Sex and Other Shiny Objects (Boyfriend Material Book 2)

by Lauren Blakely

  Lola inches closer. “Does that scare you?”

  Yes.

  But I don’t want to give voice to the fear. I keep the question in my head a little longer, mulling it over, turning it this way and that. Maybe because I don’t want to experience all this strange newness by myself, I manage to whisper, “So much,” as the waitress brings me the drink.

  “One Last Word for you,” she declares.

  Amy gestures to the waitress. “Add it to my tab.”

  The waitress leaves, and I pick up the glass.

  “Why does it scare you?” Amy asks, returning to the question.

  The question I need to figure out how to answer. “For so many reasons,” I say, then I take a drink.

  I don’t want to list them all, because the list would occupy a sheet of paper so long it’d scroll out the door.

  I knock back some of the beverage, savoring the clean, neat taste of the gin, then I turn the conversation in another direction. “The blog is working. Business has been picking up more than I could hope after only a few days,” I say, rapping my knuckles on the metal table in front of me.

  “That’s great,” Lola says with a smile.

  I prattle on about the slight uptick in traffic to the store, and the comments on the blog itself, which is quickly picking up speed. “It’s great to see the strategy working. Tristan said I should put more of myself into the blog, and that customers would connect with that.”

  Amy’s eyebrows rise above her glasses. “I don’t think your customers are the only ones connecting to the blog.”

  “I think he is too,” Lola adds.

  My brow creases. “Did he say something to you?”

  Lola laughs, shaking her head. “He doesn’t have to, Peyton. I’ve seen the way you two are together. How he makes you laugh, and how he pokes fun at you in the most deadpan way. And how you give it right back to him.”

  “Because we’re friends. We always have been,” I say.

  “Right. That’s true. But you weren’t exactly hanging out with him all the time when you were with Gage.”

  “And that’s why I’m glad that we can hang out again now. Like we did in college, and after college.”

  Lola takes a deep breath, as if she’s steeling herself to say something hard. “I’m not trying to side with Captain Infidelity . . .” My shoulders tighten. I can hear the edge in her voice, the slice of tough love she’s about to serve up. “But do you think maybe Gage was onto something when he didn’t want you to spend time with Tristan?”

  My jaw ticks. “I was faithful to Gage. I’ve been faithful to everyone I’ve been with. I would never cheat.”

  Lola squeezes my knee, but I shrink away.

  She’s insistent though. “Peyton, I know that.”

  “We know that,” Amy adds. “You’re a faithful person.”

  “I am,” I insist. But why so strongly? It’s nothing but the truth. “I was faithful mentally, emotionally, and physically in every way to everyone I’ve ever been with.”

  “Of course you were. But you’re also an honest person, and Gage knew you’d kissed Tristan. You told him about the kiss,” Amy says.

  “Yes, because otherwise I would have been keeping it a secret, and there was no reason for it to be a secret. I was honest with him about everything. Telling Gage I kissed Tristan was the right thing to do.”

  “Yes, it was. It absolutely was. And Gage is a total asshat,” Lola says. “But he’s also a human who was probably more jealous than he ever let on. So even if you weren’t thinking of Tristan as boyfriend material when you were with Gage, you were certainly thinking of him that way once upon a time, weren’t you? It wasn’t just a random kiss in college, was it?”

  I drop my head in my hands, the past crawling over me, digging its heel into my back.

  Memories of college, of the times Tristan and I spent together before the dance, flicker in my mind. After he finished work, we’d meet for late-night study sessions for our history class, or we’d share notes for Spanish. On weekends, we’d go to the on-campus diner for milkshakes and fries, then salads the next day because we felt guilty about the fries. Sometimes we went out with our group of friends, and sometimes it was just us. He told me stories about teaching his brother how to make a pizza from scratch then showed me pictures of a young Barrett covered in tomato sauce and flour.

  We played blackjack and made up new rules, and we read articles in The Onion out loud to each other in the snack bar, each doing our best to make the other laugh like a hyena.

