Ah, hell.
I might be swooning right now—melting here at the table.
I like this woman so much.
Although it’s so much more than like.
“Good. Because I’m thinking we should now take on the dating challenge, the sixty-nine challenge, and the getting-to-know-you-even-more challenge,” I say, and we both break out in stupid grins.
“I’m up for all of those.”
Our eggs arrive, and as we eat, we geek out over the recent science podcast episode about why microwaves cook from the outside in, as London feeds bits of melon to Mr. Darcy.
It’s a perfect morning to cap off a perfect few days.
And I feel like the luckiest guy in Los Angeles.
Nothing and no one can change my luck.
Of that I’m sure.
So sure that we don’t even order dessert. If I play these cards right, I should be able to have my career and London too.
And that’s a hell of a lot tastier than pie.
30
On Tuesday evening, London and Mr. Darcy make a welcome return to my place. The dogs enjoy a rawhide on Bowie’s spot on the floor, which he’s graciously sharing with the little dude, while London and I dine on grilled chicken salads that I ordered from a great café down the street.
What? Cooking is hard.
London edges me out, three games to two, in a Jeopardy! marathon, and we end the night with some marathon sex. We both win at that.
After I meet with my new clients on Wednesday to prep for their events, London and I spend the afternoon at her place fine-tuning the set list for her video shoot while I admire her moves, her curves, and her sexy-as-sin work ethic.
“I can’t wait to show off this routine to Edge ownership,” she says, breathing hard, but smiling harder. “And then to see the dancers put it in motion.”
“The crowds are going to love it. The partners will love it. And so will Archer,” I say, but I nearly choke on the name.
I’ll give him notice in two more days, and then I’ll be on my way to everything I want—the career, the woman, and the life.
* * *
That evening, we play mini-golf then go to her place. The dogs are officially besties now, and there’s nothing cuter than my fifty-pound bruiser cuddling with his teacup companion. I’m quite partial to snuggling up to Mr. Darcy’s owner too, which we do that night.
Then we practice some new choreography. But these moves are just for the two of us.
* * *
On Thursday, I wake with a knot coiling in my chest, mixed emotions swirling through my head.
Sure, my side hustle is firing on all cylinders, and so is this thing with London. But that only amps up my need to move on from Edge, which has to wait till Archer returns from his oxymoronic corporate camping excursion. That should be a relief—having to wait just twenty-four more hours—but I feel like I’m living on borrowed time, waiting to be called into the principal’s office.
But that’s silly. I can’t be called in, since he’s out of town. I’ll get the jump on him and talk to him the second he returns.
I try to narrow my thoughts on that plan.
I spend the morning hiking with Bowie, but the clear blue skies do nothing to get me out of this haze.
After, I work on my playlists for my upcoming events, send out another round of inquiries, email my new clients, then make my way to Edge.
Once there, I help with the prep work for London’s performance. The playlist is cued up on the club speakers that are set to auto-fade while I stand in front of the stage, phone camera ready to film her work.
She moves through Nirvana, Taylor Swift, Imagine Dragons, Duran Duran, and Survivor with grace, power, and sex appeal.
I hope the camera captures her raw magnetism and electric sensuality as palpably as I can feel it live.
When she’s done, I stop the recording and slide the phone into my pocket. Then I start a slow clap, long and proud.
London, only slightly out of breath, smiles when she says, “For real? You liked it?”
“Loved it. That was incredible. Seriously amazing.”
She beams and then throws her arms around me.
I wince, wishing I could linger in a hug with London for hours, but we need to keep our distance at the club until we can sort everything out.
“Hey, watch the sweat, woman,” I tease to create some distance between us.
“Right, right. I’m covered in it,” she says with a laugh. Then she sighs, relieved. “That felt good. The performance.”
“Because it was. You’re better than us.”
Stanley’s voice booms across the club as he appears in the main room, Carlos by his side. Stanley’s not normally the loud one, so I tilt my head, curious.
“You saw that?” I ask.
“Saw it. Loved it.”
“Did you really?” London chimes in, eager perhaps for feedback from another dancer.
“So much that I’ll be coming here as a patron too,” Stanley says with a big, genuine grin.
“Me too, and that’s saying something,” Carlos puts in. “Very sexy. If you’re into ladies.”
“Some men are,” Stanley adds with a shrug, softer this time, his usual tone.
“Takes all kinds,” Carlos says, then moves closer, bumping hips with London. “We’ll have to work on a dance someday, girl. You’ve got the moves.”
“Name the time and place, and I’m there,” she says, and I’m grinning too as London basks in the moment and the praise from all quarters.
Then she goes right into work mode. “Okay, Teddy. Let’s get that video edited and uploaded so I can start sharing it with some casting directors and choreographers, and Archer, of course.”
“I’m on it, boss,” I say, loving this take-charge side of London.
“And assuming Archer likes the concept—” she says.
“Which he totally will,” Stanley cuts in.
“I hope so. Then we can start prepping the next steps on this thing,” London continues. “Hire dancers, rehearse, promote.”
