“No, it’s not that crazy. It’s about my landlord, Harrison,” she says with a groan. “And our stuff. And this terrible letter he emailed to Rowan and me this morning. I couldn’t even read the whole thing—I could barely read the first few lines. I was so upset, and I need you, Lo. I need you so much. I just can’t believe he sent this email right before we’re going to perform for a week. This is our big break, and he knows it. I thought he was a kindred spirit. A fellow artist who understood how hard it is to make it in this world. And to do this.”
My brow furrows as I try to make sense of what she’s saying. “To do what? What did your landlord send you a letter about?”
Her voice wobbles, and I can picture her lower lip trembling. Classic Luna move, and it almost always works.
I am the opposite. I am iron, but I have to be with a sister like Luna. Because she’s as soft as a baby duck’s down.
“All my stuff,” she says, her voice breaking. “I couldn’t read the details through my tears, but it’s about my stuff. My notebooks. My special notebooks with my song lyrics in them. And my clothes, even my plaid skirt with the special plaid buttons. And Rowan’s guitars. All his precious acoustics.”
I stitch on my best calm voice, the one I’ve used with her for years, ever since the first summer that Mom and Dad took off for a meditation retreat in the Rockies to reconnect with each other. Reconnecting with each other is pretty much all they’ve done since. “Where is your stuff? It’s just in your apartment, right? Like, on your bureau and in the closet?”
“It’s . . .” A sob floods my ears. “It’s everywhere.”
“Your stuff can’t really be everywhere,” I say, trying to soothe her. She’s prone to dramatics, but even for my sister, this is a bit much.
“It is. I swear. And I need it back. We need it back. This is our big break with the Love Birds, and we have to totally focus on performing. It’s not just picking it up from our place—there’s actually a little more to it. The landlord went a little, well, bananas,” she says.
I groan as she explains, semi-coherently, what went down. I was right to worry. This is next-level PITA.
“I don’t know if I have time . . .” I say with a heavy sigh.
“But I’ll help you! Well, you’ll have help.”
I frown. “Help? Why do I need help grabbing your stuff?”
She’s silent for an ominous moment. Then, in the most chipper tone of the whole damn early morning, she says, “Rowan asked Lucas to get his things.”
The noisy gym goes stiller than a crypt.
The only sounds I hear are the echoes of the past, of my one-time friend.
Then Amy’s sneakers squeak as she exits the locker room and heads toward me, an eyebrow cocked in curiosity.
Luna, I mouth to Amy. “You’re joking,” I say into the phone, forcing a calm I don’t feel, clinging to a tattered hope. But secret-code phone rings aside, Luna is not a trickster.
“No. But it’ll be good, right? You always liked Lucas.”
“I used to like Lucas,” I correct.
I used to like him a hell of a lot.
Amy’s eyes widen to planet size when she hears that name. She knows the story.
Years ago, Lucas and I were friends. And then briefly, late one night, he kissed me like I was the only thing that mattered. Then that weekend passed, and I had to erase all my burgeoning feelings for the guy.
Now, he’s my rival. A former friend. A sexy ex who didn’t go back into the friendship box.
And I want to wipe that cocky smirk right off his face every damn time I see the man.
2
Lucas
I have this theory that your behavior in a coffee shop reveals your true personality.
Spend a little time in one and you can learn everything you need to know about a person.
Does the freckle-faced redhead with the penchant for chai tea treat the corner chair as her personal den, taking phone calls from her best friend to discuss her douchey ex who she dumped three days ago but then slept with again last night?
Yes.
Yes, she does.
How about the goateed guy who’s FaceTiming his roommate to discuss whether the guy on the other side of the screen Venmoed enough money to cover his portion of the extra-cheap ramen noodles they made last night? Meanwhile, goateed guy is sipping the granddaddy of expensive coffee shop concoctions—a grande latte made with espresso beans harvested by rare raccoons or something like that.
The number of things wrong with this tableau is too many to list.
Over there at a nearby table is a tattooed guy headbanging to Metallica rather than Sara Bareilles.
I’m not a big fan of either, but only one of those artists is supposed to be audible—the Sara Bareilles tunes Doctor Insomnia’s coffee shop is piping through its sound system, rather than the metal screaming from the guy’s headphones.
Noise-canceling for him maybe.
Not for the rest of us.
The Doctor Insomnia’s owner ambles from behind the counter to ask the Metallica fan to turn it down.
I mouth thank you to Tommy, who gives me a don’t mention it nod.
I return to my computer screen and the design Reid and I have been immersed in for the last two hours, fine-tuning the leaves on a book cover. He’s bent over his laptop too, AirPods in. I wish I could work with music in my ears. Never been able to.
A few minutes later, the gabby redhead finishes a mind-numbing conversation about the merits of SoulCycle when you’re back on the dating market. Her eyes swing to the restrooms, then she scans the shop.
Yup, I know what’s coming.
The call-in-a-favor-from-a-stranger.
And after the morning I’ve had, I am not in the mood.
