Pickup Lessons (Awkward Arrangements Book 3)

by Tanya Gallagher

  Ink’s always been my medium of choice, but it’s nothing so pretentious as people who do the New York Times crossword puzzle in pen. It’s just that ink makes you make decisions and then go with them. Drawing in ink means you need to think ahead, and then, sometimes, to adapt on the fly. You don’t ever make mistakes. You make new discoveries. It’s a framework that helps soothe my thoughts, that lets me live in the moment instead of in the future.

  Today I start with a sketch of the customer currently perusing the pastry display case like he’ll find the secrets of the universe inside. His thick, dark eyebrows draw mutinously together as he inspects the scones and muffins, contrasting with his uncombed salt-and-pepper hair. The paunch of his stomach, hanging over his khakis, tells me he’s made his way around a pastry case or two in his time, but it’s the tattoos on his arms that catch my attention—a santoku knife and a half-peeled orange, its peel curling away to expose ripe, juicy segments.

  A chef?

  A foodie?

  I feel myself wake up as the nib scratches over the page to capture him, like the act of drawing is a more powerful force than the coffee I’m sipping on. Part of why I begin most days with a pen in my hand.

  Some people write morning pages to start the day, an exercise where you sit down and spill your guts to clear the emotional pipes. Titus introduced me to the idea, though now that I think about it, it sounds suspiciously like something Eden would have turned him on to. Regardless, I’ve put my own spin on things, and instead of writing, I draw. It’s a little masturbatory, but to be honest, it helps.

  I’ve been drawing comics since I was thirteen and discovered I actually had some talent and could create my own art instead of just coveting the clean, bold lines in the graphic novels I loved. There’s something about the form that calls to me. Comics take away the pressure of realism and let you highlight someone’s most appealing features. You can tell a lot about a character just by looking at what the artist has physically emphasized.

  Big hands? Angular bodybuilder frame? Perky tits?

  I flesh out the man at the case, placing special emphasis on his tattoos, the curve of his stomach. I render him quickly, mindlessly, and turn the page. Then I let my hands work on their own accord, and before my brain wakes up to what I’m doing, I’ve got a half-realized picture of Eden staring back at me the way she did on Saturday night at the bar. She’s got the same high cheekbones as Titus, ones that draw your attention to her eyes, which are big and wide and whip-smart. You’d never guess that under her impeccable style, she’s a nerd at heart.

  I like exposing that side of her. I like cracking her open for the world. Not that anyone gets to see the notebook. It would feel too much like sharing a secret.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I slam the notebook shut and pull out the phone, expecting to see a message that Titus is running behind. Instead, I find a text message from Eden herself. It contains a screenshot of a text conversation, showing a handful of flirty exchanges and an agreement to meet for drinks.

  A note accompanies the screenshot. Hot date tonight for you to witness. 7 pm at Stonewood. Be there or be square.

  Dammit.

  Her gloating, triumphant note makes me crush the phone in my hands, and I feel an unreasonable annoyance that she landed a date before me. Not that I’ve been actively pursuing opportunities, but still.

  I peer closer at the screenshot and catch a headline at the top announcing the conversation’s taken place on a dating website. Suddenly, the urge to see exactly what Eden posted floods my veins.

  Five minutes until Titus is supposed to arrive.

  A guilty heat creeps up my neck, and my palms feel sweaty as I open my laptop and enter the dating website into my browser. A cheerful message explains that all dating profiles hide behind a paywall, so I reluctantly fish out my wallet and cough over a membership fee.

  It feels a little like I’m undermining my own method to sign in, but I force myself to remember people join dating websites every day. This is no different, and maybe it’ll be another tool in my arsenal should my in-person approach to dating not pan out. Either way, I need to know what I’m up against.

