Pickup Lessons (Awkward Arrangements Book 3)

by Tanya Gallagher

She smiles gamely. “Lay it on me.”

  “Is it normal for a cat to be…” How do I say this delicately? “…enormous?” I gesture with my hands. “Like, really, really fat?”

  She tilts her head and studies me. “Are you speaking about one cat in particular?”

  “Actually, yeah. My friend’s cat, Princess Diana, is just huge. Like, small-child-sized. That’s not healthy, right?”

  “You know a cat named Princess Diana?”

  “I—”

  Wait. That’s not the point.

  “I follow a blogger who has a cat with the same name,” Megan continues. Her eyes light up. “She’s from the Seattle area, too. I wonder if it’s the same cat.” She practically wiggles in her seat as she fixes her eager gaze on mine. “Do you know Eden Ellis?”

  Dammit, Eden.

  Why am I even talking about her?

  I dart a glance in her direction and find her staring at us with a wide, victorious smile on her face. From the way triumph gleams in her eyes like she’s already goddamn won, I know she’s overheard the exchange.

  No fair.

  Not fucking fair at all.

  I can’t risk shaking my head at Eden, or Megan will turn around and see her, but I tighten my grip on the edge of the table and feel an imaginary draft of air on my legs as my toga-wearing future looms before me.

  I grit my teeth and shrug. “Yeah.”

  “Oh my god,” Megan squeals. Who knew the down-to-earth veterinarian was a self-improvement fangirl? “Princess Diana is the cutest.”

  Eden doesn’t even bother wiping the smile off her face as she ferries her dishes back to the counter. I’m only moderately validated by the barely-eaten cinnamon bun she leaves beside her empty mug, and by the fact that Megan’s still sitting here with me, a solid thirty minutes into our conversation.

  Eden’s not going to let me live this down, but I’m also a date ahead.

  My competition flashes me one last smirk, and then, before she can overhear Megan tell me that her cat is definitely overweight, Eden turns and sails out the door.

  9

  Eden

  I’ve gotta hand it to my friends—their patience in sorting through my online dating messages was akin to sifting through a river of shit for some gold, but pan for gold they did. Not only do I have a date tonight, I have enough other contenders in the pipeline to make me feel like I can stop worrying about the outcome of tonight’s date and just enjoy it.

  Plus, Molly and Greer were my first defense against the handful of dick pics that did come through, sparing me the mental scars of having those images stuck in my brain. Tonight’s date with John is a blank, dick-pic-free slate, thank god. It doesn’t hurt that I’m pumped up from a little sibling time with Ti this morning, and some of that energy’s transferring to my feelings about John.

  After crashing Dash’s date today, I convinced my brother to spend the morning with me shooting outfit photos for my blog. It’s way easier to have a photographer instead of relying on my camera’s self-timer, and even though Ti grumbled about unpaid labor, I think he secretly liked helping me out and dispensing brotherly wisdom.

  “Why am I doing this?” Ti had groaned from the sidewalk in front of my apartment after I emerged from my fifth outfit change.

  “Because outdoor lighting is way better for photographs,” I sang back. “And also because you believe in me.”

  My brother shook his head but also huffed out a reluctant laugh. “Maybe one of these days you’ll get to take your blog full time and join the ranks of the self-employed.”

  “That’s the goal,” I said, studying the walls around me to find the perfect background to complement the moto-style workout leggings I was rocking.

  Hmm. Maybe a shot of me crossing the street?

  “Does it ever get lonely, though?” I asked, voicing one of my silent fears. I’m surrounded by people in my day job, and even though juggling two blogs is exhausting, I love the people I work with. It’s not that online relationships aren’t great, but WanderWell is how I made some of my best in-person friends.

  My brother’s face stiffened for half a second. For as much as Titus craves his independence, Dash is his only consistent coworker, and my brother’s not the type to go chase human contact, even when he needs it. All the more reason Dash and Ti’s friendship is so important.