  We were friends.

  Except for that one night.

  I’d wanted more than that one night. I thought about him all through winter break, wondering, wanting.

  Was he the one for me?

  After his father passed away, we returned so seamlessly to friendship that it was as if the kiss had never happened. We never spoke of it. He gave no sign he wanted anything more.

  But maybe Gage was right to be jealous of Tristan. Maybe it’s normal to be jealous of any man your girlfriend has kissed.

  I look up, seeing the patience in Amy’s and Lola’s eyes, pure friendship in their expressions.

  “Yes, once upon a time, I wanted more,” I admit.

  A weight lifts from my shoulders.

  But only for a moment. Then it crashes down heavier than before, a looming reminder of the risks.

  Because that was in the past, and this is the present. “But there’s too much at stake now,” I continue. “And sometimes, chances slip by for a reason. I think we were meant to be friends. With friendship, I can’t lose him. A quick romp, a one-night fling—those are too risky. Relationships can go up in flames. Look what happened to me.”

  I waggle my naked ring finger. “Three years with Gage and what do I have? Ten grand I poured into my store, and that’s all well and good. But I loved him, and he hurt me. I care so deeply for Tristan that the thought of losing him makes me physically ill.” I wrap my arms around my belly. “If I even tried to pursue something, acting on whatever this . . .” I gesture wildly, searching for words. “This vibe is, then what if it goes belly-up? What if it turns into the next bare ring finger?”

  “He’s not like Gage,” Amy points out.

  “But that’s not even the issue,” I add.

  “I know,” she says quietly. “You’re not worried he’d cheat. You’re worried you’d ruin the friendship if you let anything happen.”

  “Yes, because relationships are risky, but friendships are solid. Look at us now. We wouldn’t be friends if we’d fallen into bed ten years ago. I need him in my life too much.”

  Amy raises her glass and says, “Let’s drink to friendship.”

  Lola chimes in. “Friendship makes the world go round.”

  “Exactly. I don’t want to lose you ladies ever, and I feel the same about Tristan. If I’m not going to sleep with you, I’m not going to sleep with him.”

  That decision felt right and solid when I said it to my girls. It’s harder to remember when Tristan knocks on my door the next night.

  19

  Tristan

  I spend the morning at the restaurant, managing inventory, paying bills, talking to suppliers.

  My sous chef and I devise the specials, and I make small plates during lunch hour. When the rush dies down, I shift back to the office, finish some paperwork, and then pack up for the day, since my sous and the staff and crew can handle the night crowd.

  Besides, I have a scene to attend.

  And tonight’s scene involves turning the tables on her.

  I’m ripping off her panties, and she’s going to wear red.

  Red. Flipping red.

  Which won’t help my resistance.

  Hence, the hour and a half I spend at the gym with the weights.

  And on the treadmill.

  And the elliptical too, for good measure.

  As I leave, Linc walks in with Amy beside him. From the looks of it, she’s showing him how her phone slides into t
he pocket of her bright-pink exercise pants.

  She removes it with the showmanship of a magic trick. “See? We seriously need to plan a gift book about all the little things in life that bring joy, from pockets to hedgehogs to peeling a clementine in one strip,” I hear her say.

  Linc nods thoughtfully. “What about oranges though?”

  “It’s impossible to peel an orange in one go.”

  I cross their path, stopping to cut in on their conversation. “It’s not impossible. Ever tried a mandarin?”

  Amy blinks. “I stand corrected.”

  “Also, some grapefruits can be disrobed in one fell swoop,” I say, then I realize I just walked into innuendo quicksand.

  I wait for Amy to take the bait, to toss out something like “But how many licks does it take to disrobe a redhead wearing the sexiest pair of panties you’ve ever seen?”

  But she doesn’t say that. What’s stranger is that she says nothing. Amy rarely takes the fifth.

  Linc simply raises a brow. “Have fun tonight.”

