I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I go with it. “Cool. That’s me. DJ Insomnia, your first choice to make a party last. What can I do ya for?”
She flicks a strand of dark hair off her cheek, her lip gloss smeared, the scent of margaritas swirling around her like it’s her new perfume. “You’re never going to believe this. I have the worst news ever. The worst of all the worst news that was ever delivered anywhere.”
“That doesn’t sound very good,” I say dryly, waiting to see where this conversation is going. My guess is Wedding Town, because the rest of the bridal party marches across the parking lot to flank their bridal leader in what feels like a Reservoir Dogs meets Bridesmaids moment.
“But see, it’s not the worst news. Because my gals and I—we were discussing it. And we texted Nate. And we had the best idea. All of us. It’s the best idea ever.” She takes a tequila-scented pause. “Be my Obi-Wan.”
I arch an inquiring brow. “Is this a you’re-my-only-hope request?”
Synchronized shrieking commences.
“OMG, he knows what I mean.”
The maid of honor jumps up and down. A bridesmaid claps.
“If you could be my Obi-Wan, I would just kiss you. I mean, I won’t kiss you, because I totally love my husband. Well, he’s not my husband yet. He’s going to be my husband in three days, and I’m not going to kiss anybody else, but if I did, it would be you as long as you tell me that you can do one thing for me.”
“What would that thing be?”
“My DJ backed out of my wedding. He booked a shampoo commercial, and it shoots this weekend. It’s a national, so obvs, he can’t miss it,” she says.
I feel my luck changing on a dime. I can guess what’s coming next from Bloom, and in three, two, one, it arrives. “And Nate said London told him you also do weddings. So, would you please DJ at my wedding this Sunday?”
There is only one answer. “Yes.”
16
I meet with Bloom Friday morning at Doctor Insomnia’s Tea and Coffee Emporium, not only because I like the name, but because it’s in Silverlake, between both of us. Over a vanilla latte for her and a black coffee for me, we review her picks for the first dance, the dance with her father, and the groom’s dance with his mom.
She also rattles off all her favorite numbers and her never-ever-play-at-my-wedding list.
“No ‘Macarena,’ no ‘Every Breath You Take,’ and no ‘My Heart Will Go On,’” she says, counting off on her fingers.
“Because it’s cheesy, because it’s a stalker song, and because no one wants to think of Leonardo DiCaprio dying.”
The bride-to-be’s grin is massive. “It’s like it was meant to be, you deejaying my wedding.”
“Kismet,” I say, feeling great about this opportunity. “Glad I could help out.”
She gives me the rest of the venue and timeline details, and I tell her I’ll see her on Sunday.
When I hop into my car, my phone buzzes with a text. Apparently, I’m Pavlov’s dog, because the possibility that it might be from London has me swiping the screen faster than usual.
But I’ve got too much riding on my career to get sidetracked now, especially with new opportunities like Bloom’s wedding in my future.
I’ll be friendly and businesslike if it’s London. But my mom’s name pops up on the screen.
* * *
Mom: Ready when you are.
* * *
Since I haven’t heard from her in a few days, this text must be for someone else, so I use this as an excuse to call.
“Hi, Teddy. Good to hear from you.”
“Question, Mom. Ready for what? Chess? Mah-jongg? Key party?”
“Oops, did I send that to you? I meant to text your father. We’re brunching. Day date.”
“You text him even though you live in the same house?”
“We’re a modern couple. Don’t be so surprised we know how to text.”
I shake my head. “That wasn’t the surprise. It was that you didn’t just yell up the stairs.”
“We like to text.” Do I hear a hint of coyness in her voice?
“Okay, then. Carry on.”
“We will. We like to text about a lot of things.”
I cringe, even though my parents have always been a touchy-feely couple. Which I truly don’t mind. I just don’t require details. “Mom, I don’t need to know that.”
“Hush. You weren’t made in a test tube.”
“Still don’t need to know that you and Dad like to text.”
“I didn’t say what we texted about,” she says, all faux demure.
“Yes, but I got the picture.”
She scoffs. “We don’t send pics. That’s too risqué. Please tell me you don’t send dirty pics to women.”
“Mom!”
“You’re still my son, and I’ll still look out for you.”
“I don’t send dirty pics. I’m not even seeing anyone.”
“That’s a shame. We can try to find a nice girl to bring to the cages on Monday for batting practice.”
I groan. The last thing I want is a blind double date with my parents. Sure, I love them, and I get a kick out of going to Dad’s softball games, where Mom brings him orange slices like she did for me when I was a kid.
But a blind date?
No, thanks.