I rap on the table to get my business partner’s attention. He removes an AirPod as I issue my prediction. “Count of ten. She’s going to ask us to watch her laptop while she goes to the restroom.”
He groans under his breath. “Don’t do it, Lucas. Don’t say it.”
“Why?”
“Because it makes you sound like a dick,” he mutters.
“Maybe I am one.”
“You’re just in a right pissy mood because of your brother.”
He’s right. He’s always right on this count, but I can’t think about Rowan this second. “Be that as it may, if we had a dime for every time someone turned around and asked us to babysit a laptop . . .”
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’d have enough for a couple of Metro trips, mate.”
“The Metro isn’t free. I’d take a MetroCard on the house.”
“Yeah? How’s that working out for you? Anyone paying you for the number of times a stranger’s asked you to keep an eye on a piece of electronics in a café?”
“No, but asking a stranger to watch your laptop is an evolutionary litmus test. It’s Darwin’s way of culling men and women from the herd.”
“You’re a piece of work. Also, for the record, I can’t decide if I wish our new office space were ready so we could work there, or if watching you lose your mind at coffee shops every day is tops as the best spectator sport ever,” he says, while the woman in the corner rises, surveying the landscape of patrons once more.
And I count down.
Ten, nine, eight.
The headbanger’s eyes are closed, so the redhead aims her crosshairs at the goateed guy first.
Seven, six, five.
Then an older woman with her hands full of three toddlers.
Four, three, two.
Then at us.
Two guys in dress shirts and nice jeans, with expensive computers.
One. Target acquired.
Squaring her shoulders, she makes her move, crossing the few feet to our nearby table.
“Hey there,” she says, then hooks her thumb in the direction of the restroom. “You look like nice guys, so I’m hoping you can just watch my laptop for, like, a sliver of a sec while I run to the big gi
rls’ room. I drank too much chai tea.”
“The hazards of coffee shops,” I deadpan, right as Reid cuts in, saying, “Absolutely.”
She blinks, not sure who’s answering her or who to talk to.
“So you’ll do it?” she asks, her expression bordering on desperate.
“Happy to,” Reid says.
“Nope,” I say in unison.
“You’re British,” she says to him in a flirty tone, her lips quirking up as my friend answers her.
“I am? First I’m learning of this.” He flashes her a smile, turning on the charm.
“I love British accents,” she says, grinning right back at him.
“What do you know? I come fully equipped with one.”
“What else do you come fully equipped with?” she purrs.
If Reid were truly flirting, I’d feel like an asshole for doing this. But I know this guy—he’s not on the market.
“Question though,” I say to the woman, who’s demonstrated all the facets of coffee shop douchery while we’ve worked here on our project the last week. “How do you know we won’t steal your laptop during that ‘sliver of a sec’? What makes you think we’re nice guys? Is it his accent? Or my smile?” I give her my best I’m a dick grin.
“Now, now, Lucas. That’s not true. Only one of us is a nice guy,” Reid says to the woman, as he pats his chest and mouths, I am.
“In that case . . .” She stammers, then lunges several feet to her table, grabs her laptop, and clutches it to her chest. “I’ll just take it with me.”
“Good plan,” I say, nodding my approval.
“Asshole,” she mutters as she rushes to the restroom.
I turn back to the screen, but Reid is staring at me, jaw agape.
“Seriously? She was flirting with me. That was my chance. My golden chance. Fully equipped. I am indeed fully equipped, and I’m happy to show her how the equipment fully works. Not to mention she’s the first pretty woman to ask us to babysit a computer in the last week.”
“But how does she know I’m not a hacker? A thief? Head of a black-market ring of stolen laptops and the credit cards auto-filled on them? I’m doing the world a service by saying no to those requests, even if it makes me look like a dick.” I tap my temple. “I’m making her think next time she asks someone she doesn’t know to watch an expensive machine.” I smile proudly. “I’m rather helpful, you see.”
He huffs. “Oh, right. You’re a brand-new vigilante do-gooder. Captain No. Saving the world by refusing to let people be stupid.”
“Captain No. I like the sound of that.”
He rolls his eyes. “Because that’s precisely what the world needs. We’ve been sorely lacking in Stupidity Police.”
I preen. “Thank you. I should note that my efforts served a double purpose. Not only did I save a stranger from her own poor judgment, I saved you from a poor dating choice.”
Offended, Reid straightens his spine. “I can make my own poor dating choices, thank you very much.”
“Not if I can help it. One, you don’t need to babysit a hot babe’s laptop to get laid. Two, you’re not interested, man.”
“Who says I’m not interested?”
I roll my eyes. “You act like you’re interested in dating, but all you do is window-shop. You’re still hung up on that girl you met three years ago in Paris.”
He groans, shaking his head. “I am not hung up.”
“Tell that to the jury. Also, that woman was not going to give you her digits for watching her MacBook. I heard the things she was saying to her friend, or whoever it was, while you were lost in your Taylor Swift mix. You’d have taken her out for three pricey dinners and she’d still have gotten back together with her douchey ex.”