  Amy smiles, shooting me a friendly grin. “May the force of romance novels be with you.”

  They walk past the weight machines, and I scratch my jaw. It’s unlike the two of them to resist wordplay.

  It’s almost as if they have some sort of secret.

  Or something they don’t want to say.

  But hell if I can figure out what it means.

  Or if it means anything at all.

  I return home, and as I walk into my building, my phone pings with a text.

  Peyton: Are your teeth nice and sharp?

  Tristan: Yes. I gnawed on a tree earlier today. Hung out with a pack of beavers. Chowed down.

  Peyton: Excellent. So they’re perfectly pointy.

  I reach the stairwell and take the steps two by two as I answer her.

  Tristan: Definitely. Let me guess—you want to test out a scene where the hero rips duct tape with his teeth before he hoists a couch on one shoulder?

  Peyton: Yes. I want you to do lots of manly stuff like that.

  Tristan: Manly stuff, check.

  Peyton: Also, it turns out that not only does the hero in this book like to shred panties . . . he likes to shred them with his teeth.

  I trip.

  My phone flies out of my hand and skids across the concrete landing as I fall on the staircase, tumbling over my own feet.

  My knee smarts, screaming from the impact. Glancing behind me, I see no one there to witness my stumble, and I breathe a huge sigh of relief.

  Hell, that was more than a stumble.

  That belongs on epic fails on YouTube. That should be a PSA not to text while walking up stairs.

  Or down stairs.

  I push up and grab my phone. Dragging my hand through my hair, I shake off the momentary pain, but I can’t shake off the thought of tonight’s task.

  Testing the rip-ability of panties with my hands would have been challenging enough. A true feat of strength, but not an insurmountable one, since she’d be wearing the “bathing-suit-style birthday suit,” her words. She said she planned to wear a thong under the lace panties I was supposed to tear off her.

  What was I supposed to say to that?

  Thanks, but no thanks?

  My brain was shouting hell yeah to any and all of those options. Aloud, I’d kept it to a simple “Sure.”

  Now, she doesn’t want me to rip her panties off with my hands. She wants me to use my teeth.

  Which means my face will be this close to heaven.

  I don’t know if this is a gift from the angels or a temptation by the devil, but my money is on the latter, especially after she sends me a few hundred words from the scene.

  I’m so screwed.

  I push open the door to my floor, stride down the hall, and unlock my apartment.

  Music assaults my ears, but in a good way.

  A hip-hop song blasts across the apartment, which is filled with the scent of something yummy. Is that cookie dough? Or baked pretzels? Or both?

  Whichever, the smell and the music take my mind off of devils and angels.

  After shutting the door, I head into the kitchen. Barrett is laughing, his back to me, stirring batter in a mixing bowl and shaking his hips while Rachel sings into a spatula microphone.

  Head back, eyes closed, she belts out some Adele-like harmony, layering onto the tune.

  Barrett joins in, stirring and singing and laughing.

  “Hey there.”

  Barrett swivels around, waves a spoon at me. Rachel beams, shouting, “Hi, Mr. Alexander!” over the song.

  Barrett reaches for his phone, lowering the volume. “Yo.”

  I meet our guest’s eyes. “Rachel, you don’t have to call me Mr. Alexander.”

  “I do though. You’re a mister! How are you, Mr. Alexander?” She flashes her bright smile at me, looking like a teenage Anna Kendrick, as Peyton once described her.

  “Excellent. What are you two up to?”

  “We’re baking cookie dough pretzels, and then we’re going to take them to some of the tech crew tonight,” Barrett offers, his grin matching hers. Damn, he lights up when she’s around—I’m talking Broadway-marquee wattage.

  “Yeah, because the tech crew needs love too,” Rachel says, offering a palm to high-five.

  He smacks it, snickering, and they have an insider humor going on. Maybe he has manned up? I smile privately, hoping he’ll have his heart’s desire—the girl he adores.

