One Night Stand-In

by Blakely, Lauren

  Or what would happen if I did.

  But when my stomach rumbles, at least that’s an easy want to name—breakfast. “Any chance we can take this brainstorm to a diner? I’m starving for pancakes drenched in syrup.”

  Lola snaps her gaze to me. “That’s it!”

  “That’s what Luna would do if she won the lottery? Open a diner? Eat pancakes drizzled with warm butter and covered in syrup?”

  She shakes her head, grinning as she taps my thigh. “Sounds like your fantasy, Lucas. But I meant the fourth item. Your songwriting notebooks are where you had the ‘Oh my God, wasn’t that the hottest makeup sex ever, babe?’ and ‘The only thing that would have made it hotter would have been syrup.’ A diner. Their favorite diner is about ten blocks away. Wendy’s Diner. That has to be it.”

  “Wendy’s Diner has the best pancakes ever,” I add, and as soon as I say it, it tickles a memory. “Rowan once told me he had the best pancakes ever there, and I guess that was why.”

  “We can go there and get the notebooks, and we can go to Takes Two to Tango after, or tonight,” Lola says.

  “I’m famished too,” Reid chimes in. “I could go for pancakes. Maybe some eggs too.”

  Peyton shoots him a stare, like she’s trying to send him a telepathic message, and says, “You’re not hungry,” in a these aren’t the droids you’re looking for way.

  Reid blinks. “I’m definitely hungry.”

  Peyton shakes her head, trying again. “Reid, did you know I own a lingerie shop? It’s a few blocks away. Want to come check it out?”

  “Thanks, but I don’t wear lingerie,” he says, and I chuckle privately because I have a hunch what Peyton’s up to—trying to get Lola and me alone again.

  “But single women do. And some of them come to my shop,” Peyton says, and perhaps she’s doing double duty, leaving us alone and ushering Reid to the store to play some sort of matchmaker. “Single women who like water rides. Like my store manager.”

  He snaps to attention, as if just remembering he’s been on a hunt trying to find his girl from Paris.

  The possibility that she might be in this shop will surely be irresistible to my friend.

  Irresistible but slim, I suspect.

  “Yes, I would love to see your shop.”

  As Peyton and Amy escort Reid to the lingerie shop, Lola and I head for pancakes.

  Once we reach the diner and introduce ourselves, a woman with Little Orphan Annie curls tsks at us, holding a canvas bag of notebooks and saying, “Finally. I was about ready to throw these out.”

  18

  Lola

  I lift my fork and point it at Lucas’s empty plate. One lone pancake crumb graces the ceramic surface. I stab it and offer it to him, chiding, “You shouldn’t leave anything on your plate, Lucas.”

  “Damn. How did I miss that?” He leans forward, darts out his tongue, and devours the last bit of pancake from the tines.

  He groans in pure Food-Network-host perfection. “Thank you,” he says, intently serious, “for locating that final morsel.”

  “I take it you’re adding these pancakes to the soul-selling list?” I ask with a raise of a brow.

  He screws up the corner of his lips then strokes his chin. “I’m considering it. The fries only needed one try. But I feel that to award such a distinction, I’d have to try these pancakes three times. Three separate occasions.”

  “Of course,” I say, dabbing at my lips with a napkin. “Like when a food critic visits a restaurant a few times before reviewing it.”

  “Exactly. You want to make sure these are worth going to Hades and back.”

  I narrow my brow. “Correct me if I’m wrong. But I’m pretty sure a deal with the devil means you don’t come back.”

  He snaps his fingers. “Dammit. You’re right. My brain is in a syrup and pancake fog. No wonder Rowan said these were the best pancakes ever. Because these are the best pancakes ever.”

  “Just imagine how good they were for Rowan and Luna,” I say with a naughty glint in my eye. “Sounds like they had pancakes after the nooky.” I glance around the diner, taking in the frayed mint-green polyester booths, the white Formica counters, the red metal stools, and the smell of butter lingering in the air. “Which raises the question . . .”

  He raises a stop sign palm. “Don’t say it. Don’t ask it.”