  I swallow hard and search for Eden by the username captured in her screenshot, then find her beaming back at me from the top of the results. I click into her profile like a needy voyeur, and my stomach drops as a picture I took of her last summer—a picture I took of her—pops up on the screen first. We’d been out on a boat, just me and Eden and Titus, and E and I had stripped down to our bathing suits to soak up the rare Seattle sun. It was a damn good day, only staring at the picture now makes my stomach feel like someone’s gripping it with an iron fist. She looks too good in her bikini top for me to want to share her with the world.

  That’s not playing fair, Ellis.

  I scroll through the other photos of her, all too aware that Titus might show up any minute, leaving me to make excuses for why I’m creeping on his sister’s dating profile. And yet I can’t look away.

  On the page, Eden’s got a few quick words about herself, and a silly quiz for people to complete. I barely get a chance to glance at it before a shadow darkens my peripheral vision and my business partner’s voice cuts through the coffee shop din.

  “Hey, man.”

  I startle into action, closing the browser window and the laptop screen, too, as if that’ll keep the evidence of my actions in lockdown.

  Note to self: clear your browser history while you’re at it, asshat.

  “Hey,” I grit out, the image of Eden in her bikini still burned in my retinas.

  Titus seems displeased by my response, his lips twisting just shy of a scowl.“You look like something crawled inside your coffee mug and died.”

  It sounds like a judgment, but really it’s his way of saying he can tell something’s not right with me. I raise a hand and start to wave him off, but instead blurt out, “Your sister.”

  Titus smirks. “My sister crawled inside your coffee mug? Last time I heard, she was alive and going on a date tonight.”

  This time I do groan. There’s also a little internal swearing. “I’m guessing she sent you a text about it?”

  “Correct.”

  I look up at him, ready to beg. “Tell me that means you can go witness it in my place. I could use the time to, uh, work on my own game.”

  The frown Titus flashes me says it’s the last thing he plans to do. “I told you before, I’m not watching her go on dates.” I’m actually surprised by his resistance because making sure Eden’s not making poor choices in her personal life has always been his M.O. Unfortunately, he’s made it very clear that I’d be one of those poor choices if I ever risked his wrath to pursue her.

  Six years ago in college, back before I knew Eden was Titus’s sister, he’d dragged me out to a house party at some skeezy frat. The house smelled like dirty socks and Axe body spray trying to cover BO, and it didn’t seem quite Titus’s style, but there was free booze, which was good enough for me.

  I’d just filled my red Solo cup with foamy beer when I caught sight of this pretty girl in the living room. She was laughing with a group of girls, her head thrown back and her voice warm. Some other chicks were laughing too, but Eden’s energy made her stand out from everyone else, the spark of mischief in her eyes. I bet there are a thousand love stories that start when a guy sees a pretty girl laughing across the room, but not for me.

  The second I stepped toward her, I looked down to find Titus’s hand gripping my arm.

  “Don’t even think about it,” he said quietly, his voice like cold steel.

  “What?”

  I blinked back at him, and confusion must have registered on my face because he sighed and said, “That’s my sister.”

  “And?” I cocked an eyebrow, not entirely able to hold back the note of challenge in my reply. “I don’t get to meet her?”

  He grimaced. “You get to meet her. But don’t make her part of the rotation in your bed, okay?”


  “Ouch,” I said, and while I played wounded, it actually kind of stung. So, yeah, I’d taken advantage of the offerings at college, happy to shed my reputation as a scrawny kid. I worked hard to transform into a guy who girls wanted to be with, so why shouldn’t I enjoy the spoils?

  Titus’s sharp look let me know his sister was never going to become one of those spoils. “She has dreams, okay? She needs someone who’s not going to distract her. You date a girl every other week.”

  “She looks like she can make up her own mind,” I shot back, my grip tightening around my cup. I didn’t want to fight Titus over some girl, especially his sister, but sometimes he could have his head up his ass. A lot of times, actually.

  Titus crossed his arms over his chest. “She does make up her own mind. But she also listens to me about the important things.” He said it so simply, he might as well have said, “Checkmate.”

  Fucker.