  “Sometimes,” Ti admitted. “That’s why you’ve got to surround yourself with good people.” He pointed the camera at me, segueing into advice mode. “Remember that when you’re trying to win this bet. Maybe winning’s not worth it if it’s with the wrong person.”

  Yeah, yeah. Even though I knew he meant well, my brother’s not exactly a beacon of hope when it comes to relationships. I’ve gotta follow my gut on this one. Still, it’s nice to know no matter what happens, my brother’s always on my side.

  I blast music on my phone as I stand in front of the bathroom mirror in a sexy lingerie set and sweep on eyeshadow. While a day of playing dress up normally wipes me out, the promise of tonight’s date reenergizes me. Especially since I actually want to date John. He’s a real estate agent, so he knows what it’s like to hustle for business, he’s handsome in a guy-next-door way, and our exchanges online have been fun and flirty.

  I sing along to “Here With Me” by Marshmello and CHVRCHES as I contour my eyeshadow. While I love the tech side of my blog, the fashion-as-empowerment part is pretty darn fun, too.

  My phone rings, interrupting Marshmello mid-breath, and I set down my mascara to reach for it. In a world of text messages, who actually calls anymore?

  I look down, expecting the call to be from John. It’s been surprisingly easy to chat with him, and the thought of finally hearing his voice sends a shiver of excitement down my spine.

  Too bad I’m not that lucky.

  Dash’s name lights up my phone, which in turn makes me light up. I totally won today’s round. Not only with Dash’s date—ha!—but by scoring my own date tonight. It’s a shame we’re not counting points for overthrowing expectations.

  I stab the button to answer his call, then set the phone to speaker mode. “Mr. Walton,” I deadpan.

  “What are you doing, E?” Dash’s voice is back to that protective growl, and my clit throbs involuntarily. Why does his voice have that effect on me?

  I force myself to respond as if he isn’t making me question the logic of dating anyone but him. “Getting ready to go out.”

  “You didn’t tell me you had a date.”

  “I didn’t say it was a—” I break off. “Oh. Goddammit. Titus told you, didn’t he?” That’s what I get for spilling the beans to him during our photoshoot.

  Dash grunts.

  “The rule states it’s the first person to three dates.” I pout into the mirror and dab on a coat of strawberry lipgloss. “We never said we had to tell each other about them.”

  “The rule states those dates need to be witnessed,” he volleys back.

  I snort. “Good thing I’m going to Mexican food and Titus is a sucker for margaritas.” For all his protests about not watching me go on dates, all it took was the promise of free booze for Titus’s will to snap like a twig.

  Dash seems unable to contain his laugh. “I’m going to have to file that away for later,” he says. “Use that knowledge for blackmail.”

  I plug in my curling iron and let it start heating while I put away my makeup. “You didn’t really call me to talk about my brother’s drinking habits, did you?” I ask. “Or are you just sad because your date today seems to like me more than you?”

  It’s his turn to snort. “Don’t let that go to your head, Ellis. I figured if there’s a date happening tonight, I should know about it.” A note of mischief touches his voice. “Makes me think you were keeping it secret for a reason.”

  “Maybe it’s a strategic move. Maybe I’m getting a leg up on the competition.” Or maybe I’m just saving face in case it all goes horribly wrong.

  No, I can’t let myself think that wa
y. Tonight’s date is going to be awesome.

  I straighten my shoulders and blow out a deep breath, then start curling my hair as I respond. “To answer your question, yes, I have a date tonight. Yes, you need to worry about it. No, you don’t need to come.”

  “Sorry, angel, I’ll be there with bells on.”

  Angel.

  I gulp and quickly loosen the piece of hair I’m curling before I burn myself in shock. He’s doing this just to fuck with me—the nickname and the promise to show up. Isn’t he?

  Dash continues his inquiry as if he hasn’t just rocked my world. As if he hasn’t made me imagine him calling me that for real. “What are you wearing? The sweater dress from before?”

  My stomach dips, and my face flushes. “Why?” I make my voice stay light even though every part of me wants to tremble and beg him for answers. Why are you talking to me like this? Are you being my-brother’s-best-friend protective? Or jealous-guy protective? “Did you like it?”