  “Oh, come on. That’s why we’re here.” I pat the notebooks, then remind him of the clue. “They had makeup sex here.”

  “Or so Harrison says.”

  “They obviously did. How else would we have figured out where to go?”

  “Maybe they just talked about having makeup sex here,” he says, a little hopeful.

  “You’re not squeamish about this, are you?”

  He scoffs. “About sex? No. About my little brother? Maybe a little.”

  “He’s twenty-five!”

  “And he’ll always be a little brother to me.”

  “You want your little brother to be virginal?”

  “No. I just don’t want to think about where my brother is getting it on. Especially with your sister.”

  “News flash: they’re doing it, Lucas. They’re doing it a lot. I bet that’s why neither one has replied to our messages. That whole no cell service on a cruise is probably a cover-up for nonstop banging in the cabin overlooking the Mediterranean.”

  He covers his ears. “La la la la. I can’t hear you.”

  I lean across the table and yank his hands from his head. “You are hilarious. He’s your brother. Not your kid.” But as soon as those words fall from my lips, I stop teasing him. My heart softens. “You do think of him in some ways like a kid, don’t you?”

  He shrugs, a sheepish smile on his lips. “Sort of. It’s silly, I know. We’re only four years apart. But yeah, I do. Yes, he’s a brother, but he also feels like mine. So, I’m sure I have all sorts of weird issues when I think about him having sex.”

  “Freud would like to work with you.”

  He drags a hand through his hair. “No doubt. But look, I know he’s an adult. I know he’s having sex. I just don’t want to know the details.”

  And the devil appears on my shoulder, pushing aside the angel. “Don’t worry. I highly doubt it was this booth.” I pat the seat.

  He shoots laser beams at me with his eyes. “You are evil, woman. It better not have been this booth.”

  I laugh, loving how wound up he is. I scan the small diner again. “A booth is far too public. I bet it was the bathroom. I’m going to go check it out,” I say, egging him on.

  I rise, and he grabs at my arm. “Are you honestly casing the bathroom for a potential public sex site?”

  His eyes are blazing, and as they roam down my body then back up, I can tell all thoughts of his brother have fallen by the wayside.

  “Sure,” I say, my voice going a little smoky.

  “Then I’ll join you in the casing.”

  Rising, he reaches into his wallet, tosses some bills on the table, grabs the bag with the notebooks, and follows me to the back of the diner. Framed black-and-white movie posters hang on the wall—Casablanca and Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

  I shoot him flirty, dirty eyes as I set a hand on the door to the ladies’ room.

  For a few seconds, I leave my palm there, a myriad of thoughts spinning wildly through my brain. Will I fuck Lucas in the bathroom? Will I sleep with Lucas again? And most of all, why does it feel so easy, so natural to even suggest it and walk back here with him?

  The answer to the third one is as complicated as the way you feel when you watch Casablanca—it puts your heart through the wringer.

  Still, I want to know the answers to one and two. I push open the door.

  The bathroom is tiny.

  There’s barely room in here for peeing.

  And as I scan it, I know something else.

  I’m not the kind of girl who bangs guys in a public restroom.

  I’m not squeamish, and I’m not opposed to quic
kies. But there is nothing more annoying than needing to pee and having to wait ages because someone else is locked in the restroom.

  Maybe Luna was that girl.

  Maybe she wasn’t.

  Maybe they messed around someplace else in the diner.

  But I’m sure I’m not that girl.

  Yet I’m also keenly aware I’m not immune to this man, nor do I want to be.

  I let the door fall closed, stepping back into the alcove with the posters, next to him.

  He’s inches away, and he lifts a brow in curiosity.

  “I figure if you’d sell your soul to end coffee shop phone calls, we can’t do that. But I can do this.” I cup his cheek, run my thumb along his jaw, and rise up to meet his mouth.

  I kiss him.

  Soft and tender.

  A journey across his lips.

  As I go, I record the sights and sounds. I savor the sweet taste of his mouth, the syrup and pancake flavor of him that’s more enticing than carbs and sugar should be.