  Rachel returns to the batter, tossing a question over her shoulder. “And what are you up to, Mr. Alexander?”

  “I’m going to see Peyton in a few,” I say.

  “Not dressed like that, I hope?” she asks.

  I glance down at my basketball shorts and sweat-soaked T-shirt.

  “Ladies don’t like basketball shorts, don’t you know that?” Barrett teases, flashing me an evil grin as he lobs my fashion advice back at me.

  I pluck at the shirt. “I’m obviously not wearing this to see her.”

  Rachel wipes a flour-covered hand dramatically across her forehead. “Good. Because I was going to have to go all fashion police on you.”

  “And what exactly are you doing tonight with Miss Valencia?” Barrett asks oh so casually.

  “Just hanging out.”

  They burst into matching peals of laughter.

  Rachel points at me. “You’re blushing, Mr. Alexander.”

  Ah, hell. Am I as red as a tomato? No way. “I’m not.”

  “Hey, handsome,” Barrett says in a torch-singer tone. “Why don’t you put on a corset and go see the one you want?”

  I will never live this down.

  I wave them off and head for my bathroom.

  “Don’t forget to wear something pretty, Mr. Alexander.”

  I shut the door. No wonder he likes her. She’s just like him.

  Thirty minutes later, I’m dressed and ready, wearing jeans and a Henley, my hair a little wet at the ends.

  But am I truly ready?

  Each session with Peyton is a new clue in an escape room, each mystery tougher than the last. Solve it and you can leave with your sanity intact. If you don’t, time runs out while you dissolve into a puddle of lust on the floor.

  But it’s more than lust I feel for her.

  So much more.

  That’s the twist I can’t solve in this Peyton romance-novel-reenactment escape room.

  How the hell am I going to handle being that close to her? What kind of superman human shield do I need to lock in place?

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and remind myself that I’ve seen her in a bikini. I’ve seen pics of her in lingerie. Tonight I’m an actor, and I’m going to take home an Oscar.

  On my way out, I find Barrett and Rachel huddled with his phone on the couch, taking selfies. Looks like they’re messing around with filters, something I will never understand the allure of.

  “Yes. Send that one of us,” she says.

  I clear my throat. “He
y. I’m going to head out. What are you two doing?”

  “Just a group chat with the crew,” Rachel says. “Eli and Chloe, and Maggie and Jacob.”

  “The ones you’re taking the cookie pretzels to?”

  Barrett taps his nose. “You catch on fast, Einstein.”

  I gesture to the door. “And on that note, I’m going to get out of here, which will sorely limit your targets for sarcasm, but I still wish you a good night.”

  Barrett winks. “I wish you a good night with your homecoming date.” He nods at Rachel. “He’s taking Peyton to homecoming.”

  I’m about to fire back with Well, are you taking Rachel? when I remember—I’m the parent. Or the closest thing he has to one.

  Barrett points a finger at me, making a circle. “What is tonight’s test? Will she be testing how you smell? Because I can loan you my aftershave. It’s pretty sex-ay.”

  Rachel grins. “Maybe you should do that thing in the movies where you run across a field of flowers and you catch her in your arms. Have you thought about that for a reenactment?”

  I wave them off. “I’ll make sure to let her know the flower field was your idea.”

  Barrett salutes me. “See you later. If you need cheesy pop music for that big moment, let us know.”

  “We’ll make you a playlist. Maybe some Celine or Mariah,” Rachel calls out as I leave.

  “I’m all good,” I say, then I get the hell out of the firing range of those two sarcasm monsters.

  Their advice is good though. Not the field of flowers advice. But the bring something advice.

  On the walk over, I pop into a bodega, grab a little gift, then use the cool fall air to clear my mind the rest of the way to her place.

  This is an experiment.

  Research.

  That’s all.

  But when I reach her apartment and she opens the door, all those reminders run, hop, skip, and jump away.

  And it’s not because of how she looks, though she’s so damn pretty in a light-blue dress.