  Dash goes silent, and I hear a shaky inhale from his end of the line. “What are you wearing?” he repeats, low and heated. “I need to know someone’s not going to get the wrong idea.”

  Standing here in just my lingerie with his voice in my ear feels intimate and thrilling, but I have no idea if he’s serious or fucking with me. I’m not sure what it would mean either way.

  I glance in the mirror and realize the opportunity in front of me. Before I can second-guess myself, I strike a flattering pose, snap a quick picture of me from the waist up, and send it to him.

  Put that in a pipe and smoke it.

  If Dash still thinks of me as his best friend’s sister and he’s just jerking me around, that’ll shut him up. And if not, maybe one day he’ll realize what he’s missing.

  Or maybe never.

  Dash goes quiet again, and my bravado disappears like air leaking out of a balloon.

  “Dash?”

  Shit.

  My stomach sinks, and my skin gets cold.

  What was I thinking, sending him pictures of me in a bra? It’s no different than a bikini top, but still. If Titus finds out, he’s going to kill me.

  I glance at the phone to make sure I haven’t dropped his call, but Dash is still on the line. Formulating a response, I assume.

  “I hope to god you’re wearing more than that for your date.” His voice sounds gravelly and rough and protective, and my heart flutters. “And that no one else gets to see that lingerie tonight.”

  Relief floods through me, restoring my equilibrium. “That’s my call to make, don’t you think?”

  His only response is a groan.

  I bite back a smile and resume curling my hair. “Also, I need you to delete that immediately,” I say.

  His teasing reply comes smooth and fast. “What if I want to keep it for blackmail?”

  I roll my eyes, even though the prospect of Dash keeping the picture thrills a secret part of me. “What’s with you and blackmail? First Titus, now me.” I smirk at myself in the mirror and curl the last locks of my hair. “Do you have something against our family?” I deadpan.

  “A smart man knows to keep some aces up his sleeve.”

  I’ve already pushed my luck today, but I can’t help needing to know the score of this game we’re playing. “I sincerely doubt the cute blonde you were with today would be happy to find that picture your phone.” I make my voice into a mask of mock sympathy. “Or did you not get to a second date, champ?”

  “You underestimate me, Ellis. I landed another date for this Tuesday.”

  Oh.

  Of course he did.

  My stomach tightens and my cheeks heat, but this time from embarrassment. Maybe it would have been better not to know.

  “Good for you,” I force out. I unplug my curling iron and run my hands through my hair, loosening the curls into soft waves. “I’ve gotta go, Dash.” I toss the last potential weapon I have in his direction. “I’ve got a hot date. Can’t be late.”

  Then, before I can hear his reaction and let it throw me off my game, I hang up the phone.

  10

  Dash

  For once in her life, Eden Ellis is right.

  I should delete the goddamn picture of her off my phone. Not only is it disrespectful to Megan, Titus would fucking murder me if he caught me with a picture of his sister in her underwear.

  But what pretty underwear it is.

  On my phone, Eden wears a gorgeous smile, her eyes lit up with bold confidence, and her cheeks a sweet, flushed pink. Her pale pink cell phone case obscures part of her body as she holds her phone to take the picture, but the image displays enough of her skin for me to get the gist. A cherry-red bra clings to her breasts, cut low and revealing. The swell of her breasts forms two perfect curves that I’m dying to palm, to suck on. Even the small glimpse of her skin is enough to drive me wild, to destroy all rational thought I might have had about tonight.

  Fuck. I need to stop looking at this picture or I’m not going to be able to leave my apartment without getting myself off, and there are few things more pathetic than jerking off to a girl who you can’t have.

  I should delete the picture, but some force stronger than my logic refuses to let me. I shove my phone in my pocket and run my hands over my face, groaning as I remember our conversation.

  Angel.

  Why the fuck did I call her that?

  The word slipped out, but once it was there, it fit. Even if Eden Ellis is never going to be my salvation.

