One Night Stand-In

by Blakely, Lauren

  I look forward to hearing back.

  My best,

  Lola

  To: Lola Dumont

  From: Harrison Bates

  Subject: Re: FW: Let’s Break Up Early!

  Sure! The easier way is to wait for her to come back and then Loudmouth and Louder-mouth can do it themselves! And then they’ll lose their security deposit! Also, that’s super nice of you to do it for them. If you get it back, they should give you their security deposit as a thanks!

  Harrison

  I groan, then find the sexy ex’s—I mean Lucas’s—phone number on the email from my sadistic sister and send him a text.

  * * *

  Lola: I have one day to devote to this sibling assignment. I’ll meet you at their place tonight at seven.

  Lucas: Whoa. How about a “Hello? How are you? How have you been, my old friend?”

  Lola: Are you really going to correct my social graces at this particular moment? Also, “old friend”? Revisionist historian, much?

  Lucas: My memory is irrefutable. There was definitely friendship before you smothered it.

  Lola: Ah, yes. I was the sole one responsible for the smothering. You had nothing to do with it.

  Lucas: See? My point exactly. But enough about the past. I was hoping you’d at the very least try to ply me with dinner and drinks before you attempted to get me in bed at your sister’s place.

  Lola: If I were trying to get you in bed—something that wouldn’t even happen as a way to pass the time during a zombie apocalypse—such a tryst would never occur in my sister’s bed.

  Lucas: Ah, my mistake. You did say we should meet at their place, so I presumed you wanted to have your way with me. I guess another reason might be to try to negotiate with Mr. Bates. Perhaps you’ll have better luck. I attempted to rationalize with him.

  Lola: And how did those efforts go?

  Lucas: I would say “not well” is a fair way to describe them. But I’ll screenshot them so you can see for yourself. Here you go.

  * * *

  To: Harrison Bates

  From: Lucas Xavier

  Subject: FW: Let’s Break Up Early!

  Hey,

  This is Rowan’s brother. Let’s cut to the chase and put this mess behind us. What do you need to just hand over their stuff and move on?

  Lucas

  To: Lucas Xavier

  From: Harrison Bates

  Subject: Re: FW: Let’s Break Up Early!

  Hello Lucas!

  I’d have to check my running tab of time lost, creativity sapped, and weeks of writer’s block on account of Loudmouth and Louder-mouth. Hold on.

  Be right back . . .

  Okay! I calculated it.

  How’s $5679?

  If that works for you, it’s good with me! Otherwise, have fun! That’s all this is—just some fun and games.

  Harrison

  To: Harrison Bates

  From: Lucas Xavier

  Subject: Re: Re: FW: Let’s Break Up Early!

  Sounds more like payback. And the answer is no.

  To: Lucas Xavier

  From: Harrison Bates

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: FW: Let’s Break Up Early!

  But payback can be fun for all parties involved. I swear!

  * * *

  Gobsmacked, I stare at the screenshot. Amy was right—Harrison is delightfully peeved. Wait. Make that gleefully. I slump in my chair, groaning. “Luna, what have you gotten me into?”

  But there’s no time to wallow. The sooner I handle my sister’s mess, the sooner I can put it in the rearview mirror.

  I tap out a reply to Lucas, lest he think he’s the only one who searched for an alternative.

  Lola: I reached out to him as well and was similarly rebuffed.

  Lucas: As you can see, I took the liberty of rebuffing his offer. But if you want to fork over some green, feel free. (Also, to your point about trying to get me between the sheets, I assure you, bed with me is an excellent way to pass the time, zombie apocalypse or not.)

  Lola: Let me go ahead and file that under things that will never happen. And just to be 100 percent clear—something that may confound you—I suggested meeting at their place to go through the list, not to bed you. Let’s focus on the task and get it done.

  Lucas: Was it really a suggestion though? Seemed more like an order. But I can get on board with orders.

  Lola: The list, Lucas. Let’s meet at their place to go over this godforsaken, demented list.

  Lucas: Sure, it’s all about the list. Wink, wink. If you say so.

  Lola: You are and always have been exasperating. Now, Mr. Social Graces Police, please do let me know if seven p.m. works for you?

  Lucas: If it works for you, sweetheart, I’m there.

  Lola: Yes. But don’t call me “sweetheart.”

  Lucas: Is “darling” better? You don’t seem like a “darling,” but hey, if that’s what you’re into now, so be it.

  Lola: I am into helping my sister. I will see you tonight.

  * * *

  I shove my phone into a drawer, turning the traitorous device to silent, in case that man attempts to distract me with another infuriating text.

  Wait. Screw that. I refuse to be distracted by . . . pseudo exes.

  That’s what he is.

  He’s barely even an ex.

  He’s a quasi ex.

  And every smart, modern, educated woman in the city knows you don’t give an ounce of energy to quasi exes from college.

  I draw a deep breath, trying to channel some of my morning workout endorphins to fuel me all day long.

