“Then you shall get a full order,” she says, reaching into her purse for her glasses.
“How well can you see without those?” I ask.
She bumps into a chair then laughs. “Just kidding. I can see fine without them, but better with them.”
“Good thing you have them, then.”
Once outside we grab some carne asada at a truck down the street, and even though it’s my second round of tacos today, I do indeed love them that much. We devour our food as we walk and talk, discussing music and dance and friends we depend on.
She tells me about her Woman Power Trio, as she calls them. “Olive bartends in Venice and is obsessed with sexy audiobooks. She’s my age but married already. She’s bold, brash, and the one person I can call at any hour of the day with a crisis.” She stops to take a bite of her taco, and a dab of sauce mars her lip. But before the temptation to wipe it away becomes too strong, she takes care of it for me—with that tongue. That sweet pink tongue.
“Then there’s Emery. She’s a whip-smart junior TV producer who’s been burned by love but keeps on trying. An attitude that has served her well in business too, since she’s the fiercest, most determined person I know. She’d give me a kidney, and I’d do the same for her.”
“That’s pretty much the highest compliment you can give anyone,” I say, then I tell her about Sam, and how the guy has come through for me every time I’ve needed him, even when I didn’t know I needed anyone.
Soon, time starts to unwind, the clock ticking closer to evening as we near the market.
Closer to the time when this feels inevitably more like a date. Exactly what it can’t be.
I check the time on my phone, wishing the hour wasn’t mocking me. But there it is—close to five. A reminder that we’re sliding into a dangerous time zone, where night makes it easier to slip up. “I have my radio show tonight. I should go,” I say with obvious reluctance.
“Same. But thanks for spending so much time with me,” she says as we near a subway entrance. An idea hits me—because why end this yet?—and I gesture to it. “Do you want to Uber together, or take the train?”
Her brown eyes twinkle with mischief, like public transportation is the height of fun. “Confession: I’ve never taken the train in LA.”
My eyes go wide. My jaw drops. “You’re a train virgin?”
She gives me a coquettish grin. “I am. Want to deflower me?”
I’m both turned on and amused. I drop an arm around her shoulders. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re kind of flirty and goofy at the same time? Also, this is a friendly limb,” I say, nodding to the arm I have wrapped around her. “I’m just stating that for the record.”
She pats my elbow. “I had an inkling it was an amiable arm. But thanks for the clarification. Also, maybe you bring out my flirty side. And my goofy side. I should stop though. Flirting, that is. Should I stop?”
It’s a genuine question, but I can hear the underlying plea—say no.
“Nah. What’s the harm in flirting?”
I know the answer—plenty—but ignore it because flirting is too damn fun.
While we wait for the train, we discuss her routine, debating tracks that’ll flow from Nirvana to give her routine the poppy, sexy beat she wants. Everything about this day screams date, except for the fact that it’s not.
“So, about my brother—”
The train screeches into the station, cutting off the rest of her sentence with a deafening squeal.
But those words are enough to underscore the barrier between us. The reason why the train deflowering and the ice cream and the dancing are all we can allow.
Because we can only be . . . budding colleagues?
Ugh. What a fucking annoying word. Colleagues.
“Sure. What about him?” The doors slide open, and we grab seats next to each other.
“We’re very close, but I haven’t told him yet that I’m working with you.”
I furrow my brow. Shit. Is this another secret? Secrets are not my jam.
Perhaps sensing my worry, she sets a hand on my arm. And fuck, that feels good, the way her soft palm curls around me. “It’s not bad, Teddy. It’s that . . .” She dips her head, her hair sliding across her cheek. She swipes it away. “He’s kind of protective.”
Abort! Abort!
Abandon ship! Activate the escape hatch.
“Not in a bad way,” she continues. “Just in an older brother way. Know what I mean?”
That’s not reassuring either.
“I have an older sister. And protective isn’t how I’d describe Sabrina,” I offer with a shrug.
