, author of The Bride Test, on The Unhoneymooners

"With a then-and-now plot similar to Lauren’s Love and Other Words, the writing duo’s latest has a youthful voice that may be a good fit for fans of new adult romances."

—Library Journal on Twice in a Blue Moon

[The] story… is worth the wait, and the rich family backstories add sweetness… [with] a twist that offers readers something unexpected and new.

—Kirkus Reviews on Twice in a Blue Moon

Readers inclined toward narratives of forgiveness will appreciate this story of learning to leave the past in the past.

—Publishers Weekly on Twice in a Blue Moon

This is a messy and sexy look at digital dating that feels fresh and exciting.

—Publishers Weekly on My Favorite Half-Night Stand (starred review)

You can never go wrong with a Christina Lauren novel.… A delectable, moving take on modern dating reminding us all that when it comes to intoxicating, sexy, playful romance that has its finger on the pulse of contemporary love, this duo always swipes right.

—Entertainment Weekly on My Favorite Half-Night Stand

The story skips along… propelled by rom-com momentum and charm.

—The New York Times Book Review on Josh and Hazel’s Guide to Not Dating

With exuberant humor and unforgettable characters, this romantic comedy is a standout.

—Kirkus Reviews on Josh and Hazel’s Guide to Not Dating (starred review)

From Lauren’s wit to her love of wordplay and literature to swoony love scenes to heroines who learn to set aside their own self-doubts… Lauren writes of the bittersweet pangs of love and loss with piercing clarity.

—Entertainment Weekly on Love and Other Words

A triumph… a true joy from start to finish.

—Kristin Harmel, internationally bestselling author of The Room on Rue Amélie, on Love and Other Words

Lauren’s stand-alone brims with authentic characters and a captivating plot.

—Publishers Weekly on Roomies (starred review)

Delightful.

—People on Roomies

At turns hilarious and gut-wrenching, this is a tremendously fun slow burn.

—The Washington Post on Dating You / Hating You (A Best Romance of 2017 selection)

Christina Lauren hilariously depicts modern dating.

—Us Weekly on Dating You / Hating You

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To the people working tirelessly behind the scenes, this one is for you.

Partial transcript of interview with James McCann, July 14

Officer Martin: Can you state your name, date of birth, and occupation for the record?

James McCann: James Westman McCann, August 27, 1990. Director of engineering for Comb+Honey Renovations.

Officer Martin: I have a note here that you’re an assistant to Russell Rusty Tripp?

JM: I occasionally help with assistant duties when our workload is overwhelming, but I was hired by Mr. Tripp to be the primary consultant for engineering and structural design. Can you please write that part down?

Officer Martin: It will all go on record, don’t worry. And where were you on July 13?

JM: I was with Melissa and Rusty here in Laramie, Wyoming.

Officer Martin: You’re referring to Russell’s wife, Melissa?

JM: Correct.

Officer Martin: Was anyone else there?

JM: Melissa’s assistant, Carey Duncan.

Officer Martin: Did you have any sense, before the night in question, that things would get out of hand?

JM: I think we all knew that by this point their marriage was on a pretty shaky foundation—no pun intended—but none of us expected it to get this bad.

Partial transcript of interview with Carey Duncan, July 14

Officer Ali: Can you state your full name, date of birth, and occupation for the record?

Carey Duncan: Like, full full name?

Officer Ali: Please.

CD: Fine. Carey Fern Duncan. March 1, 1994, executive assistant to Melissa Tripp.

Officer Ali: And where were you the night of July 13?

Carey: I was in Laramie, Wyoming, with the Tripps.

Officer Ali: Can you state for the record who the Tripps are?

CD: Sure. Melissa and Rusty Tripp are the co-owners of Comb+Honey. But most people know them from their books or TV.

Officer Ali: Rusty would be Russell Tripp?

CD: Yeah, sorry. Melly—Melissa—only calls him Russell when she’s pissed.

Officer Ali: Can you list who else was present at the scene?

CD: It was me, Rusty and Melly, obviously, and James McCann.

Officer Ali: Was James McCann also employed by the Tripps?

CD: Don’t you have all this information already?

Officer Ali: Please just answer the question, Ms. Duncan.

CD: Do I…? Do I need a lawyer?

Officer Ali: That depends. Have you done something that requires a lawyer?

CD: Ever?

Officer Ali: In relation to the events that occurred on July 13 of this year.

CD: Oh. No. I wasn’t—it wasn’t me. You all know that, right?

Officer Ali: This isn’t a courtroom and you aren’t under arrest, Ms. Duncan. You aren’t obligated to answer any of these questions. I’m just trying to get a sense of the night’s timeline.

