Once Upon A Sure Thing

by Blakely, Lauren

  Chapter 11

  Ally

  “The clock ticked ever closer to the day of reckoning, and she promised she’d be ready to reclaim her empire and to pounce on the enemy for daring to challenge her birthright.”

  I take a breath and finish my work for the day on the Kiersten White–style historical epic, with a heroine so badass she doesn’t have a moment to wallow in dreams not coming true. Not when heads are rolling in the courts of yesteryear.

  After I leave the in-house production studio, I find the audio manager waiting for me in a hallway lined with framed movie-poster-size images of the publishing house’s most popular titles. A gleam of pride flickers inside me—I narrated three of those ten. The last one is adjacent to a framed image of a new TV show the house’s sister network launched last year, with the rest of the TV pictures extending down the wall.

  Angie waggles her fingers at me. “I heard a little bit of your work today. The battle scene was chilling.” She shudders as if recalling the multiple impalements suffered on the battlefield, Game of Thrones–style. Her blue eyes are big and sparkly behind her rhinestone-studded glasses.

  “Teens in the middle ages give new meaning to the word fierce. I almost felt like I was back in those days, though I’m glad I’m not. Only partly because of the risk of beheading.”

  She laughs. “As am I. Both because of the beheading, and because I can’t give up my modern conveniences.” She winks. “Like my e-reader or my smartphone.”

  “Ditto,” I say as we head to the elevator. I adjust my ponytail. I loved that blonde wig, but having my natural dark color feels more . . . me. I returned to my regular hairdo after leaving Miller this morning. The wig is tucked neatly at the bottom of my purple purse.

  Angie hits the down button at the bank of elevators and says she’ll see me tomorrow. But before she can trot back to her desk, she swivels around, smacking her forehead. “I almost forgot to tell you. I know you’re eager to try new genres, so I’ve been looking into some potential new projects for you. Hoping something will work out soon.”

  I mentally cross my fingers, but play it cool. “That all sounds good to me. Looking forward to mixing it up.”

  Angie smiles slyly. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  As I zip down to the main floor, I count off how much time I have before I need to pick up Chloe from her photography class—about an hour and a half. It’s a cold day, but I have my new purple mittens and a matching hat, so maybe I’ll walk home from Midtown to Chelsea for the extra exercise. The cold air always clears my head.

  I need to return to the right zone before I talk to Miller again. The friendship zone, that is. I need to let go of the idea that we might have played well together.

  But when I step outside, Miller’s waiting. He looks like a dog wearing a dog shaming sign. He actually holds up his phone, and the screen reads: This isn’t an apology balloon.

  I chuckle. “I told you. No apology balloons necessary.”

  “And see? I listened.” That grin of his isn’t toothpaste-commercial ready. It’s sheepish, but it also says he has a secret.

  He must, or why would he be standing in the middle of Midtown on a crisp winter day with the phone sign in one hand and a honey bear and a bottle of lotion in the other? “Who is your friend? Also, how did you know where I was?” I point to the skyscraper where the publisher is housed, right across from Rockefeller Center and its huge, lit Christmas tree overseeing the ice rink.

  “You said you had a Casey Stern book to work on, so I looked up her publisher, and she’s with Butler Press. Ergo, you would be at Butler Press, and I figured you’d be done.”

  I give a low whistle. “Impressive detective work.” The fact that he’s here makes me feel hopeful I didn’t push our friendship beyond what it could handle. “Hey, we’re all good. Let’s just move on. Whoever you sing with, I’m sure they will be amazing. And you know I’ll be your biggest fan.”

  I flash him a bright smile, and I feel it inside me too. This morning was such a small blip in the history of our friendship—I won’t let it change a damn thing.

  He takes a beat, shuffles his feet, and tilts his head. “But what if I didn’t want you to be my biggest fan?”

  He stuffs his phone into his pocket then hands me the lotion. It’s lavender-scented. He thrusts the honey bear at me next. I put two and two together and catch my breath at the possibility he’s had a change of heart.