“Call me crazy, but seeing the two of you is enough for me. And do me a favor, Mom?”
“Sure.”
“Double-check before you send me a text meant for Dad.”
She takes a beat, then says, “Think before texting. Those are some words to live by.”
Words to live by indeed.
And I do just that all day as I resist the urge to text London. I also keep my eye on the prize while working at Edge that night.
Bills fly across the stage. Women cheer. The music pounds.
And the tips are the best they’ve ever been.
It’s a great Friday night.
As I make my way out of the club, Archer’s behind the bar, working on his laptop, probably tallying up receipts.
He tips his chin in my direction. “I heard the news.”
I flinch, my skin prickling with nerves. Is he toying with me like he did with London? I toss out a curveball. “That the Dodgers are leading the division with one month to go?”
Please tell me he’s talking about baseball.
“That is indeed excellent news. But I meant about Bloom.”
Is he pissed I’m doing business with a customer? That’s not against the rules though. Plus, Archer knows about my side-hustle plans. He’s never had an issue with it before.
“You heard about her wedding?” I ask carefully, since I’m not sure what’s coming next.
“One of her friends forgot her phone, so they came back in last night, and Bloom was talking about having nabbed you last minute for her wedding. That’s great. Good to see you growing your business.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “I’m stoked. I met with her earlier today about the music she likes. Should be a good event.”
“Definitely. London says Bloom knows how to throw a party.”
My head spins in a complete 360. “London said that?” I croak. Why would London say that?
“She was telling me the other night that she’s going to the wedding. With Nate, since Eli has to go out of town for work.”
Right. Bloom was here at Edge in the first place because of Nate.
And now London is going to be at the wedding.
But there will be no rogue kissing.
Hell, how could there be? I’ll be at the DJ booth, and she’ll be with Nate.
So, I’ll behave. It’ll be easy.
So. Damn. Easy.
“Then I’m looking forward to the wedding even more.” I hastily add, “Since London said it’ll be a good gig. That’s why I’m looking forward to it.”
No other reason, of course.
Archer tilts his head, his expression serious. “But sh
ould I be looking for a new deejay?”
“What?” I jerk my head back. “No. Why?”
He drags his palm across his forehead in exaggerated relief. “Whew. Good. Because I don’t want to lose you when you become the city’s most sought-after wedding deejay. Finding a good deejay is harder than finding good dancers. A six-pack, some stage presence, and a few solid moves aren’t hard to come by in this town. But someone with encyclopedic knowledge of tunes, who’s quick on his feet with a quip and a comment? That’s hard to replace.”
A smile breaks out. “I’ll be sticking around for a while.” Especially since I want that raise. Because . . . bills. “Maybe not forever, but for now. No worries there. Just trying to grow my side business at the same time.”
“Makes sense. You want options for the long-term. Just do me a favor?”
“Sure,” I say, hoping it’s something I can deliver.
“Give me a heads-up if anything changes, okay? So I can look for a replacement?”
That feels like the least I can do. “Of course,” I say, my shoulders relaxing.
He gestures to his laptop. “I’ve got a ton of work to finish before I go on this corporate camping retreat.”
I tilt my head. “Corporate and camping? That sounds like an oxymoron.”
“You’re telling me. I’ve got to work even later to go on an unplugged retreat . . . about work. Maybe we’ll eat nothing but jumbo shrimp.”
“That’s seriously . . . funny.”
“I see what you did there. Not bad, Teddy. But I’m sure I’ll learn tons, so there’s that.”
“Let’s at least hope the s’mores are good.”
“There’s always the s’mores.” He nods toward the door. “See you tomorrow.”
I take off, grateful to be needed. Glad everything is all good.
At home, I take Bowie for a long walk, checking out the science podcast London recommended.
I learn about toasters and decide filaments are cool. When I go to bed, I chalk up a win—I’ve navigated another day without lusting over London. And as if to prove myself to the universe, I text her, suggesting she meet me after my show at the station on Monday night so we can continue our strictly professional arrangement.
Yep, I’m rocking this resistance. Rocking it like Springsteen rocks, well, everything.
I go full Boss the next day too, working out with Sam, catching up on the news, chatting with Sherri en español, then listening to another episode of the science podcast. Before I head to the club, a fantastic email lands on my phone. One of the community groups I emailed needs a DJ for an awards ceremony, so I say yes and add that to my calendar for early next month.
Finally, I head to the club for a raucous Saturday night.
By the time midnight rolls around, I’ve conducted a London detox.
Pretty damn impressive.
But when she texts me, my resistance gets up, walks out the door, and deserts me entirely.