  I scowled at him, but honestly, it wasn’t worth the headache of arguing more. Even though she intrigued me, I respected his desire to protect her, and there were plenty of other chances. At the time, she was just another girl in a house full of females, and I didn’t yet know what I’d be missing.

  “Do you want to meet her or not?” Titus asked, and I finally relented, and the rest is history. A few months after she started college, Ti eased up on the checking-in-on-Eden-at-parties thing, but by then I was well in the friend zone. And then, a few years after that, Ti and I put a Conflict of Interest clause into our business contract. It basically says if our aims are incompatible or if something comes between us, we’d be in violation. I don’t even remember what the penalty is supposed to be, but I do know the person’s obligated to disclose information that could jeopardize the business. From the way he reacted back in college, I’m gonna guess that pursuing a relationship with Eden still counts in the “bad” column.

  All the more reason to get out there and meet someone new.

  “If this bet is so important to you,” Titus says to me now, “you’ll find a way to swing by the date.”

  Unfortunately, it’s one thing to know Eden’s pulling out ahead in this game by dating someone who’s not me, it’s another thing entirely to have to bear witness to my defeat.

  “I don’t suppose Matt is around tonight?” I pry.

  Titus gives me a weary sigh and drops into the empty seat across from me. “This is between the two of you, man, but don’t let Eden get to you. Sometimes she cares too much what things look like.”

  I absorb his assessment quietly. Eden wants me riled up. She wants to be right about me. And so far, she is.

  Before I can mull on it further, Titus slips his laptop out of his backpack and sets it on the table between us. “Speaking of perfectionism, we’ve got a new assignment.”

  Right. Work. The reason we’re here.

  Titus runs the back end of our business transactions, leaving me to the ideation and dreaming, and we conduct most of our meetings to coordinate upcoming work and to plan big projects. He runs the operations like the captain of the ship, but today my business partner wears a devious smile.

  I fire up my own laptop and ask, “What’s the job?”

  The mention of the assignment makes Titus practically vibrate with anticipation, his foot jiggling under the table, the air tightening like lightning. “A full website redesign for a content producer with a large asset catalog.”

  I make a face at his jargony bullshit, knowing he’s holding back on me. “Who’s the client?”

  Titus grins like Santa Claus on Christmas Eve. “Dark Horse Comics.”

  No way. No fucking way.

  I gape at him, the ends of my fingertips numb. Is this even real right now? “Dark Horse?” I sputter out. “My dream publisher?” The very one I’ve wanted to write a comic for ever since I started sketching out art years ago.

  “One and the same.” He offers me a considering stare. “Maybe this contract will finally be the in you’ve always wanted.”

  One opportunity. That’s all I need to show them what I can do.

  “That would be amazing,” I admit.

  Titus laughs. “Then let’s not fuck this up too much.”

  I nod back and shove away thoughts of the date I’m going to need to witness later tonight. Before Eden’s antics get me any more charged up, there’s work to do. If I play my cards right, maybe I can not only make my web design commission but attract an editor’s attention for my art along the way.

  I lift my coffee mug in my friend’s direction. “Here’s to not fucking up.”

  5

  Eden

  One hundred and sixty minutes. That’s how long it took for the Titanic to sink to the bottom of the ocean. My first date in Operation Don’t End Up in a Toga bites it in less than five.

  Don’t get me wrong—on the outside, my date looks normal enough standing at the Stonewood Bar in Seattle, like a watered-down version of Jeremy Renner on break from filming. But when he shakes my hand, he scans my body as if mentally calculating how long it will take to divest me of my jumpsuit, his eyes oily and slick on my body.

  “You’re not wearing a dress,” he says, disbelieving, as if I’ve somehow disappointed him by showing up in what I have to admit is a kick-ass outfit that shows off my boobs quite nicely, thank you very much.

  “Excuse me?” I cough out.

  He shrugs, his lips wrinkled like he smells sour milk. “Thought you might wear something easier access for a little fun.”

  Oh, hell no.