  I’m nose to the grindstone for the next eight hours. I stop briefly to have a quick deskside lunch with my friend Baldwin, an editor here.

  “Listen, pretty lady, I need to know if I should wear the pinstriped T-shirt when I take James to the Yankees game this weekend, or if I should wear this gray one, which admittedly makes me look pretty edible,” he says, showing me the options on his phone.

  “Definitely the gray one.”

  He winks as we finish our salads. “Always good advice to look edible.”

  We finish and I return to my computer screen, barely glancing away except for one brief lightbulb-flashing moment when I cackle out loud like an evil genius. At the end of the day, I pop into Amy’s office to say goodbye.

  “Wish I was joining you and Peyton at Gin Joint,” I say with a pout.

  “Le sigh. Me too. But with your brainpower, I bet you’ll have all the items back in a few hours, and then you can put this list behind you.”

  I knock on wood, though I’m not superstitious. That’s Luna’s department. We’re both artsy, but we’re on opposite ends. She’s the head-in-the-clouds sister; I’m the get-shit-done one. “And once it’s behind me, I can focus on the design competition. Which brings me to my crackerjack plan,” I say, wiggling my eyebrows.

  “I love it already,” she says before I can breathe a word. “But now, tell me everything.”

  “Lucas’s design was short-listed for the Design-Off International. So, this scavenger hunt will serve a double purpose. Retrieve Luna’s things and scope out the competition.”

  Amy nods approvingly. “I love when you talk spy. Go get ’em, Double-O-Seven.”

  “I will,” I say, then head home to spend a half-hour on Peter’s designs—I’m adding some slick graphic elements to snaz up his YouTube channel. Confident he’ll like these, I save the files, back them up in my Dropbox, then confirm a time for our meeting in the morning.

  I shower and change into skinny jeans, ankle boots, and a form-fitting black T-shirt. One that happens to have a V-neck.

  That might also be a little snug.

  That possibly makes me look like a babe, as my last beau, Fabian, declared when he saw me in it. But that was before Fabian turned into a stage-five clinger, and this modern woman doesn’t have time for clingers or for relationships.

  So I said goodbye to Fabian, sending him the way of Alejandro and
the others. But even though I’m wearing man blinders these days, I can definitely wedge in a little taunting of a quasi ex in the form of a sexy-casual ensemble.

  After all, it can’t hurt for Lucas to remember what he missed out on that weekend in college.

  Me.

  He missed out on me.

  Even though his excuse was lame, I did understand how he missed our first date. The issue wasn’t the why. It was the lack of a true apology. I didn’t need to get involved with a man who couldn’t find it in himself to say he was truly sorry for what happened that weekend. I made it easier for both of us by saying, We should just go back to being friends.

  Only, we became rivals instead, competing for coveted undergrad assignments, internships, and awards.

  I leave my place in Chelsea, pop in my AirPods to tune in to a new podcast drama about a cursed carnival and the eerie enchantments that occur in it at night, and catch the subway to Brooklyn.

  When I exit the train in Prospect Park and wind through my sister’s neighborhood, I find my ersatz ex lounging on the steps of my sister’s building, his long, athletic frame stretched out ever so casually, the fading sun casting a sunset glow on his carved cheekbones.

  Damn those cheekbones.

  Screw that square jaw.

  And carnival curse those broody brown eyes.

  He’s both an artist and an athlete, just like he was in college.

  But when I take in his dark jeans, his T-shirt with a stick figure on it, and the five-o’clock stubble that graces his olive skin, I have a feeling he dipped his hand into the same bag of tricks I did.

  The “tempt the old flame” one.

  Because that man, does he ever look fine.

  I have no choice but to pretend I’m made of ice.

  5

  Lucas

  “Hi. We don’t have time to sit. We have less than forty-eight hours,” she says, all chop-chop without so much as a proper hello.

  This woman. The look she fires at me could freeze a dick in a Rio de Janeiro summer. A dick on a beach staring at babes in bikinis.

  Did I dodge a bullet in college or what?

  Someone was looking out for me then.

  Maybe I had some regrets at the time. Maybe I wished I’d handled it differently. But right now, with her icicle eyes, I’m all good with how shit went down.

  Even so, I need to lock down my reaction to her. But with her wearing those painted-on jeans and that snug-as-sin shirt that shows off the hollow of her throat and the curves of her breasts, resistance is as hard as stone.

  Be casual. Don’t think with your little head this time.

  I stretch my arms up high, taking my time answering the ice queen, trying to shake off my inconvenient lust. “True, we do have only two days, but I’m pretty sure you said you’re devoting one mere day to the cause. That’s what you said in your text. So, looks like we have twenty-four hours. But don’t worry. I know math is hard.” I give her a sympathetic smile.

  She rolls her chocolate-brown eyes, then adopts a plastic grin. “Yes, and it’s been typically challenging for you too. Differentiating between a weekend and a day was never your strong suit.”

