She stares at me bug-eyed, which is still a good look on her. “Yes, my Mr. Darcy is definitely doing his thing too and I like it. Also, you’ve thought this through — the whole Darcy/Wentworth debate,” she says, but she’s not annoyed. More . . . amused.
“What can I say? It’s an important topic.”
“Definitely. I like a man who’s passionate, especially about books.” A smile curves her lips, and all I want to do is keep talking to her.
“Now is probably a great time to tell you I majored in literature. And my dad teaches high school English.”
She hums, tapping her chin as Mr. Darcy runs two circles around her legs, then darts off again. “Now I’m curious. How does a lit major find himself deejaying at an all-male revue?”
“Do you mean did I dream about playing ‘Pour Some Sugar On Me’ for my half-naked buds when I was in fourth grade?”
“That’s the path to DJ-hood, right? Cueing up stripper songs as a grade schooler?”
I bring my hand to my heart and sigh exaggeratedly. “Exactly.” But while I could talk about my passion all day, I don’t want to come on too strong. So I focus on the question she asked—why am I at Edge? “I started deejaying parties in college, and I was able to turn it into a job when I graduated.”
I check out Bowie’s whereabouts—near the water fountain scampering with Mr. Darcy—before getting to the still-raw bit. “Then last year, when I needed a new gig, my best friend hooked me up. He works there too, which is dope. You’d think a straight guy might not be into spending his nights with a room full of oiled-up men, but honestly, everyone is super fun to be around. More importantly, what brought you and those two dudes there last night?”
“Those guys are my roommates. Nate and Eli. Though technically they’re my landlords, since I rent a little studio—like a mother-in-law pad—off their house. They’re insanely fun, but also disgustingly in love, and sometimes I feel like the third wheel.”
“You always have your solo career as an air guitarist to fall back on if that friendship band breaks up.”
She rolls her eyes. “Shut up. Very funny.”
“What? I’m serious. You had some real moves. You do know there are air guitar competitions? I’ve DJ’d some. We could get you into one.”
“That’s what I’ve always wanted. To show off my skills with imaginary instruments,” she says as Mr. Darcy arrives to drop off the tennis ball.
“No time like the present to build your burgeoning air guitar career. I’m trying to do the same thing with a DJ business I just started—weddings, bar mitzvahs, and corporate events. Los Angeles is the place to be for that.”
“This city does have every form of entertainment under the sun,” she says as she reaches to pick up the ball that Mr. Darcy brought over, and I can’t help myself. I steal a quick glance at her shapely legs and round ass, painted into that pair of jeans. She is fine. “How long have you lived in LA?”
“My whole life.”
She shoots me a skeptical stare as she tosses the ball for her eager pup. “No way. No one is from Los Angeles. Do you, like, get a tattoo or something when you’re born here?”
I flash briefly to the Celtic trinity knot ink on my left forearm, covered by my long-sleeve shirt. But this moment calls for levity, so I go a different route.
“You do,” I say in mock seriousness as the Chihuahua mix takes off in a blur. “Mine says ‘Sun’s out, buns out.’ I can’t show it to you now though.”
Her eyes glint in a way that says she’d like to see it another time, and I beam inside. This is working. With a naughty little smile, she asks, “But another time? You’ll show it to me another time?”
I shrug, the kind that says yes, of fucking course. “I could probably be convinced.”
She taps her temple. “Duly noted. I’ll try to think of how to be convincing, Mr. Native Angelino. Now, if you’ve been here your whole life, you must love—”
I jump in to finish her sentence. I know where this is going—same place it usually goes. “Surfing and skateboarding?”
She hesitates like maybe I caught her. “Tacos. I was going to say tacos, obviously. You must love tacos.”
“To quote the great Ms. Austen, ‘Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of tacos.’”
“And I believe that’s a direct quote too.”
“It should be,” I say. “Actually, I love all Mexican food. If I could only eat one kind of cuisine for the rest of my life, it’d be Mexican. What about you?”
“Ice cream, of course. What could beat a dessert that encompasses all four food groups?”
“Don’t get me wrong—I love a cone, but how does ice cream cover all the food groups?”
“Simple science. Strawberry counts as fruit. Mint is clearly a veggie, because mints are leaves. Bacon ice cream covers protein. And every single scoop is dairy. So there.”
I laugh. Deeply. “You win that debate.”
“Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my opinion,” she fires back at me, and I can tell she’s quoting something.
My brain cycles quickly through options, since the words feel familiar and I want to get it right. “Is that Emma?”
“Nice try. Pride and Prejudice,” she says, her eyes sparkling like she’s having fun with this moment and with me. “I was trying to see how sharp you are. The fact that you even know of the existence of Emma is pretty impressive.”
I blow on my fingernails casually.
“Honestly, though, if it comes right down to it and we are truly picking one non–ice cream option, like a cuisine forever and ever and into time immortal, I’d have to go with Japanese,” she adds. “I’m prepared to marry sushi.”