  Or maybe he’s exactly as enticing as that combo is.

  Wait. Make that better.

  Because after he sets down the bag, he loops an arm around my waist, yanks me closer, and hauls me in for a deeper kiss.

  His lips are hungry, eager. He explores my mouth, kissing me like he wants to remember every second of this, like every moment is worth capturing. He moans as he kisses, and he tugs as he kisses too, pulling me impossibly closer to him in the back of the diner.

  His hand slides down to my ass, and he grabs my cheek, groaning as his body presses to mine, his pelvis rubbing against me. I can feel the weight of him, the hard length of him.

  He kisses harder, pushes more fiercely, like he’s trying to imprint his desire on me. Make sure there’s no mistaking it.

  But it’s not like I could mistake this for anything other than what it is—two people who want another time.

  Maybe we should call this movie Two-Night Stand. Or maybe the Morning-After Stand.

  My skin sizzles with desire. My brain goes hazy. Perhaps I am that girl.

  I might as well be banging him in the bathroom. Because we’re this close to having the Wendy’s Diner special too.

  That’s exactly what I want to avoid.

  Somehow I find the will to stop, sliding my hands up his firm chest and pressing gently but insistently.

  He steps back, breathing heavily, his eyes hazy with lust. He rakes a hand through his hair.

  “Too bad we can’t do that,” he says, his voice gravelly.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to,” I say.

  “Oh, don’t worry. I got the message that you wanted to as badly as I did,” he says, that cocky side of him stepping right up to the plate.

  And the thing is—I like this cocky side of him. I like the confident man he is. I like the way he’s owning his attraction to me. I want to feel the heat of his fire, because he does the same to me. He sets me aflame.

  But that’s the trouble.

  We discovered last night we have a crazy kind of sexual chemistry. If we keep discovering it, mining it over and over, we might exhaust the newfound supply of friendship.

  “Yes, my friend,” I say. “I do want to climb you in front of Humphrey Bogart. But remember, we’re the responsible ones.”

  He huffs. “Why are you reminding me of that? My dick doesn’t want to be responsible.”

  As tempting as it is to slide a hand over his jeans, to cup him and stroke him and drive him as wild as he drives me, I force myself to focus. “Let’s go figure out the lottery thing. We can go to the tango place tonight.”

  He glances down at his erection, which shows no sign of abating. “Yes, she’s totally frustrating. I know. Trust me, buddy, I know.”

  Laughing, I tug him by the hand. He picks up the bag, and we walk through the diner. Out of the corner of my mouth, I whisper, “Your dick is your buddy?”

  He juts out his chin. “What else would he be? He’s my closest buddy. We do everything together.”

  “Can your buddy think? Because maybe he can get in on the lottery conundrum,” I ask as we exit onto Madison Avenue, where we’re greeted by exhaust fumes from a bus trundling to a stop.

  “My buddy has all sorts of ideas. However, most of them are X-rated.”

  I laugh as we walk. “I had that impression.”

  “I was definitely trying to leave an impression,” he says. “All the way in you.”

  “Yes, I enjoyed that. And I definitely would have enjoyed all of it. But—”

  Lucas grabs my hand, tugs me toward him, then slides his fingers into my hair. His eyes blaze with heat, like they did in the diner. “I know you said sex doesn’t change a thing, and maybe it doesn’t. But it also does. Because I want you so fucking much. I would really like to do ungentlemanly things to you with my tongue, and I get the sense you’d like me to.”

  My pulse beats between my legs, and I ache for him. Here on the streets of New York, as the sights and sounds of the city mingle with my desire, I want to take him up on that offer.

  I want to forget what we’re doing, and why, and go back to his place, my place, anyplace.

  “I would like that Lucas,” I say, choosing stark honesty because I can. Because we’re not actually going to act on this in public.

  But before I can say another word, he bends closer, moves his mouth to my ear, and whispers, “I thought about you last night. When I was home. I was so fucking turned on still. I couldn’t get you out of my head.”

  The pulse turns into an insistent ache. “What did you do?” I ask, heat spreading over my skin.