  I feel my body stiffen as I perform my own calculations. It’s simple math—I don’t want to be with anyone who doesn’t want to be with me. And I definitely don’t want to be with someone who thinks I’m only there for a quick bang. Not only do I have a bet to win, I have a life to enjoy. I may not have dated much lately, but I’m firmly with Dash on this one—if I’m going to spend time with someone, I want it to be someone I have a real connection with.

  I put my hands in the air, ready to tell the guy we should just call it, when the front door cracks open and Dash himself walks into the room as if summoned. Every electron in my body lights up with awareness as he arranges himself in a booth in the corner, inconspicuous but unmistakable with his tousled hair and familiar smile.

  My heart skitters at the feel of his eyes on my face and the slight nod of acknowledgment he aims at me. Nerves prickle across my skin, and my hands grow clammy with sweat.

  Now that I know Dash is here, I can’t unknow it.

  Now that I know he’s here, it’s that much harder to admit defeat and walk away.

  I gulp back a breath that burns in my chest and plaster a smile on my face. “Eden,” I say since Jeremy Renner and I haven’t yet exchanged names in person.

  “Cord,” he says.

  I follow him to the bar and lean against it while we wait for our drinks. I wish we’d gone to The Hole so Matt could ease the sting of my situation with a joke or some free booze, but I’m forced to make awkward conversation. “I like your name.”

  God, E. How lame can you get?

  Cord continues, undeterred. “Thanks. My mom named me after her favorite musician.”

  “Like Chord Overstreet?”

  He rubs his chin, considering, then shakes his head. “Nah. Just Cord like music.”

  “Oh,” I say, flashing back to his profile online. “I thought you spelled it C-O-R-D. Like rope.”

  He frowns. “That’s how I spell it. But it’s like music.”

  Every warning bell in my brain clangs loudly.

  Oh, no. Oh, hell no.

  Does this late-twenty-something dude really not know a musical chord is spelled with an “h”?

  “Mkay,” I say politely, desperate to jump away from that oncoming train. I grit my teeth and persevere, certain I’ll pay for my clenched jaw with a headache later. There’s no way I can back out of this now—not with Dash hovering silently in the corner.

  He’s the factor that changes the game.

  It
’s one thing to fail. It’s another thing to fail spectacularly while people are watching. I can’t even look his way.

  Cord-with-no-h and I grab our drinks and spin to assess the seating situation. The one open booth in the room sits directly behind Mr. Dashiel Walton.

  Don’t pick it, Cord. Let’s just wedge ourselves in at the bar and pretend none of this is happening.

  Cord spots the booth and waves for me to follow him.

  Dammit.

  I slink behind him like a puppy fighting a leash and drop into the booth with my back to Dash’s. I can feel his heat through the thin wall between us—can practically see his smirk. At least the booth is tall enough to give us some semblance of privacy. If Dash had to both hear and see this, I might die.

  I wrap my hands around my rosé and turn the conversation back to Cord. “So, tell me about your job. I work in tech, too.”

  Cord pulls on his beer and leans forward, regaling me with a tale about his career of choice, and it becomes all too clear that when he described himself online as “an aspiring content producer working on breaking into the streaming industry,” what he really meant was “I film myself playing video games in my mom’s basement.”

  And I’m not here to judge, I swear. But Seattle barely even has basements, thanks to the earthquakes that rip through here every so often, and I’ve been independent for far too long to savor the idea of living in my parents’ house at this stage of the game.

  Breathe, Eden. If you get through this, at least you can blog about what you learned so no one else has to suffer in the same way.

  I ask Cord about his video game of choice, and when he tells me he plays Xbox Live, I grab onto his answer like a life vest. Surely we can find a common ground on the tech side of things.

  “Do lag times ever bother you?” I ask. “Do you find they hurt your ability to play?”

  “Huh?”

  I blink back at him. If he’s a serious gamer, this should have at least crossed his mind. Instead, he looks at me like I just spoke Latin.