CD: James, Rusty, and I had just gotten back from the Hotsy Totsy bar. James and I went to get Rusty. It was sort of a mess, and Melly was pissed, and—

Officer Ali: I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves. We need to go back a little further.

CD: How far back do you want me to go?

Officer Ali: How about the beginning?

CD: I started working for Melly when I was sixteen. I’m not sure you want me to go that far back.

Officer Ali: Let’s begin with the end of their first television show, New Spaces.

CD: Yeah. Okay. That’s a good place to start.

Carey

When I was little, my family had a hen named Dorothy. My dad called her Dotty for short. She was a Blue Laced Red Wyandotte—fairly fancy chicken for our neck of the woods. Her terra-cotta feathers were tipped with blue, and so unusual in color they didn’t look like they were real. Dorothy stood out against the dusty background of our small Wyoming farm and was always the center of attention in the yard. She was prettier than the other hens, she was definitely noisier, and despite lower-than-normal fertility rates among the breed, she laid twice as many eggs. It’s not that the other hens weren’t perfectly good chickens; it’s that Dorothy was that much better.

She was also sort of a bully.

I’m always reminded of Dorothy when I look at Melissa Tripp. I realize how that sounds—comparing my boss to a chicken—but it’s the image that pops into my head every time I see Melly holding court, like she is right now at the party. Dorothy would strut around the coop, head high, pecking at everything she could reach and daring the other hens to come at her. Like her, Melly sweeps around the room, comfortable knowing every eye is on her, daring someone else to take center stage.

Can I have everyone’s attention, please? The crowd quiets as Melissa holds a Waterford champagne flute aloft, her bright blue eyes glistening with unshed tears. Melly drinks only when there’s no getting around it, and most don’t realize that there’s sparkling cider in that glass, not champagne.

Alcohol is nothing but empty calories and can make you messy, she once told me. I have zero time for either. With a Tiffany bracelet dangling from her tiny wrist, she’d taken the glass of rosé from my hand and given me a judgmental once-over. As long as you work for me, Carey, neither do you.

Turns out, she’s not wrong. With Melly and her husband Rusty’s current home renovation show, New Spaces, officially wrapping today, their newest book releasing in two days, and the super-secret, as-yet-unannounced new streaming show launching in a matter of days, I’ve hardly had time to sleep, let alone get my drink on. But for the love of God, a night with no work, my DVR, and a couple of beers would be divine.

Sadly, as you’ve probably guessed, there’s sparkling cider in my champagne flute, too.

Melly’s pink lips curve into a bittersweet smile as she surveys the quieting crowd now watching her expectantly. Hand pressed to her heart, she makes sure to look at each member of the television crew in turn. Sixty-five episodes, three holiday specials, countless promo clips, and one very large going-away party. We couldn’t have done any of this without each and every one of you.

Another round of solemn eye contact, a pause. A resigned nod that makes her sleek platinum hair fall gracefully around her shoulders.

Five seasons! When she thrusts her glass forward in the air in cheers, her wedding ring catches the overhead set lights and casts stars across the walls.

Hearing it really does blow my mind. We’re standing in the set where we’ve shot five seasons of the show, and it all went by in a blip—probably because I didn’t sleep for most of it—and now it’s ending. I met Melissa Tripp when I was sixteen, on the verge of dropping out of high school and needing to make some money because my parents didn’t have any to spare. The Tripps had recently opened their home décor store, Comb+Honey, in Jackson, Wyoming, and posted a HELP WANTED sign in the window. Although the local Hardee’s hired, on principle, any high schooler from our area who wanted a job, the idea of working as a fry cook between Mitch Sticky Hands Saxton and John Toothless McGinnis wasn’t tempting. So I walked inside the upscale store and applied.

I’m still not sure what I was thinking or what she saw in me. I was in my good cutoffs, and my fingers were still smudged with charcoal from sketching under the bleachers instead of attending my last two classes of the day. I smelled like sunblock and my hair was bleached to a fine, pale crisp, but I was hired.

For the first few months, I helped customers whenever Melly was busy, and eventually ran the register. Once I got that down, she let me start managing custom orders and invoices. When Melly learned more about my love for art, she pushed me to play around and dress up the window displays—on two conditions: it couldn’t interfere with my regular duties, and I had to finish high school.

Melissa and Rusty were sweet as pie back then: parents to two kids, struggling to get their business off the ground, and head over heels for each other. They treated me like their third kid, and celebrated my remaining high school victories when my own parents slacked on the job. Mom and Dad had always been better at yelling at me and my brothers for being ungrateful than they were at earning our respect. Suddenly the Tripps were there, showing up to my art shows, driving me to dentist appointments, and even helping me buy my first car. I would have happily given them my right arm if they asked for it.