  “What do you think I did? I took a hot shower, and I pictured licking you. Sucking you. Tasting you. I made you come over and over on my tongue and my lips, and then I came so fucking hard in my hand I was sure you heard me all the way at your place.”

  I melt into a pool of lust. I’m nothing but atoms and elements, crackling and sizzling.

  The image he paints is so alluring, so arousing, that I can’t think straight. I might need to revise my ruling on diner bathrooms.

  Brrrrrr-iiing.

  But that sound breaks the moment.

  Brrrrrr-iiing.

  Lucas grabs at his phone in his back pocket. “Holy shit, it’s Rowan.”

  The little fucking cockblocker. But I couldn’t be happier to hear from him.

  19

  Lucas

  I answer in a nanosecond, grabbing Lola’s hand, tugging her around the corner and darting under the awning of a building, where it’s slightly quieter.

  “Rowan! What’s going on?” I say on FaceTime.

  “Dude! How are you? I have to tell—” The phone stutters, and he cuts out.

  Shit. My pulse speeds up. “Rowan, are you there?”

  “—rup.”

  “What?” I ask, shaking my head. Maybe the lust has fogged my brain. I can’t make out his words. “What are you saying?”

  “Service is bahhhd.” He sounds like a sheep.

  Impatience threads through my body. “No shit. Just tell me the lottery clue. We know the rest.”

  “Oh. Syrup. You got the syrup one? Because that’s Wendy’s Diner. Quickie by the Casablanca sign. Damn good movie.”

  Groaning, I wave a hand, telling him to speed it up. “Got it. Got the others. I need the lottery one.”

  “That Pin-Up Lanes one was. . .” He cuts out again. When he comes back, he says, “Tricky. It was so damn tricky. I’m sorry about that one. Should have told you that when I forwarded the email. My bad.”

  “No shit it was tricky,” I say, recalling with crystal clarity how Lola and I argued over it like our younger halves. “Now, the lottery. What’s the answer to that one?”

  “I’ll tell you, but you got the tango studio? Please tell me you got that one, man? Because I totally need my iPad. It has everything on there. All my music, and the poetry I started writing, including a poem I wrote that I’m going to recite when I propose to Luna. And I fucking love
you for doing this. Like, mad, insane brotherly love.”

  “Yeah, I know. Love you too, and I’m sure she’ll love the poem. And we’ll go to Takes Two to Tango. Just tell me the lottery answer. Is it an amusement park? Because there better be a lifetime ticket for me to Great Adventure for this.”

  “No. I’m not that selfish. C’mon. I want to save the—”

  And he cuts out again.

  “Alpacas,” he barks out breathlessly when he comes back.

  “Alpacas?”

  “Yes. The alpaca sanctuary. It’s one of my dreams.”

  Lola’s eyes brighten, and she mouths llamas.

  “You mean llamas?” I say to Rowan.

  “No. I mean alpacas. That’s what’s so funny. That’s what we fought over. If alpacas and llamas were the same things. Because they’re not, man. Isn’t that crazy? But the funny thing is this—”

  The connection crackles.

  Stutters.

  And spits up a frozen image of my brother’s face, mouth open but silent.

  Call ended.

  Groaning in frustration, I call him back. I need the final answer. Why can’t anything ever be easy with him? The phone rings and rings, and I want to stomp my feet and throw the device. “Name. A name would be nice, Rowan.”

  But Lola is jumping up and down with her phone, shoving the screen at me. “The Cousin Sanctuary! It’s an hour away. It’s for alpacas and llamas. They must have argued over whether they were the same thing, but they both wanted the same thing. To give the money to the animal sanctuary.”

  Her eyes glitter with excitement, and my heart handsprings. All my annoyance vanishes. This woman, I could kiss her.

  I could fucking kiss her all day.

  I cup her cheek, pull her close, and plant a hot, possessive one on her lips. “You’re brilliant.”

  When I let go, she looks dazed, staring at me like that moment was sponsored by left field.

  But the funny thing to me is kissing her seems like right field, and left field, and center field.

  It seems like what we do every day.

  What we should do every day.