“Can’t wait to see it,” Carlos says, and he and Stanley head to the dressing room.
London turns to me, her eyes full of gratitude. “I couldn’t have done this without you. Thank you. For everything.”
“The pleasure has been mine.” We’re alone in the club for the moment, the joint unusually quiet.
“Mine too,” she says in a soft, barely audible whisper that makes me shiver.
My body sways a little closer to hers, but I determinedly resist the urge to kiss her. Her smile tells me resistance is hard for her too.
But we won’t have to do it for much longer.
Tomorrow, I’ll make the first move—set the wheels in motion so that in a few weeks’ time, we can come clean.
It’s risky, but I’m ready.
It’s time for me to do my own thing.
And then to get the girl.
31
The woman I want crosses one ankle over the other, lounging seductively at an outdoor table as the sun streams across the sidewalk.
Then again, everything she does is seductive to me.
She could clean the kitchen counter and look hot.
As I near her, London pops her purple sunglasses up on her head and shoots me a smile.
I give her a curious look as I join her at House of Pies the next morning. I worked too late to see her last night.
“Purple shades? An homage to Prince?” I ask when I reach her table.
“Or maybe it’s my favorite color when I’m in a particularly good mood,” she says, rising from her chair.
That’s my invitation to slide in for a kiss.
I cup her cheek, press a kiss to her soft lips, and imagine we’ll do this every day.
We break the contact and sit. “So, purple is your favorite color. I can’t believe I didn’t know this,” I say. “We need to rectify this right now. I need all sorts of favorites from you.”
&nb
sp; “Ooh, a rectification. I’m down for that. Also, how dirty does that word sound? As dirty as, say, flange or masticate?”
“Or bilabial fricative.”
She blinks, then narrows her eyes. “Wash your mouth out with soap.”
“I know, right? Sounds filthy.”
“Sounds intriguing. What the flange is a bilabial fricative?” she asks, but before I can answer, a waiter stops by.
We order eggs and coffee, and thank him.
Once he leaves, I answer London. “I wish it were a wild new position I could introduce you to. It’s just a type of consonant sound. But it’s one of those things I learned from having to, ya know, use my voice for a living.”
“If you want some dirty-sounding jargon from my profession, I can offer coccyx balance.”
I lean closer, lowering my voice. “I’d like to balance you on my cock.”
She laughs. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist that.”
“You were right. But don’t let me distract you from the rectification. Tell me stuff.”
She taps her glasses. “These are my prescription shades, because purple is my favorite color. But sometimes red is too. You know my favorite food is sushi and that I pledge my allegiance to ice cream. I should probably add that my favorite movie of all time is Ten Things I Hate About You because Heath Ledger can sing and act, and I love the nineties, which you know because of my 90210 shirt. And I bet it won’t surprise you to know that my favorite book is Pride and Prejudice,” she says, and I grin like a lovestruck fool because I knew some of that, but not all, and I fucking love learning things about this woman.
Love.
There’s that word.
I think I’m more than falling for her.
I think I’m falling into something I didn’t expect to happen.
“More, gimme more. I’m hungry for London intel,” I say.
“If you insist, here’s another tidbit. Did you know I’m excellent at ballroom dancing?”
I laugh. “No, but I’m not surprised.”
“Tango is my favorite, and that’s why I’m excited today and wearing my purple glasses.”
“For your good mood?”
“Yes, because I got a fantastic email this morning. It’s about a job.”
“The one with André Davies? The producer?”
She shakes her head. “No, it’s from Shay Sloan. The woman I worked with in Vegas.”
A sliver of worry spreads under my skin. “Are you going back to Vegas?”
She laughs, shaking her head. “No. But she recommended me for a job in San Francisco, and she said the director of that show is interested in talking to me today about a ballroom dancing sequence in a musical he’s producing. And if all goes well, he’ll fly me out ASAP for a trial and to see if I like the city.”
This is awesome.
And a little alarming.
“To see if you like San Francisco?” I ask, since that’s a twist I didn’t see coming. “Did you know that was going to happen?”
“I had no idea. I just got an email. He wants to talk on the phone later today, so we set up a call.”
I swallow, trying to figure out what to say next, how to be the supportive . . . boyfriend?
Since I think that’s what I’m supposed to be.
“That’s really fantastic,” I say, meaning it, but also trying to figure out what the hell this San Francisco job means for us.
She reaches for my hand, threading her fingers through mine. “But don’t worry. I still want to see you. Whatever happens with the job.”
Fuck, do I even deserve her?
I want it to be tomorrow so I can begin to sort this out.
I need to get my shit together and stop playing What’s Your Favorite Color games, even though I love knowing all her favorite things.
Because I love . . .
A brash voice cuts across the morning air. “Goooooood morning, Insomnia!”
I jerk my gaze from London as Carlos calls out in a distinct Robin Williams impersonation. How does he have this much energy after a full night of working the pole?
The smoothie in his hand is my only guess. He’s a few feet away, walking toward us with Stanley, both of them in muscle tanks and gym shorts.