  “Miller,” I say slowly, as a pack of men in business suits and trench coats march past us, heads bent over their smartphones. “Are you saying . . .?”

  He nods, his familiar smile returning to its rightful place. “Do you want to be Hashtag ZimmerHart?”

  I laugh in the middle of Fifth Avenue as rush-hour crowds race by. “Yes, but that’s the worst name ever for a band.”

  “Worse than Savory Gerbils?”

  I crinkle my nose, as I drop the honey bear and the lotion into my purse. “You have me there. Also, please tell me there isn’t a band called that?”

  He shudders. “No, but there almost was.”

  “Spill.”

  “Once upon a time, Miles had a pair of pet gerbils when he was eight. He used to joke that he was going to start his own band and name it for his gerbils, Sweet and Savory. When he joined us, we told him we’d let him into the band, but only if we could change the name to the Gerbils.”

  I smirk in delight at the tale of their brotherly antics. “What did he say?”

  “He said he’d be fine with that, but he preferred we called ourselves the Savory Gerbils. He passed the test of loyalty, so we let him in.”

  “And to think the Heartbreakers might have been called the Savory Gerbils.”

  “Or we could be, since you hate Hashtag ZimmerHart.” Miller frowns dramatically.

  “I despise it the way a rogue princess despises warring clans who threaten her homeland.” I straighten my spine, neat and tall. “A new name it shall be,” I say, like I’m royally decreeing.

  He rubs his palms together. “All right, let’s get cracking on names.” He stares at the sky as if in thought, and as he does, I take a moment to let the reality sink in. We’re doing this. He changed his mind. I’m going to sing with my best friend. I nearly break out into a tap-dance, Gene Kelly “Singin’ in the Rain”–style.

  “Do you want to be the Apology Balloon Buddies instead?” Miller asks.

  Laughing, I shake my head. “No. But what made you change your mind? I thought you were worried earlier about our friendship.”

  His expression turns serious. “I was. I am. But then I watched the video of us singing, and we looked good together.”

  “I want to see that.”

  He grabs his phone and swipes the screen, showing me a few seconds. “Damn,” I whistle, as I watch how I sashayed and sidled right up to him. I tap my finger to my tongue then the screen, and make a sizzling sound.

  He closes the clip. “Jackson wants to make a mini doc of us forming a band for his scholarship submission for a media program. It should pay a big chunk of his school if he nabs it.”

  I bounce on my toes. “That sounds like an amazing opportunity.”

  “It is. I’m psyched for him. But I’m psyched for us too, if we can do this right. I figure if we’re mature and thoughtful, we can make it work. Do you want to try it for a month? Like a test run? What’s the worst that can happen in a month?”

  I’m a glass-half-full person, so I turn his words around. “Or what’s the best that can happen in a month?”

  He squares his shoulders. “Honey Lavender, do you want to sing with me?”

  I throw my arms around him and say yes. He hugs me back, and I inhale his woodsy scent, sharpened by the cold and smelling more delicious than a friend of mine should rightfully smell.

  I shouldn’t linger on how yummy Miller smells, but I’m so damn excited I don’t care. I inhale one more happy lungful of him before my boots sink down to the sidewalk.

  “I guess you�
��re excited.”

  I hold up a thumb and forefinger. “A little.”

  He rubs his hands together. “Let’s get cracking. Since Savory Gerbils, Balloon Buddies, and Hashtag ZimmerHart are out, want to discuss better names and rules of engagement?”

  My eyes drift to Rockefeller Center. “I have thirty minutes before I need to head downtown. Let’s do three things at once.”

  Chapter 12

  Ally

  Fifteen minutes later, I’ve laced up a pair of skates, and so has Miller.

  As we circle around the ice rink, we decide we’ll tackle a few originals, with him doing most of the writing, since he’s quick and fast. Plus, he has some songs he’s been working on for a few months, and he’ll put the finishing touches on them to suit our duet style. I’ll plan some covers and secure rights for us to sing those online and on stage. If it all goes well, we’ll try to land a gig soonish. Time is of the essence, so we’ll squeeze in recording sessions quickly.