But that was ten years and a lifetime ago. Comb+Honey isn’t just a home redesign store anymore; it’s a booming corporation with ten storefronts and a host of exclusive product lines with a dozen retail partnerships. The Tripp kids are in their twenties, and Melly has new boobs, lashes, and teeth. Rusty has been outfitted as the fashion icon carpenter dad in Dior jeans and Burberry blazers. The world knows them as affectionate, playful, cooperative, and innovative.

And fun: their seven million Instagram followers are treated less to glossy promotional shots and more to video clips of Rusty pulling pranks on the New Spaces cast and crew, Melly visiting an estate sale and happening upon the perfect addition to a remodel, and photos of Melly and Rusty being adorable or adorably exasperated with each other. Fan favorites are the GIFs of Rusty being Rusty: dropping a hammer on his foot, clumsily spilling a bottle of Coke onto one of Melly’s famous honey-do lists, messing up his intro again and again to the great amusement of the entire crew. People love Melly for being polished and patient. They love Rusty for being goofy and approachable. And they love them as a couple for being the two perfect halves of a whole.

You wouldn’t know from scrolling through their idyllic Instagram feed that Melly and Rusty aren’t quite as sweet on each other anymore. Looking back, I’m not really sure when they decided their marriage mattered less than their brand. It chipped away slowly. A bit of sarcasm here. An argument there. Slowly their worst sides seemed to take over: Melly is a neurotic perfectionist who never sleeps. Rusty is impulsive and easily distracted by whatever—or whoever—is around him. Luckily, only their inner circle sees this downward tilt because the Tripps still manage to put on an impressively convincing show for the public.

Like now. Rusty stands at her side, nodding and clapping at the more sentimental points in her toast. It’s an after-party, so the blazer is gone and he’s wearing one of his custom Broncos jerseys. He can let loose! He’s a fun dad and relatable!

He’s forty-five now, and while viewers still swoon over the strong jaw and quarterback build, they love even more the way he looks at his wife. Rusty looks at Melly like they’re celebrating their first anniversary this year, not their twenty-sixth. It’s the way she rolls her eyes at his jokes but then blushes, totally endearing. When they’re like this, it’s easy to see why their on-screen chemistry made them instant favorites on New Spaces. They were relatively unknown when the show started, but they—and their infectious love—immediately eclipsed the popularity of their costars, including the show’s former-Miss-America host, Stephanie, and the expert, Dan—a younger, hipper home remodeling icon who’d had his own show for years.

The Tripps’ outwardly enviable marriage is why Ford Motor Company used Melly and Rusty in a truck commercial. It’s why they have merchandise lines at Target and Walmart, emblazoned with their bright, blissful smiles; why their two home design books have both been longtime bestsellers, and why their soon-to-be-published book on marriage is already at the top of the sales charts and hasn’t even been released yet.

And, of course, Melly is an enormous stress case over the upcoming announcement of their new solo show, Home Sweet Home. We’re all overwhelmed, trying to strike while the iron’s hot, but what else can we do but work our hardest?

"Some people might say what we do is just decorating." Melly is apparently not finished addressing the crowd, because she pulls attention back to where she stands at the front of the room. The table behind her is filled with empty champagne bottles and the remnants of a stunning six-tier petal-pink cake.

"They say it’s just home remodel, she continues. Just design. Her high, sugary voice works well for TV because it matches her bubbly personality, white-blond hair, and animated expressions. But off set—and especially when she’s displeased and on a tear—that voice becomes cartoonish and piercingly loud. But it’s always been our motto that the home reflects the person. Build the home you want, be flexible, and life will be a Tripp! Thank you for helping us share our philosophy! We love you all. Here’s to the next chapter!"

A chorus of cheers echoes through the group. Everyone drains their glasses and disperses to offer congratulations. Now the toast is over—never mind that the cast of New Spaces is composed of four independently famous individuals, and Melly has just monopolized the moment and ended with her own personal slogan, making it clear that no one else is going to speak in acknowledgment of what they’ve all accomplished together.

I glance over to gauge the reaction of Stephanie Flores, the aforementioned former Miss America, social media darling, and host of New Spaces. She seems to be keeping her eyes from rolling with great effort. Renovation god Dan Eiler is huddled with a producer, speaking in hushed, angry tones and jutting his chin toward the front of the room, where Melly just stood. Publicly, the show is ending so that everyone can pursue other new adventures—like the Tripps starting Home Sweet Home—but honestly I think it’s ending because no one can stand in Melly’s ever-growing shadow anymore. She may wear a size two and need sky-high heels to reach the top shelf in her own stockroom, but she is the alpha dog, and she will never let you forget it.