“Hey,” I say, my back straightening as a bolt of tension shoots through me. London and I are only having breakfast, but we were kissing, and she was holding my hand, and fuck me.
I need to figure my shit out fast because I don’t want to run into anyone from work here. Don’t want to see anyone before I tell Archer I’m going to leave and then date his sister.
Maybe they won’t notice who I’m with. Or, hey, maybe they’ll walk right on past us without glancing her way or saying another word.
No such luck. The two big men stop at our table.
“Lookie look. It’s my new dance partner. When are we going to work on our routine?” Carlos asks, bending to drop a kiss onto London’s cheek. Never let it be said that Carlos takes a long time to make friends.
“It better be soon. I saw you dance a few weeks ago, and you have got some serious hip action,” she says.
Carlos’s brown eyes twinkle, then he nudges Stanley. “See? Told you I was a better dancer than you.”
Stanley narrows his eyes. “I don’t think that’s what she said.”
“That’s what I heard.” Carlos’s eyes flick to me and back to London, like he’s processing the scene fully. And process it he does.
“Ohhhhhh. You two are together. Holy shit. I didn’t know you were dating the boss’s sister,” he says, smacking my shoulder.
Fuck. My. Life.
London shoots me a look that says Fix this.
But before I can say a word, Stanley cuts in. “Oh, the scandal of it all,” he says, as though the two of them are on a daytime soap.
Carlos sweeps his hand in front of him like he’s framing a marquee. “Tune in at three for the latest drama on As the Edge Turns.”
I groan, my chest tightening, my gut coiling. “All right, guys, it’s just breakfast,” I say, hoping to end their fun.
But they won’t be denied.
“And people who have breakfast together usually had dinner together the night before,” Carlos says to Stanley.
“And probably dessert too,” Stanley fires back.
“We’re just talking about work stuff,” I say, nearly choking on the lameness of my reply.
Carlos claps my shoulder. “We’re just messing with you, buddy. You two enjoy your work breakfast. See you at the club tonight.”
“And no worries, Teddy. Your secret’s safe with us,” Stanley says like he’s in a cheesy horror film, and the two head off.
My skin prickles with nerves.
No, worse—with guilt.
As they walk away, I turn to face London. Her brown eyes display her worry too.
I groan, the loudest groan in the city, then drop my face to the table. “I’m such an ass.”
Running into my coworkers for breakfast and lying to them? How the hell did I get to this point?
Oh, right. By trying to hedge my bets.
A soft hand strokes my hair. “You’re not an ass. But maybe . . .”
I lift my face. “Maybe I am?”
She shakes her head. “No. But maybe if you feel that way, we should . . .”
She doesn’t have to finish the thought—I do. I hate what I’m about to say, but I have to say it. “Cool things off?” It comes out strangled. Hell, the words are choking me.
She nods, her gaze full of sympathy. “I don’t want to, but I get why you feel crummy. You’ve been honest with me about where you’re coming from. I know that mixing work and relationships is tough for you.”
“So we should cool it?” I ask, needing the confirmation, needing to say it aloud, so it registers fully.
“Maybe? Probably,” she says heavily.
My heart sinks like an anchor in my chest. Because she’s right. I’ve been honest with her, but I haven’t
been honest with Archer. And that’s on me. I knew I was playing with fire. I was living on borrowed time, a mouse playing while the cat was away. But that’s not how you tell someone something hard.
There’s a right way to do things.
To say the hard stuff.
Seeing the guys is the splash of cold water I needed. I can’t keep having my cake and eating it too simply because of a fucking camping trip.
Archer unplugged is a reprieve, but it’s not permission.
I thought I had set my defenses up to protect against this possibility. All I had to do was meet a woman from outside my place of business. Keep work and my private life separate. In Los Angeles, of all places, that shouldn’t have been difficult. Then I met London. And now she’s the only woman I want.
Trouble is, I haven’t earned her yet.
If I’m going to take the good-guy challenge in bed, I need to behave like one outside of the bedroom too. That means doing the right thing, even when it’s difficult.
I swallow roughly, then nod, owning this next step no matter how much it sucks. “I should sort things out,” I say, doing my best to play it cool, like this is easy. Because I don’t want to make anything harder for her.
Her face relaxes, her expression softening, like she’s relieved. “That moment just now was a little too close for comfort. Maybe we both need to breathe.”
“Absolutely. You’ve got this new opportunity in San Francisco. You should figure out what that means too.”
“More than that, Teddy,” London says softly, like she’s forcing the words out. “I see how conflicted you are right now, and I don’t want to be the one to stand in your way.”
Her last line hits me square in the chest. But as much as I want to fight for us, she’s right. “And I don’t want to stand in your way either.”
She glances inside toward the restaurant, then smacks her forehead. “I just remembered. I got the time wrong on that call. It’s in a half hour. I better go and take it at home.”
I blink, surprised. London usually remembers details like that. “Of course. Good luck.”
“And to you too,” she says, then grabs her purse, palms her keys, and stands.
How To Get Lucky Page 16