  “This is easy,” I say, gesturing with my mittened hands as we glide and talk, since we both can hold our own on skates. “All we have to do is remember that our friendship comes first. Above all else.”

  “Does that mean we agree that if we disagree, we’ll remain friends?”

  I laugh as we glide past a family of four, skating in a row like ducks. “Sort of. But we also agree to talk things through. To be adults. We don’t throw video game controllers from windows, or stomp off like children.”

  Miller nods like he’s processing this information, as we weave around some teenagers taking selfies. “And we have that time limit,” he adds. “We’ll see how it goes for a month and then regroup.”

  “Exactly. We have the rules of engagement in place. It’s like in a novel where the hero and heroine agree to a thirty-day arrangement and then walk away.”

  He shoots me a curious look as we skate. “That happens in young adult books?”

  “It’s more common in romance. Let’s say the heroine is a little inexperienced and wants some lessons in seduction. They might agree to thirty days of sexual education. Or maybe they both have issues from the past and don’t want commitment, so they agree to a month-long deal. Or maybe they’re friends but want to scratch an itch, so they lay out the rules of the road.”

  Miller digs his blades in to stop, grabs the side of the rink, and doubles over. “To scratch an itch?”

  I laugh too, as I stop next to him. “Yes, sometimes friends get horny for each other in romance novels.”

  “If we get hot to trot, do we outline the rules of the horny road?”

  I swat him, because it’s easier than dealing with the little zing in my chest when he says hot to trot in reference to us. “We’re singing together, not making out.”

  His expression turns deadly serious. “Promise me something, Ally.”

  “Yes?”

  He sets a hand on my shoulder and takes a deep breath. “If you ever want lessons in seduction from a friend, please come to me.”

  I roll my eyes, doing my best to make light of his suggestion, even though a part of me knows he’d be the first person I’d ask. Except I don’t think I need or want lessons in seduction, even though it’s been a while for me. “Yes, Miller. I’ll come to you with ribbons and a request to try various positions. But only if you answer the door freshly showered and wearing just a towel.”

  He pretends to consider it, then nods. “That’s a deal,” he says, offering a hand to shake.

  I take it, and he growls in appreciation, a sexy, husky noise I’ve never heard from him before. The sound tangoes over my skin, and unexpected tingles zip over my chest. The sensation surprises me, like someone jumped out from behind a door. But then I try to reason it through. When I narrate battle scenes, my heart often pounds harder. It’s not unreasonable I’d have a physical reaction to this kind of vaguely dirty back-and-forth.

  “Ribbons and Positions. Can that be our name?”

  I screw up the corner of my lips, thinking. “Positions with Ribbons?”

  “Other Uses for Ribbons?” he posits, and I giggle. Because it’s honestly not a bad name.

  “That’s a little bit naughty.”

  He brings his face closer to mine, like he did when we sang. “You’re a little naughty when you’re Honey.”

  Heat unfurls in me, spreading from my chest to my arms. Normal reaction, I remind myself. It doesn’t mean anything at all, so I keep going with it, volleying the flirting ball right back at him. “You’re naughty when I’m Honey.”

  He whispers a hoarse, “I know.”

  I swallow roughly, and before the moment veers into another kind of thirty-day arrangement that would be far too dangerous for either one of us, I push off, skating again. “C’mon, friend,” I say, emphasizing the role he plays in my life.

  We’ve been friends for six years, and it’s hard to imagine anything getting in the way of that, even playing music together.

  We met at a retro arcade in Brooklyn one evening. He saw me kicking butt on Donkey Kong and recognized me from my YouTube videos.

  During a break in my game, he introduced himself and told me how much he enjoyed the Zimmerman Duo, especially our performance of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” Naturally, that delighted me. I’m not spotted often, and I’d liked it coming from someone like him, since I was familiar with his success as a Heartbreaker.