  Sighing heavily, I stand. What’s the point in arguing with her? We hashed out this little was it a day, was it a weekend issue back when my lacrosse team captains decided to steal the team away for a weekend instead of an afternoon.

  The timing sucked.

  The night before, Lola and I had been hanging out, as we often did. That night, though, hanging out had turned into a soft and tender kiss, which had turned into a hot and heavy kiss, which had turned into something more as she fell apart beneath my fingers.

  And that turned into me asking, Can I take you to the department dinner on Saturday night?

  The one with all the professors?

  Yes.

  With delight in her pretty brown eyes, she’d said, I’d love to go with you.

  Then Saturday came, and my teammates showed up at my door and said they were taking us away for the afternoon for team bonding, no phones allowed.

  The afternoon turned out to be the whole weekend.

  The net result? Technically, I stood her up. I wasn’t able to make what would have been our first official date, and I’d had no way of reaching her.

  I’d felt like complete and utter shit. But when I returned and tried to explain what happened—the captains kidnapping us, the camping and fishing trip—well, Lola said it was no big deal and that we were better off as friends anyway.

  Okayyyyyy.

  Hell if I was going to let on that I was hurt. Or that I wanted to make it up to her, to take her out again and properly say I was sorry.

  No fucking way.

  If she wanted to friend-zone me, I wasn’t going to fight for more. Fine, I’d said. It was just one night anyway.

  Yeah, that comment didn’t go over so well. But hey, we were going to be friends again and our friendship could withstand a little awkward moment.

  Only, we weren’t a rubber band that snapped back into friendship shape.

  We are this—the older brother and sister of a pair of crazy young lovers, and also rivals in business. Even more so now with the design competition next week.

  I point to my watch. “As the man himself said, ticktock. What do you want to tackle first?”

  “The first item, I presume.” Reaching into her back pocket, she grabs her phone, taps on the screen, then scrolls.

  But I don’t need to look up the email. I remember it. “If memory serves, the email from the Ringmaster listed where they first met as item numero uno,” I say.

  She glances up from the phone, the corner of her lips quirking. “‘Ringmaster,’” she says, like she’s testing the word on her tongue. “That works. Though personally I like to call him ‘The Happy-Go-Lucky Sadist.’”

  I scrub a hand across my chin, considering this nickname. It’s not bad. Not bad at all. But I can’t give an inch to this woman. She is a ferocious tiger, and she’ll pounce. Like she did when I ran into her at an industry conference a year ago. Checking out the paperback jacket on display at one of the booths, she’d said my design for the memoir If Found, Please Return was a top candidate for the new award category Imitation Is the Sincerest Form of Flattery, since she claimed it was the spitting image of a cover from another publishing house.

  My cover had released first, I pointed out. Then I told her that her cover for Fashion Roadkill looked like it was drawn by a pigeon on speed.

  That was a red-hot lie. That cover was earth-shatteringly good.

  “I’ll stick to ‘Ringmaster,’” I say, furrowing my brow as I laser in on the mission. Trouble is, I’ve been noodling on the first item all day, but I’m not positive where my brother and his girlfriend met. Hell, does Rowan even know? Doubtful. But I bet Lola knows, since that’s the type of stuff girls gab about. “So, do you know where Luna and Rowan met?”

  “Of course I do.” She parks a hand on her hip, like the answer is so obvious. “The Cute As A store.”

  I lift a doubtful brow. “What are you talking about? What store?”

  She huffs, flapping her arms, pointing down the tree-lined street. “It’s ten blocks away. The button shop,” she says, taking a beat like she’s waiting for me to connect the dots. But the dots remain disconnected. “As in, ‘cute as a button.’ Luna was hunting for a new plaid dot button to go with her good-luck plaid skirt, and Rowan needed one for his Anakin Skywalker costume for a party he was going to. A Halloween party.”

  I blink, shaking my head like I can clear the ridiculous from it, though it’s hard to know where to begin sorting out that infodump. I start at square one. “Is there actually a store called Cute As A instead of Cute As A Button?”

  She laughs lightly, the gold flecks in her eyes twinkling as she does. “It’s a pretty bad one as far as names go.”

  I gesture to the sidewalk in the direction of the store. “I’d say it’s officially trying too hard.”

&n
bsp; “Right? No one knows what it is when you first say it. You always have to fill in the gap,” she says as we walk past the brownstones then a gourmet mustard shop tucked between two buildings. “Just call it what it is, right?”

  “There is definitely way too much let’s-try-to-be-clever going on in this world. Like specialty mustard shops.”

  “And toe-ring stores,” she adds.

  I swivel around, scanning for such an offensive jewelry boutique. “Please tell me there is no such thing.”

  She snaps her gaze to me and lifts a hand like she’s taking an oath. “I swear on a stack of Anne Rice novels. I actually passed a store in Soho the other day called This Little Piggy, and it sells all sorts of toe rings. Coral, platinum, and rose gold. They size your toes, measure them, and custom-make toe rings too.”

  I cringe. “I feel like I might need to unlearn everything you just said.”