Vote Then Read: Volume II

by Lauren Blakely

  Laughing, he shakes his head. “I can’t be bought. What about you?”

  “Oh, I can be bought. Or simply bribed with a nominal amount of dessert. A chocolate buttercream cake would probably be enough to get me to put on a baseball uniform and catch fly balls.”

  He sweeps one arm in front of me, like he’s writing on the sky. “Can Be Bribed with Dessert. That’s another book title for you.” He slinks his other arm tighter around me, curling his hand over my waist, and I sigh happily.

  Dreamily.

  Contentedly.

  This. Feels. So. Good.

  And the craziest part of being with him like this? Even though we’ve only been doing this for a few days, I feel like I’m winning at balancing work and romance. I had another great day at the office, powering through manuscripts and refining my editorial letter.

  Compelled to let him know that everything feels doable, I turn to him and smile knowingly. “You know what?”

  “What?” His face is hopeful, and that’s why I’m not afraid to say what I’m feeling.

  But because I’m me, I keep it light. “Did you know you broke my man diet?”

  He pinches my belly. “I didn’t know you were on one.”

  “I definitely was.”

  “And why were you going keto on men?”

  “The whole work thing. I’ve always wanted to get a promotion so badly, I’ve needed to be laser-focused, but I felt like I nailed my pitch practice with Tiffany yesterday, and I’m delighted with how my sample editorial letter is coming together. I’m not saying I’m a shoo-in, but I weirdly don’t feel like you’re sucking up all my brain cells.”

  He fashions a claw of his hand, drops his fingers to my head, and makes a loud slurping sound.

  I moan dramatically and pretend like I’m about to collapse.

  “Mwah-ha-ha,” he cackles evilly.

  “So that was your nefarious plan all along. Trick me and steal my brain power.”

  “You have a big brain. Why not go for a big haul?” He tugs me closer, dusting a kiss over my forehead. “I hear ya though.”

  “You do?”

  He nods, pulling back, his expression shifting. “I was wary too. About getting involved with someone at work. Let’s just say I’ve had a bad experience in the past.”

  I frown. “Oh no. Office romance left a bitter aftertaste?”

  He heaves a sigh. “That’s one way of putting it,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his jaw before he tugs me away from the races and toward a stoop, where we sit.

  I’m wildly curious what he’s about to tell me, and though it must be painful for him, he doesn’t hold back from me.

  “I went out with this agent in LA.” His tone is heavy, laced with regret. “We had a book together. Which made it ultra-awkward when she turned out to be secretly married.”

  A chill stands the hair on my arms on end. “That’s awful.”

  “Yeah, I felt like a complete asshole,” he says, then shares more details.

  “It’s not your fault though,” I say when he’s through with the story.

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  I freeze. “Wait. Are you worried that I’m married? Because I assure you, my poker face isn’t that good.”

  He laughs, runs his fingers along my cheek, and shakes his head. “No, I’ve seen your place and met your dog, and woken up with you. But it made me wary of ever having a workplace romance, even though this woman and I weren’t in the same office. I wanted to see a clear division. Having to work with her for weeks afterward was torture.”

  “Sure.” I nod, and my throat tightens with the fear that he’s putting on the brakes, and with good reason. He’s crashed before.

  He reaches for my hand, squeezing it, and that loosens some of my worry, but not all of it. “Coming to New York felt like a fresh start,” he continues. “I left all that crap behind and came here determined to not do one thing: get involved with someone I work with. And then look what you did.”

  “I bamboozled you,” I say playfully, shimmying my shoulders as if that will keep the hurt away if he’s ending this. Is that what he’s doing?

  “You definitely did, Amy. From the second I met you,” he says, emphasizing each word, and maybe my fears are for naught. “That night at Gin Joint, I was, like, ‘Universe, are you kidding me?’”

  I smile, relieved that his tone has shifted from annoyed to humorous once more. “The universe wanted to tempt you, evidently.”