  He’d returned to his game of Joust but was failing miserably at it. I’ve always been good at arcade games, so I gave him a few pointers and then showed him what to do to reach the next level.

  He followed my tips and was successful.

  The funny thing is, I felt a little spark that first night, especially when he thrust his arms up in victory, wrapped me in a hug of thanks, and asked me if I wanted to grab a beer.

  I’d been tempted to act on that spark. To slide in next to him on his side of the table. To flirt and then some. But I had a crystal-clear vision of what would happen if I did.

  I saw us hooking up, kissing hot and heavy. I saw me inviting him to my place and us spending the night tangled up together.

  I’d thought of Lindsay, home with her daughter. I wasn’t worried about an accidental pregnancy, per se. But I was worried about never seeing Miller again, like Lindsay never saw Chloe’s dad again.

  Miller and I got along so well I knew right away I wanted him in my life. I didn’t want to risk losing him to the end of a fling. I liked him so much as a person that whatever flicker of attraction I felt, I forced out of my mind, sweeping it away.

  “Do you want to be friends?” I’d asked him.

  He’d flinched, like he was taken aback, coughing on his beer. But then he’d nodded. “Yeah. Let’s do this again.”

  I’ve seen him through girlfriends; he’s seen me through boyfriends. We’ve leaned on each other through heartache and heartbreak, sorrow and joy, side by side.

  Miller helped me through my own grief when my sister died, and then he rose to the occasion over the years, helping Chloe whenever he could. All because we made a choice years ago to put friendship first.

  Of course, I don’t know if he felt the same spark I did that night at the arcade, so perhaps it was easy as pie for him to keep me in the friend zone.

  It’s mostly easy for me to keep him there, except for moments like this. Like now, when my heart races in overdrive, and my hormones remind me they want attention now and then.

  But there’s too much on the line to give in. I have bills, and work, and a kid to raise. She’s my focus, and she’s why I wanted to do this in the first place.

  We skate and review the plan to write and record, since Jackson will be shooting videos of our sessions for his documentary. All we have to do is not be jerks, we decide.

  He holds out his hand and we shake. Happiness spreads through me, and I love how this day has worked out, so I spin around on my skates and issue a challenge. “Catch me if you can.”

  I take off around the ice, but soon enough, he picks
up speed and flies past me. His arm darts out as if he’s going to grab my waist, but I don’t fall.

  He does.

  Flat on his ass, the side of his head whacking the ice.

  My heart hammers as I jam the blade of my skate into the ice, stopping in a spray. Quickly, I bend down next to him. He’s flat as a board, head against the ice, blades up.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, visions of concussions and bruises haunting me.

  “I’m wounded,” he mutters.

  “What’s wounded?” I ask as I look him over from head to toe. He’s wearing jeans and a sweater and—wait.

  His belly is moving up and down.

  He’s laughing. The fucker is laughing.

  He clutches his chest, moaning. “It’s my pride though. It’s never going to be the same.”

  I straighten, shaking my head in amusement. “Male pride is so fragile.”

  “You’re telling me. Can you see if I can get a new shipment of it?”

  I tap my mitten against my lips. “I’m pretty sure all the stores are closed, and Amazon doesn’t offer Prime shipping for that product.”

  His lips curve up into a grin, and that’s when I spot a slight bruise on his cheek. Instinctively, I reach out, yanking off my mittens and brushing my thumb across the wound.

  When I touch him, he startles, but then sighs as I check out the small mark. “You do have a little scrape here. I think you hurt your cheek.”

  “Will I live?” He turns his face to me, and his eyes pin mine. There’s something in those hazel eyes I haven’t seen before. A flicker of heat, perhaps. A wink of desire.

  I shiver, forcing myself to look away, because his eyes are doing something to me. They’re sending my thermometer higher than it should be, like when we were in the studio singing to each other. I felt that spark then in my toes, in my fingertips, and in the center of my body.

  “You’ll survive.” I reach for his hand. He looks down at my fingers, locking with his.

  “Are you going to pull me?”

  “Of course. You fell.”