“Hey! I didn’t know you had a sister.” She lets go of my arm and bounces a little. “I want details.”
She legit sounds like my family tree is the most fascinating topic in the universe, and that is endearing as hell. “She lives in Seattle. She’s an ER doctor.”
“Good for her. That sounds intense.”
“That’s Sabrina for you. But she’s not protective. Mostly, when we were growing up, she liked to tell me I was cute and adorable and so sweet, and could I please sweep the floors, and put away the dishes, and vacuum the carpets?”
“And was she successful at complimenting you into doing her chores?”
“I was hooked and reeled in with hardly a fight. But she learned from the best. To this day, my mom calls and asks me to do basic handiwork around the house—hang a picture on the wall or fix a shelf or whatever—since my dad’s not handy. And she’ll say, ‘Oh, that was so funny when you did that celebrity impersonation. Can you fix my sink?’”
“It still works?”
“I’m a sucker for flattery,” I admit.
“So, basically, telling you that you’re a babe will get you to mow my lawn?”
I wiggle my brow. “Yes, London. That’s what’s required for me to . . . mow your lawn.”
Snorting, she covers her mouth with her hand. “That sounds quite dirty.”
“So dirty it wouldn’t take any compliments. I’d hang out in your lawn all day long for free.”
“All night too?” she asks, a naughty glimmer in her eyes.
“Yes. Yes, I would.”
She sighs and runs her hand through her hair. “I walked right into that, and now I need to segue back to Archer.”
I pull an imaginary hand brake then talk into my hands as though I’m on an amusement park PA system. “And we’ve now arrived at the end of Innuendo Trail. Please undo your seat belts and make sure you have all your personal belongings. Exit to your left as more flirts make their way onto the car behind you. Your ride is over.”
She laughs for several fantastic seconds. “Anyway,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “Archer also sees me as the little sister, which of course I am. But he’s a look-out-for-her type of guy. And since he’s given me this great chance to present a routine for the owners of his club, I want to impress them. To show them I can deliver something amazing and keep Edge on, well, the cutting edge. Plus, I hope this routine will be a stellar addition to my portfolio and attract Andre’s attention as well.” She looks at me earnestly, as if she’s not sure I’ll understand. “That’s why I wanted to meet with you, make sure this”—she gestures from herself to me—“will work out before I let Archer know about it. He’ll be cool, but I wanted to give you the heads-up on the situation. This is a huge opportunity, and I want to do everything right.”
All of this is good news for her, for Archer, for the club, and, by extension, me.
But it’s also a reminder of the giant roadblock that keeps me sitting here wanting to link our fingers but unable to hold her hand or any other part of her.
“Great. So you’ll tell him we’re collaborating, and he’ll be stoked.”
“Definitely. He’s pretty busy with meetings, but I’ll catch up with him in a day or so.”
“Were you guys close growing up?” I might as well quiz her about her relationship with him. It’ll keep the issue front and
center.
Right where I need it.
“Definitely. He looked out for me, was always weighing in on family talks with Mom and Dad. He took it quite seriously. Like what school I should go to, what sports I should play, what classes I should take. And so on.”
“Did you like that?”
“It was eye-roll-inducing as a tween, but looking back, I love that he always had my best interests at heart. That he wanted to be involved. My parents are like that too. They even had matching jackets from my cheerleading and dance team days and used to wear them to my competitions. Now they break them out whenever I come over. They’re still together after thirty-five years.”
“Goals. That’s awesome. And they live here?”
“They do. I’m having dinner with them tomorrow night.”
That makes me ridiculously happy. Sure, Tracy was close to her dad, but they both always bad-mouthed her mom. That should have been a big red flag. Nice to see London likes and respects both her parents. “Mine live here too. I’m seeing them next week.”
“Birds of a feather,” she says in a soft voice that hints she likes that we’ve got the same plumage.