  “And that’s why I got on the app. Because you were so distracting, so tempting, so delicious.” He nibbles on my neck, and yeah, I’m okay. We’re okay. “And I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

  My skin sizzles, and I’m lit up all over. I’m so damn happy with the direction this conversation is going. “And then look what Boyfriend Material did to you. Tricked you into liking me.”

  He shakes his head. “Nope. It didn’t trick me into liking you.”

  I furrow my brow. Maybe I am still confused. “Okay, maybe not tricked, but kind of?”

  “Nope.” He shakes his head.

  “Well, we did kind of think we were other people, even though I did want Dax to be you. So maybe we were both tricked?” I’m so lost . . . am I misreading this entirely?

  “Betty Boop, that is not what I’m saying at all.” His fingers drift from my shoulder to my neck as he fiddles with my necklace, and I wait.

  Because he needs to go next.

  There’s nothing I can say until I know what he means.

  The air is charged. Ions are tap-dancing, and everything feels poised, swollen with possibility.

  He stays quiet, though, and I can’t take it. “What do you mean, Linc?” Just then, I’m not bold or confident. I’m just a girl trying to understand the guy she’s falling for.

  He slides a hand through my hair and exhales. “Don’t you see the real trouble? The app didn’t trick me into liking you. Nothing tricked me. I already liked you, and when we chatted, I liked you so much more. And now?” He tucks a finger under my chin. “Now I’m pretty sure I’m falling hard for you.”

  This is better than vanilla lattes. Than Netflix binges. Than naps. Than Cinnamon Life cereal. Than pockets in skirts.

  “I’m falling for you too,” I whisper.

  And then we do that thing new lovers do. We gaze at each other, grinning like happy fools.

  The happiest.

  Because that’s what falling does to you.

  He lets go of my hair. “You know what that means?”

  “That we’re going to start doing shopping-cart races?”

  “No, it means that, one, I need to get you naked again, and two, we’re going to have to disclose it at work.”

  My stomach craters, a pit forming in it.

  The last thing I want to do while I’m chasing a new job is to tell senior management about my love life.

  But it won’t happen this week, because the VPs are on a two-day retreat.

  It feels like a reprieve—and a chance to fall even harder for Linc, when he doesn’t just invite me for a sleepover the next night, Thursday.

  He invites my dog.

  I’m not a squealer.

  Or a giggler.

  But inside, I’m doing both when another text message from him lands on my phone that afternoon while I’m grabbing a Diet Coke from the break room.

  I click it open.

  Linc: Since we’re having a three-way sleepover tonight, I’m thinking we should take the world’s greatest dog detective to the dog park beforehand. This is only partly so he doesn’t feel like a third wheel when I’m making you cry out in exquisite, toe-curling rapture later while he waits in the living room.

  Amy: What makes you think he has enough control to wait in the living room? What if, say, he’s parked at the foot of the bed during the rapture?

  Linc: The door, Amy. The door. It closes.

  Amy: Be prepared for the pawing at the door during the rapture. But even so, my answer to the dog park is YES!
And you’re better than a hot librarian. You’re a dog-loving hot librarian who gives epic orgasms and tickles my brain parts.

  Linc: I like it when you say YES. You say it a lot during epic orgasms. FYI. Also, I bought your dog a toy. I might have done it to make you happy, or maybe to get into your pants. The jury’s still out.

  That’s when I squeal-giggle.

  But the second the sound comes out, I’m mortified. I clasp a hand to my mouth and tell myself to shut the fuck up.

  “Did you just get that ModCloth fifty-percent-off-sale email?” Lola asks, since she’s strolling by.

  “No, better,” I say, scanning the hall, then I tug her in and show her the note.

  “Shut up. How the hell did you find a keeper so quickly?”

  I bring my finger to my lips “Don’t jinx it.”

  “I’m not jinxing it. But for the record, you seemed perfect for each other from the start.”

  “Well, maybe,” I admit with a goofy grin.

  Lola is fully in the know, since I debriefed her the other day, and in true good-friend form, she oohed, ahhed, and asked if the, ahem, entertainment was good.