I see Rusty tug at Melly’s hand and nod toward the door. I don’t need to be a lip reader to know that she’s reminding him that this is their party—they have guests. Never mind that this entire room full of people essentially works for the Tripps, and a party with your boss isn’t really a party. I don’t think anyone would be all that disappointed if Melly and Rusty called it a night.

Setting my drink on the tray of a passing waiter, I check my watch and wince when I see that it’s almost eleven. Melly catches my eye across the room and looks around us in commiserating horror. What a mess, her expression groans. I scream through a smile; this mess is not her problem. Whether or not Rusty and Melly decide to stay, I am nowhere close to getting out of here. Sure, we have waiters circulating food, but in a half hour they’ll get to toss their aprons into the back of a catering van and head home. I’ll be left cleaning up.

I do the mental math. If I can get the place cleaned by one, I might be able to catch a few hours of sleep before our nine o’clock meeting. Netflix execs are actually flying to Jackson freaking Hole first thing tomorrow for a face-to-face, and the day after that, the Tripps leave for their book launch in Los Angeles and I get an entire week of living in my pajamas and not answering text messages in the middle of the night. I have to remind myself that this is mile twenty-five of the marathon; if I can just make it two more days, I can crash. But I’m running on tired legs: Before even prepping the wrap party today, we shot the remaining scenes for the two final New Spaces episodes—one with a family remodeling their craftsman home to welcome their first baby, and a five-season retrospective to close out the show. A normal day with Melissa Tripp is exhausting. Today was completely debilitating, and it’s not over yet.

I exhale slowly, calmly, surveying the damage to the room, and decide one way to let people know they should start heading home is to begin cleaning up.

A few minutes later, a shadow appears at my side. I can sense by its tense, annoyed presence exactly who it is. Did you see where Rusty went?

I look up at James McCann: tall, lanky, always exuding superiority.

I’m not in charge of Rusty, I say. He’s yours.

He stares for an annoyed beat, but I know it’s only partially meant for me. I’m an assistant and have been for the entirety of my adult life. By contrast, James—a nerdy engineering type—wasn’t hired to work as Rusty’s right-hand man, but that’s exactly how his job has panned out. Midnight beer runs, dry-cleaning duty, sports ticket procurement, and daily coffee retrieval. Not what he bargained for at all.

We have an early meeting with the Netflix folks tomorrow, he tells me, as if it hasn’t been a topic of conversation—the date all but branded onto my brain—for weeks. As if we aren’t all sweating bullets about how the new show is going to fare with audiences and what that will mean for the company.

I remember, James. I slide a cluster of empty beer cans into a recycling bin.

In fairness, you never write anything down or log in to the shared calendar. I thought I’d check in. Unfortunately he misses my eye roll when he blinks down to his watch and then out over the room, tense again. Don’t you think we should be wrapping this up?

This question could only come from someone who works for Rusty, a boss who is used to being bossed around. Anyone who works for Melissa Tripp would know that trying to shepherd her out of a party in her honor is like trying to get a cat to tap-dance.

Probably, I say.

I carefully drop a few empty champagne bottles into the recycling bin before shaking out my hands. It’s been a long day, and the left one is starting to act up. At this point, massage doesn’t really help, but I try to casually rub out my fingers before moving on.

I don’t know why you’re following me when he’s over there, I say, and motion toward the front of the room, where Melly gave their speech.

Over where?

I groan in frustration and turn to show him. But my irritated smugness dissipates when I find only Melly near the remains of the frilly pink cake. I don’t see Rusty anywhere. Have you texted him?

James gives me a blank stare through the perfectly unsmudged lenses of his glasses. From this close, it’s impossible to miss that he has really pretty eyes. But, like many men, he ruins the effect by speaking. Don’t you think I’d do that before asking you?

Just checking, I say.

His brows come together in irritation, which makes his glasses slide down his nose. I texted him. He’s not answering.

Maybe he’s in the bathroom. I step around him, tired of being in charge of everyone every second of the day.

He’d definitely answer if he was in the bathroom, James says, following close behind. He takes his phone everywhere so he can check sports scores.

James is obviously a smart man—Lord knows he reminds me all the time—but like my dad used to say, sometimes I wonder if he’s only got one oar in the water. Is he incapable of walking around a set and finding a six-foot-four grown man by himself? I’m about to blow up and ask him, but when I look up I’m surprised by the desperation in his eyes. The