Soon, we reach our stop, and as we exit the station, I raise my face to the fading sun. Here we are at the end of another . . . almost date.
Saying goodbye to the woman I like a whole hell of a lot.
Fate, you can fuck off.
I walk her home, and when we reach her house, Mr. Darcy is outside cavorting with two guys I recognize as her friends from the club, the ones who look like they could be on the cover of any celebrity magazine in the world.
“Do you live with Tom Ellis and John David Washington?”
London laughs. “I know, right? Everyone in LA is ridiculously beautiful. Tom Ellis is Eli, and John David Washington is Nate.”
The A-list look-alikes are watering the lawn. Only in LA.
As London’s shoes slap the sidewalk, the butterscotch-colored Chihuahua mix loses his mind with glee, darting over to her at the speed of sound.
“My little love,” she says, scooping him up and peppering him with kisses as he wags his tail like it’s a propeller.
She clutches the dog in her arms as she gestures to her friends. “Guys, this is Teddy. Teddy, this is Nate and Eli.”
Nate arches a teasing brow and meets London’s gaze. “Ah, the guy you had dinner with last night, who kisses like a rock star?”
Beet. Red.
Wait—that’s inaccurate. She turns every shade of red in the color wheel, and I want to thump my chest.
London narrows her eyes. “You’re evil, and we’re not friends anymore.”
Eli laughs and drapes an arm around his partner. “Nate, love, did you forget? She also called him the total hottie with the sexy voice and yummy eyes and lips that she couldn’t get enough of.”
Eli flashes a devilish grin at London. Yup, Eli is pure Tom Ellis at his Lucifer best, and he sounds like Ellis too, with a proper British accent and all.
Nate elbows him. “Look at you, showing off with your perfect memory of how London described the man.”
London points at them each in turn. “You’re both officially out of my will.”
The guys laugh, then Eli says to me, “Nice to meet you, Teddy.”
We exchange hellos, and London offers to drive me home. “Plus, I need to escape from these two before they serve up more of my secrets,” she says.
“Or before you do,” Eli adds, as London grabs her keys from her pocket. Her car is parked on the street, so she opens the back door, tucks Mr. Darcy into a dog car seat, then buckles him in.
Yeah, that’s not totally fucking adorable.
I get into the passenger seat, and she drives me to my place, pulling into the lot of my condo.
“Thanks again,” I say, unbuckling my seat belt.
“You’re most welcome,” she says, unclipping the dog. “He doesn’t like to stay in the back seat unless I’m driving.”
“And he should have everything he wants.”
“You get me. Thank you,” she says, as the dog folds himself into a dog ball on her lap, looking like a contented prince.
Well, he is in her lap.
“Also, can we rewind to that moment on your front lawn?” I ask, a smirk tugging at my lips.
“I don’t know. Can we?” she tosses back.
“So I kiss like a rock star?”
She rolls her eyes. “Well, yeah. You were there last night. Don’t you think you kiss like a rock star?”
I laugh. “I’m more interested in what you think of my kissing. And I’m so not thinking about kissing you again,” I lie.
What I’m really not thinking about is about work.
Or her brother.
Or the tangled webs we weave.
I’m not even thinking too much about the fact that I need to jet in twenty minutes to get to the radio station in time.
Because when the woman you’re into tells her buds she can’t get enough of you, everything else falls by the wayside.
The second she removes her glasses, the moment shifts. I take her face in my hands and give in again.
As the sun dips toward the ocean, I forget about all the roadblocks, because I’m the guy she told her friends about. I like being that guy right now.
Because that guy has his hands on London.
I bring her closer, clasp harder, and slide my tongue across her lips. Her soft, lush, fantastic-tasting lips.
Especially when they part for me, when she lets out a needy murmur and draws me closer, even with her dog in her lap.
Following her cues, I deepen the kiss—with lips, with hands, with contact, moving closer in the cramped space of the car.