And there it is. The universe dropping a golden opportunity in my lap.
I clear my throat and take a deep, fueling breath. The game is on. “I know a great little sushi spot right on the water in Santa Monica. Have you ever been to Yoshi? I’d love to take you.”
And whoa. Did I just ask her out? Yes. Yes, I did.
She pauses, and when she glances at her shoes, I can see her hesitation. She’s taking too long to answer.
My stomach plummets.
Finally, she looks up, and her brown eyes sparkle. Something’s going on in her head, and boy, do I ever want to know what.
“That actually sounds great. I’d love to. Because I had this great idea. Sort of like a project.”
Dear God, please let it be a sex project.
A man can dream.
“Sure. I’m game for projects,” I say, trying to sound cool and casual.
“Terrific, but I should probably get your name first. I’m London, like the city.” There’s a hint of rasp in her voice that makes me hope even harder for a sex project.
And a yes to the date. Of course.
“I’m Teddy, like the bear.”
She arches one sexy brow. How the hell is an eyebrow sexy? “Or you could say Teddy, like a lace cami.”
It takes me a second to process her innuendo.
One. Hot. Second.
My throat is dry. My skin is sizzling. And my luck is about to change. “That’s what I meant to say, and I can’t wait to hear about your proposition.”
The smile she flashes my way tells me proposition was exactly the right word. “Let’s drop off our dogs, and I’ll meet you at Yoshi tonight at eight?”
“I’m there.”
“And I’ll tell you all about what I’ve been thinking,” she says with a smile that makes me think, Yes, I am about to score on all fronts.
A great date with a cool babe, and then maybe a little something more.
Or a lot something more.
Yep. An urgent need to see me tonight, a lingerie innuendo, and a bit of nervous hesitation when I first asked for the date.
Sex has to be her project.
And she’s come to the right guy.
3
That evening
From the Woman Power Trio, aka the
text messages of London and her two besties, Olive and Emery
London: Stop the presses. I have a date tonight.
Emery: Listening to a podcast while you ignore our texts is not a date. Even if you do it with a glass of wine.
Olive: Is this the lit one where you geek out to Brontë and Austen deets? Wait, no. Must be that science one where you pretend you’re going to date the hottie host. I didn’t realize how serious it was, but I suppose when you’ve listened to every episode . . .
London: WITH A GUY. And I do not ignore you two. Though, fine, the Science of Everyday Things podcast guy does have a hella sexy voice.
Olive: Like my favorite audiobook narrator?
London: We are not discussing your narrator crush right now!
Emery: Yeah, Olive, way to be an attention hog. We are discussing London’s supposedly real date.
Olive: Yes, tell us everything. Does he meet the four basic requirements? Straight? College-educated? Gainfully employed? And doesn’t live at home with his parents? Wait. Amend that—it’s hard to live on your own in LA. Let’s say, “Doesn’t expect his mom to do his laundry.”
London: Pretty sure he’s ticking all of the above boxes. As in, he has his own place. I bet he does his own laundry too.
Emery: Le sigh. He’s not real, then.
Olive: I know. He’s soooo not real. Take a pic. Prove it.
London: I’m not taking a pic of my date. But I will say we had mega spark.
Olive: Spark is gooooood.
Emery: Spark is necessary.
London: Spark is what I didn’t have for so long. And this guy is all spark. He’s scrumptious, with hazel eyes and sandy-brown hair, all sun-kissed and golden, and a stubbled jawline. He’s edible and funny and clever, and . . . HE LOVES DOGS.
Emery: Yup. Imaginary.
Olive: So imaginary. But tell us where you’re going just in case we need to save you. Or spy on you.
London: Yoshi. In Santa Monica.
Olive: On the beach. Nice.
London: If you spy, don’t be creepy.
Emery: *rolls eyes* Don’t be silly. We only spy creepily.
Olive: By the way, we want a full report tomorrow.
Emery: Unless you’re banging him. Then give us the report post-banging.
London: There will be no banging tonight. But I’m not opposed to . . . other things. Even though I have a project for him.
Olive: I bet you do.
London: I swear. It’s a work thing.
Olive: Wink, wink. Have fun with your work thing.
4
London is a choreographer.
She spent three years in Vegas.
She’s been back in Los Angeles for two weeks.
All of which I’ve learned in the first thirty minutes of our date, since I like listening to her and I want to get to know her.
Also, synchronicity has to be in play again. Because her being a professional choreographer totally works for me. After all, what’s a DJ without some dancing?
After the waiter brings appetizers and drinks to our table on the patio, we pick up the banter as if we never hit pause when we left the dog park. I take another pull of my beer and reach for a warm salted edamame while the ocean breeze brushes my shoulders and the surf crashes in the distance.
“I’m always curious about places like Vegas. Spots where people vacation and visit. What’s it like working and living there?”