  I grab my sketch pad and a pen, then shove them in my messenger bag and walk out my front door. Titus will get suspicious if I show up to tonight’s date after I told him I had no fucking interest in watching, but I can’t stay away any more than I can delete that picture. I need to know Eden’s going to be okay, even if it’s not with me. Judging how her last date went, it’s probably worth making sure this guy’s not a total dick. But even if I promised her I’d be there, I can’t show up on the dot like I have nothing better to do.

  I need a stall tactic.

  When I reach my car, I hesitate and shove my keys into my bag. Ballard’s a bitch to get to in a car, far away from almost all the highways, but if I walk, I can be there in less than an hour, and I won’t look too overeager. As a bonus, maybe the fresh air will scrub the image of Eden from my mind.

  Walking it is.

  I turn up the collar on my coat and brace myself against the cool air as I point my body toward Ballard.

  My walk takes me an hour, but any heat my body gathered from my journey to La Carta de Oaxaca dissipates the moment I peer through the restaurant’s plate-glass window and spot Eden laughing with some guy who isn’t me. The restaurant has open-style seating, where you’re just as likely to get seated with strangers as the people you arrived with, but somehow Eden and the guy landed their own cramped table halfway into the room.

  I catch her mid-laugh, her head tipped back and her hair spilling over her shoulders, and like a hit to the back of the head that you don’t see coming, a spike of jealousy rips through me.

  I should be the one inside that room, coaxing that laugh from her lips.

  Instead, I’m out here on the sidewalk, looking in.

  With relief, I note there’s not a single hint of lacy red bra showing in Eden’s outfit—a long-sleeved black shirt tucked into a maroon suede skirt. I’m the only one who knows what’s underneath.

  “Excuse me?”

  I spin to find one of the waitresses holding the door open for me. The restaurant’s din spills out into the night through the cracked door—the clink of silverware against plates, relaxed conversations, and the mouthwatering smell of Mexican food.

  “Yes?” I ask.

  “Is your name on the list?” She lifts a clipboard bearing a list of names. “It’s about a thirty-minute wait.”

  I glance inside one last time and catch a glimpse of Titus’s stiff shoulders as he hunches over the bar. With him here, nothing too wild’s going to happen.

  “No,”
I tell the woman. “That’s okay, though.”

  She gives me a suit-yourself look and disappears back into the restaurant. I take it as my cue to leave, wondering briefly what Eden will think when I don’t show. Not that it’s gonna change anything other than making her more optimistic about her chances.

  I shove my hands in my pockets and spin away from the restaurant before anyone can spot me. The sidewalks bustle with activity, convincing me to stay rather than just head home. I find myself walking in the direction of Grumpy Old Man’s Comics, which feels aptly named to match my mood. I am now officially the guy who spends his Saturday night at the comic book shop.

  Wonderful.

  A bell over the door jingles to announce my arrival, and the old guy at the counter acknowledges me with a lifted hand, but I’m the only person in the shop right now.

  I breathe deep, inhaling the smell of paper and ink and cardboard boxes. The familiar scent melts the tension from my shoulders. As nerdy as it makes me to admit it, comic books were a safe place for me as I grew up. I may have stuttered when I spoke, but when I read inside my head, the voice of the heroes and villains materialized with perfect clarity.

  I stroll toward the nearest stack of cardboard boxes beneath the brightly-colored comics lining the walls. Shelves tend to hold newer, pricier items, but you can find gems hidden among the cheaper one-off editions if you allow yourself the patience to look.

  I browse the section absentmindedly, sorting through the loose, plastic-covered editions, my fingers sliding reverently over the covers.

  “Looking for anything in particular?” The old guy’s voice makes me jump.

  For a second, guilt flashes through me like an ingrained habit, but I tamp it down and smile. “Actually, yeah.”

  I can turn tonight into a research mission. The Dark Horse contract weighs heavy on my mind. I know we’ll turn around an awesome website for them, but while Titus and I are still in the initial design phase, there are limited days left before I’m going to lose my chance to pitch them my own work. Right now, I’ve got to figure out what the hell I’m going to show them.