I slide a hand through her hair as the moment amps up, and we kiss harder, hungrier.
It’s next-level kissing—teeth nipping at lips, tongues exploring, bodies inching toward more delicious, devouring territory.
Her hands travel to my stomach, sliding under my shirt and up my abs to my pecs.
She stops there, curling them over my chest, but I don’t want to stop. I want to bring her inside my home, undress her, and explore her.
Except those lines are so much riskier than this one.
This one in the car in a parking lot.
This one that can only go so far.
Because I can’t go too far.
Or I’ll do something stupider.
For now, stupid is enough. Stupid like pretending this fantastic, mind-numbing kiss doesn’t break the rules we set last night.
I stay here, my hands roping through her hair, my tongue tangoing with hers, her scent going to my head.
I don’t want to end the kiss, and I don’t think she does either.
But a small, soft tongue licks my face.
And it’s not hers.
I laugh, and we break apart—panting, turned on, and totally cracking up about the dog getting in on the action.
“So we’re just going to pretend that was, like, an extension kiss,” I offer after we catch our breath.
“Of yesterday’s?”
“Exactly,” I say.
“And it won’t happen again,” she says, intensely serious.
“It absolutely won’t. And I won’t be thinking of undoing this shirt,” I say, unclicking her seat belt then tugging lightly at the soft cotton, sliding my hand under it, letting my fingers trace her skin.
She gasps as I journey across her soft stomach, savoring the feel of her flesh for the first time.
My fingers are on a mission—slide higher, travel farther, discover the lush lands of London.
Ah, hell. What’s one more kiss?
With my hand firmly on the pert mound of her breast, I return to her lips and kiss her harder, my head a hazy, static blur of lust and desire. My body hums with the need to crank the seat back, pull her on top of me, and say fuck everything so I can fuck her.
I tug at her waist, gripping her hip, yanking her close.
L
ondon slides on top of me, straddling me, and I run my hands up her back, hauling her in for a hot full-body kiss. I want to spend the rest of the night with her like this, on top of me, here in her car, our bodies grinding.
My hands travel down to her ass, gripping those tight, firm cheeks and dragging her closer. She rocks against the ridge of my erection, and my bones vibrate with lust, my brain going hazy with desire. She breathes out hard then kisses harder, pressing and pushing.
London is hungry and confident, and it’s so damn sexy.
I rub against her as her breathing grows more erratic, like maybe, just maybe, she could come like this.
As soon as that tantalizing thought flicks through my head, I imagine London’s noises, her expressions, the telltale signs that she’s close.
Will I be lucky enough to discover those signs?
Will they become part of my London lexicon?
I’d like to know them all.
Especially since this kiss in the front seat of her car has gone from zero to sixty in seconds, and I want to see how much further it can go.
I run a hand along her arm, and she feels like . . . fur.
What the hell?
I yank apart from London to find Mr. Darcy pumping her arm.
I groan. “Umm.”
“Mr. Darcy! You naughty boy.”
She grabs him, but he’s still humping air as she returns to the driver’s seat.
I have no choice but to laugh. I’m pretty sure I’m going to die of busting a gut, and London might too, because she is slumped against the steering wheel, gasping for air, when the dog finally stops moving his doggie hips.
“I forgot to tell you. My dog’s breed is actually horn,” she says.
“London, all dogs are horns, but yours seems to be the rare subbreed: cockblocker. Though maybe we needed his kissus interruptus.”
She brings her hand to her face. “I know we’re not supposed to be doing that. But you’re irresistible.” She juts out her chin, owning it, then strokes the horn dog. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy, for being a cockblocker.” She drops a kiss onto his soft head, and he lets his tongue loll out.
“Yeah, thanks, I think,” I say with a laugh, then I turn serious. “But really, I should behave.”
“I should too. No matter how irresistible you are. This is a big chance for me in my career, and I’ve worked hard, so I will not be distracted by your lips.”
How to Get Lucky Page 8