  “It’s exquisite,” I’d told her.

  “You’re such a cocksucker,” she’d said with a playful sneer.

  “And I will take that as a compliment,” I’d said.

  Now, she simply shakes her head in amusement. “Look at you, firing on all cylinders. Speaking of, do you want to see the mock-up I’m working on? It’s for that untitled YA Rainey assigned you.”

  “Ooh, yes.”

  We head down the hall, past Rainey’s office. The queen is out today, but her keeper is there. I smile at the bubbly blonde.

  “Hi, Antonia.” I gesture to her green paisley dress. “Love the dress you have on.”

  “Thanks. It’s my first dress with pockets. I remember you saying how much you loved them, so I snagged one the other day, and it’s fabulous.”

  Stopping, I hold up a hand to high-five. “Welcome to the cult of pockets.”

  Antonia smiles brightly. “That would be a funny name for a book.”

  “I can see the cover now,” Lola says, her dark eyes filled with visions of, well, pockets.

  We soldier on to Lola’s office, where she shows me the YA cover then begs me to entertain her more with my “sexcapades,” as she calls them.

  “I don’t kiss and tell. Not in the office, at least,” I say.

  “Then I’ll ply you with drinks this weekend.”

  “Twist my arm.”

  That night, I take my little man to see my main man, and when Linc gives Inspector Poirot a stuffed alligator with sixteen squeakers, I’m pretty sure I hit the jackpot.

  And I don’t just mean the orgasm one, though Linc gives me a trio of toe-curling, earth-shattering ones that night.

  The next morning, he brings me breakfast in bed, complete with what looks like my skull creeper cup. Mmm, coffee.

  Except . . . wait. That’s not for me.

  I sit up in bed, grab my glasses, and narrow my eyes. “I would be mad at you for denying my belly if you weren’t so damn dishy.”

  Linc smiles devilishly, giving the dog water from the mug. Then he plucks the dog biscuit from the tray and offers it to my hound.

  Inspector Poirot takes it, then scurries to Linc’s side of the bed, where he proceeds to devour the biscuit on his pillow.

  “And I won’t even kick him out of bed for leaving crumbs.”

  Linc

  Baldwin called it.

  But I knew it too.

  Because I know who I am. I always have.

  Maybe it’s because of my love of books and eighties movies.

  Through them I’ve come to understand all sorts of men. I met the man with a plan in Aragorn in Lord of the Rings. I understood the guys who wanted the world to bend to their will, thanks to Jay Gatsby, and I got to know the rebel with a heart, courtesy of Matthew Broderick in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.

  I spent time with the ultimate playboy, too, when I was twelve and ran across Giacomo Girolamo Casanova’s autobiography at the library and read it from cover to cover. Man, that guy could put Wilt Chamberlain to shame.

  I met so many others: the wise wizard in Dumbledore, the nerd who observes between the pages of Looking for Alaska, and the relentless assassin Jason Bourne. (Not sure what the Bourne takeaway was except to always watch your back, which is a worthwhile lesson.)

  Through stories, I’ve learned what I want. What I need. What makes me tick.

  That’s how I’ve always known I’m not a one-night-stand kind of guy.

  I’m the relationship type, and that’s exactly what this after-hours time has become.

  It’s become what I want.

  Amy feels like mine. She’s not a sidepiece, she’s not a booty call, and she’s not an affair.

  She’s real, and she’s everything.

  The best part about knowing your mind is not having to struggle with your inner demons when you meet the girl you’re crazy about.

  I tell Baldwin as much over lunch on Friday. “You were right. The app was a good idea.”

  He buffs his fingernails against his chest, then blows on them. “I’m brilliant. Who is she?”

  “She’s a Smartie.”

  His eyes widen. “And a SweeTart?” His voice rises with hope.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Look at you, Superman. Fishing in the waters at home.”

  “Yeah, I know. But we’re going to disclose it when the VPs are back on Monday.”

  “Smart plan. Also, I want details.”

  “What a surprise.”