“There is nothing wrong with Taylor Swift.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “Funny how that’s what you’ve glommed on to. Which proves my point again about you being hung up. And did I say there was anything wrong with Taylor?”
“You sounded like you were going to.”
I give him a sympathetic smile. “Aww, you’re sensitive.”
“You’re not,” he fires back as he drags a hand through his dark hair.
“Exactly. Someone has to look out for you. And someone has to look out for my fucking kid brother.”
“The truth comes out,” he says with a knowing stare. “This isn’t about me. Or her. This isn’t even about your utter disdain for people who dare to break your rules of coffee shop decorum.” Reid takes a beat and points at me. “This is about Rowan and the text exchange you grumbled about more than an hour ago.”
I groan from the black depths of my soul. “I love that kid, but seriously. What the hell am I going to do with him?”
“Well, he is an adult.”
“He’s twenty-five going on eight,” I say, as evidenced by his messages this morning.
“You could say no,” Reid offers.
My shoulders sag as I briefly consider that tempting possibility.
But there is no no.
I can’t say no to the knucklehead, even though I want to.
Lord knows how desperately I want to, especially as I pick up my phone and reread his texts from an hour ago.
Rowan: Hey!
Rowan: How the hell are you?
Rowan: Is business good?
Rowan: Are you still kicking ass as New York’s top graphic designer?
Rowan: I bet you’ve won ten more awards since the last time we spoke. Nabbed twenty more clients. Wiped the floor with the competition.
Rowan: Because you, my big bro, are a rock star.
Did he think I couldn’t read between the lines? When Rowan goes into full fluffer mode, he’s going in for the big favor.
And that’s what he asked for. I grit my teeth as I read the next text, the very note that ignited my fine mood.
Rowan: So, listen. I need you to do me a solid. Our landlord is a total drama llama. I swear, he’s just jelly that Luna and I are landing some stellar gigs. And he threw out all our stuff because of what went down the last night we were in town. But seriously, what’s the biggie? We are a fiery couple, and sometimes we have tiffs.
Lucas: You and Luna have tiffs like Mike Tyson has tiffs.
Rowan: Please. I never bit her ear off.
Lucas: Not yet.
Rowan: Anyway, we’re here in Athens (and we are madly in love still!), but we’re about to go dark for, like, eight days because of this Mediterranean cruise. (Which is fully booked! And I can’t wait to croon my heart out with my girl all night long on the club level! Love Birds indeed!) So . . . if you can help your little bro out and get my stuff, that would be awesome. I owe you big-time, and I love you, man.
Lucas: What do you need?
Rowan: Just a couple things. I need my guitars for this auction coming up for the children’s hospital, and my clothes, obvs, and my collection of Star Wars T-shirts, which are my good luck charm, and since I don’t have them, that’s obviously why Luna and I were fighting.
Lucas: That’s more than a couple things, Rowan.
Rowan: I know, I know! But please be my Obi-Wan. You’re my only hope.
Lucas: Fine. But because of the Star Wars T-shirts. That I understand. Well, not the Star Wars obsession, but the T-shirt one. Where do I get your stuff from? Your place? I assume the key still works?
Rowan: Well, that’s the funny thing . . .
I set the phone down and take a fueling drink of my coffee. I need another hit of caffeine before I reread his last text. Because I don’t have time for a scavenger hunt. Not when I have clients breathing down my neck, not with the design competition in sight. Nabbing the top prize with a killer presentation would be huge for our firm, and I don’t need a single distraction.
I meet Reid’s I told you so gaze, feeling sheepish as I gesture to the string of texts. “Look, I can’t say no to Rowan.” I wince. “Not least because I already said yes.”
He shakes his head. “You always say yes
to him. Like that time you had to proof his history paper. He was a senior in college.”
“He’s bad with grammar!”
“So is nearly everyone. But hey, you can take up that cause too. Be a grammar cop.”
I shoot him a sharp look. “No one, not even I, has time for that.”
Reid leans back in his chair and strokes his chin. “Or what about last year when he performed in Colorado? Remember how he called you and said, ‘Dude, my hands are so dry I can’t play my guitar’?”
“Yes,” I mutter, knowing what’s coming next.
“You told him to go to the store and get hand lotion, and he said he didn’t know what kind and it was too confusing and he was just wandering the aisles not knowing what to buy.”
I scrub my hand across my chin, looking away.
“And what did you do?” he continues like a prosecutor.
I glance at the headbanger, who’s now air drumming. I wish I had massive headphones on right now. I wish my hearing were noise-canceling.
“I called the store and told the store manager what kind to put aside for him,” I grumble.
Reid’s lips twitch in a victory grin. “But that’s not all.” He wiggles his fingers. “Serve it up. Every detail.”
“I paid for it for him,” I blurt out. “There. Are you happy?”
He crosses his arms, grinning. “A little bit. Now, tell me again why you said yes to this new request?”
I heave a frustrated sigh. “It’s fine. It’ll be easy. How long can it possibly take to gather his things? He hasn’t forwarded me the email from his landlord with all the details yet, but it’ll take maybe a day, tops.”
One Night Stand-In Page 2