“I liked it for the most part. But Vegas is also . . .” She doesn’t complete the thought immediately, just pauses with an edamame midair then finishes, “Complicated. Still not sure if Sin City and I are done, but we definitely needed a break.”
Sounds like there’s more to that story, but I don’t want to press yet, so I file away the complicated for a later conversation as she eats the edamame.
“I’ve only been to Vegas twice, and I can definitely say that a weekend always felt like the right amount of time for a visit,” she says.
“Do you like downtown or the Strip?”
“My first trip was for a friend’s bachelor party, and we stayed at Aria. But the last time, Sam and some other guys and I stayed down on Fremont, and that was definitely more my scene. Kinda dive-y, kinda dirty, but in a good way. And lots of fun clubs and bars with great music.”
“Always a plus, Mr. Music. My work was on the Strip, so that’s where I spent most of my time, but whenever I had a night off, downtown was where I’d be. You’ve got me thinking about traveling now though. Love a good road trip.”
“We should totally make that happen. California is the best road trip state.” The second that sentence is out of my mouth, it feels like I might be coming on too strong. But at the same time, I could see myself taking a road trip with her, spending a long weekend in San Francisco maybe. I can picture it, and I like what I see.
“I could be into that,” she says, pulling me from my thoughts and putting another huge smile on my face. But we haven’t even made it to green tea ice cream yet, so I try to pump the mental brakes. I focus on getting the conversation back on her.
“Did you always want to choreograph?”
She adjusts her red glasses. “At first, I wanted to be a scientist.”
I hold up a hand. “Wait. Scientist?”
“Geek here,” she says, patting her sternum. “I was a full-on science nerd as a kid. Beakers, make-your-own-volcano kits, periodic table coloring book—the whole nine yards.”
“Naturally, you went from microscopes to dance,” I say.
“Of course. It’s a normal segue for a grade schooler,” she deadpans. “I still love science, and I’m addicted to The Science of Everyday Things.”
“That podcast? I’ve heard it’s good. Been meaning to check it out.”
Her eyes light up with delight. “You have to. It’s sooo good. The episode on how credit card readers work was kind of mind-blowing.”
I tap my temple. “Mental note made.”
“But as much as I love science, I loved dance a little more growing up. When I discovered it, I ditched my lab coats for leotards. I wanted to dance professionally. I trained my whole life doing modern. But I had this great dance mentor at Montclair in Jersey. You know the type? One of those people who can kind of see into your soul?”
I picture one of my music teachers from college. “I definitely know the type. They’re awesome, but terrifying.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what Professor Kambara was like,” London says, her brown eyes sparkling. “She saw something in me, and I think it was that I was in my head a lot. I was always critical of my own work and my routines. She pulled me aside and asked if I wanted to codirect the spring production, because it turns out my analytical approach was actually ideal for choreography. Funny thing though—at first, I turned her down.”
“Why?” I ask, drawn into this story, drawn into her. “Because when you talk about it, you kind of light up.”
She dips her face as her lips curve into a grin, maybe a touch embarrassed, but thoroughly adorable. “Thank you. I said no then because I was nineteen and insecure. I figured Professor Kambara didn’t think I could hack it as a dancer and was trying to push me away from my passion. I had one lonely night in my dorm with a pint of Cherry Garcia, then Nate knocked on the door.”
“Nate as in Nate and Eli?”
Her grin grows wider. “Yes. Good memory.”
I give myself a virtual pat on the back.
“He insisted on sharing the pint and listening to why I was in a funk. I did both, and he said something wise and pithy like ‘You’re an asshole if you don’t take chances.’”
I laugh. “Yes, that is wise and pithy. Also, true.”
She shrugs happily. “I took a chance. Gave it a try. And it was life,” she says, drawing out the last word, clearly enjoying the memory.
“I love basically everything about that story, except for one tiny detail.” I hold up my thumb and forefinger to show a sliver of space.
“What’s that
?”
“The food choice. I prefer to do my deep thinking with a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.”
She gives a playfully stern shake of her head. “I have to disagree. Nothing beats B & Js.”
I can’t help myself. “That’s true. Everyone loves good BJs. I know I do.”
A laugh bursts from her as she quirks one eyebrow—that damn sexy one again. Though, in all fairness, both are sexy. All of her is sexy. “Do you now? How much do you love them?”
I can’t answer right away, because I’m pretty much on fire from those words on her pretty lips. “More than I love Prince’s ‘Purple Rain.’”
“The song or the movie?”
“Both.”
“High praise.” It comes out flirty, borderline dirty.
It takes everything in my power not to jump across this table and cover her mouth with mine. This woman is hot. And clever. And easy to talk to. Plus, she gives such good flirt.
I take a sip of my Asahi to cool down and return to her story so she doesn’t think I’m a sex-crazed maniac with a one-track mind. “So, you put your ego aside, took your friend’s advice, and it worked out,” I prompt.
How To Get Lucky Page 3