  He shoots me a harsh stare. “I deserve details.”

  I don’t tell him much—I’m not that guy—but enough to make him happy, because I tell him I’m falling hard for Amy.

  My sister is another story.

  I suspect she’ll demand to know even more when I meet her at the end of the workday.

  After Lisa and Paige drop off the baby with Paige’s sister, I meet them for an early evening game of Ping-Pong at the Lucky Spot.

  It’s a tight match between Lisa and me, and I’m determined to win. Because tonight I’m Jason Bourne.

  The white ball whizzes at me, and with laser focus, I lunge for it, smacking it to the other side of the table.

  Lisa grunts, racing after it, slapping it across again.

  The plastic ball screams in my direction, and I carve my best backhand, sending it over the table once more.

  “Go for it, baby!” Paige shouts, and Lisa misses.

  I thrust my arms in the air. “And the game goes to the champion.”

  Lisa shoots Paige a look. “Thanks for breaking my concentration.”

  Paige slinks an arm around Lisa’s waist. “Please forgive me.”

  Lisa sighs happily. “Fine, you’re forgiven,” she says, then drops a kiss on Paige’s lips.

  Or, I should say, she mauls her, dragging her wife in for a possessive smooch in the middle of the game room.

  “Don’t mind me,” I deadpan.

  With their lips still locked, Lisa flips me the bird and kisses Paige more deeply.

  When she finally comes up for air, Lisa asks me, “Speaking of deep, passionate kisses that last for days, have you fallen in love yet? Since I know you’re partial to that.”

  I shrug impishly like I have a secret.

  Lisa closes the distance between us, clasping her hands on my shoulders. “Must. Know. Everything.”

  I laugh. “The woman I was telling you about?”

  “The one you met online?” Paige chimes in, and I guess Lisa told her.

  “Yes. Turns out she works in the same office as me.”

  Lisa’s eyes widen in curiosity. “She does? Tell me more.”

  I don’t tell them the winding, twisty path to Amy Summers—that would require serving up more details than necessary. What I tell, though, is true: Boyfriend Material matched us, and Amy is smart and wildly clever and loves books and
hates sports and has a wicked sense of humor and a goofy heart. She’s completely single, obsessed with her dog, and basically the most fascinating person I’ve ever met.

  Two jaws drop.

  “Someone is in love,” Paige says, singsong.

  It’s still early, but I’d say it’s heading pretty damn close to that four-letter word.

  “Falling,” I correct, like the distinction between the path to love and love itself matters greatly.

  “Like a regular Casanova,” Lisa jokes.

  “Yes, that’s me,” I say dryly.

  Lisa nudges my elbow. “When do we meet this fabulous ball of energy?”

  “Soon. We just need to tell the bosses at work that we’re a thing, but we’ll do that first thing Monday, and then it should be smooth sailing.”

  “Can she come play Ping-Pong with us?” Lisa asks, like she’s five, pleading for ice cream.

  “Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

  I grab my phone and FaceTime Amy.

  She answers right away. “Hey, hottie face! I’m heading to the gym to work on my booty, so this better be good if you’re interrupting buns-of-steel time,” she says as she marches down the street wearing yoga pants and a tank-top sports bra I want to peel off with my teeth.

  I point to the two women by my side. “Hi, Amy. This is my sister and her wife.”

  She waves. “Hi, pretty ladies! Nice to meet you, Lisa and Paige.”

  “My brother really likes you,” Lisa chimes in.

  Amy’s grin is magnificent. “I had no idea.”

  “Like, a lot,” Paige adds.

  “The feeling is mutual,” Amy says.

  “That’s what I like to hear.” Lisa nods at the screen. “I don’t want to keep you from your buns time.”

  “Actually, I’m teaching a Hula-Hoop class tonight. But it’s good for the butt too.”

  “I’ve been dying to learn how to hula-hoop,” Lisa says, excitement dripping from her voice.

  “Don’t die from wanting. Just come to class sometime. I’d love to teach you.”

  Lisa gives Amy a big thumbs-up.