All that’s left is my desire to get to know the most fascinating woman I’ve ever met.
And to know her in every damn way.
17
A few minutes earlier
* * *
From the Woman Power Trio, aka the text messages of London and her two besties, Olive and Emery
* * *
Emery: Just text him.
* * *
Olive: You know you want to.
* * *
London: You’re such enablers.
* * *
Emery: You say that like it’s a bad thing.
* * *
London: It is a bad thing. For many reasons. I told you the reasons.
* * *
Olive: Reasons, schmeasons. Besides, you have research to do.
* * *
Emery: And we do want to know if our theory holds up.
* * *
London: So I’m your lab rat?
* * *
Olive: You’re too cute to be a lab rat. Also, I’m against animal testing.
* * *
London: Yes, me too.
* * *
Emery: Same, obvs. But we don’t want you to be a lab rat. We want you to be a lab woman who goes out and gets it, girl.
* * *
Olive: I mean, in your libido’s defense, it’s been a while.
* * *
London: So you’re looking out for my sex life, or lack thereof?
* * *
Emery: I think that’s quite a noble calling.
* * *
Olive: I concur. Now, go forth and text. In the name of research.
* * *
London: I’ll just text to say hi. That’s all. I’m not texting for other reasons.
* * *
Emery: Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep at night.
* * *
London: ENABLER!
* * *
Olive: AND YOU LOVE IT!
18
After work, I melt into the couch with a bowl of dandan noodles, Bowie cuddled next to me. Just as I’m about to dive into this peanuty goodness, my phone vibrates in my pocket.
It’s a text. From London. After midnight.
Okay, Teddy, relax. Put the chopsticks down and read the message.
* * *
London: Hey, you!
* * *
Maybe it’s the hey, you that does it—the easy conversational vibe, but also the intimacy of it. Or maybe I’m reading too much into it.
Or maybe I just like the woman too much for my own good.
* * *
Teddy: Hey to you too.
* * *
London: I hope it’s not too late to text.
* * *
Teddy: I’m a night owl.
* * *
London: Whew. Good. Did you just get off?
* * *
My fingers move faster than my brain, and the text is on its way before I have a chance to second-guess myself.
* * *
Teddy: Yes, but I was thinking of you the whole time.
* * *
But before I can castigate myself any further, a reply pops up on the screen.
* * *
London: I was asking about WORK, but it’s nice to hear you’re thinking of me . . .
* * *
I kind of can’t stop thinking of her. Even when I was trying to, she was there in the back of my brain.
* * *
London: Just checking in about Monday. Are we all set to meet at the station after your show?
* * *
Teddy: Sam is lined up to walk the dogs, so I’m good for the night. No need to rush.
* * *
London: Dogs? I thought you just had Bowie.
* * *
Teddy: I do, but I walk my neighbor’s dog when I can. Sherri is older and not as mobile as she used to be, so I try to give her pooch some outdoor time.
* * *
London: Aww . . . that’s sweet of you.
* * *
Teddy: Sherri is awesome, and Bowie loves her beagle rescue Vin Scully, so it all works out.
* * *
London: I’m guessing you’re being modest here. You sound like you might be a—gasp—good guy.
* * *
Teddy: And what leads you to that conclusion?
* * *
London: Rescue pittie? Check. Helping little old lady neighbors? Check. Likes his parents? Check. Adds up to a good guy.
* * *
I repeat the text out loud, then look at David Bowie. “Does she think being a good guy is bad, buddy? Did I miss a memo?”
Bowie offers his belly but no advice. Typical. I give him a scratch, since he asked nicely—like a good guy.
I take a bite of the noodles, hoping she’s not one of those women who likes jerks. But that doesn’t track with her. Time to throw down the simple truth.
* * *
Teddy: Sure. I’ll own it. Good guy and proud of it.
* * *
London: I thought you migh
t be. We were having a debate about good guys versus bad boys at our board game night.
* * *
Teddy: I’ll bite. What was the debate? Also, who’s we?
* * *
London: Emery, Olive, Eli, Nate, and myself. You met the guys already. And I told you about my gals. Olive’s the married one who loves audiobooks. I’m pretty sure she uses them as foreplay for the sex she and her motorcycle-riding tattoo artist of a hubby have every night. His name’s Hawke, so he couldn’t be anything but a bad boy. Emery has a penchant for smooth-talking suits who turn out to be secretly married. I’m trying to cure her of that. And so are Nate and Eli. They’re all for good guys. Because, they—wait for it—are good guys. Also, I’m pretty sure they have sex twice a day.
How to Get Lucky Page 10