How To Get Lucky

by Blakely, Lauren

  I read it over.

  Yup.

  There’s nothing flirty. Nothing dirty.

  I hit send, then it’s time for a midmorning tennis session with Sam. I pull on workout shorts and a stretchy polo, walk Bowie around the block, then pop down the hall and grab Sam to take off for the public courts at Vermont Canyon.

  * * *

  An hour later we’re both drenched in sweat, my heart rate is up somewhere between “power walk” and “chased by wolves,” and I’m ready to put the nail in the coffin of this match. Sam might have the looks of an athlete, but hand-eye coordination seems to have eluded him.

  Lucky for me.

  I finish him off with a powerful forehand down the line, which he misses by a mile.

  Sam rips his headband off, his blond hair flying around his face. “Damn you, Teddy,” he screams like he’s McEnroe. His yell morphs into a laugh as he calls, “Good game,” while retrieving the ball.

  “It’s always a good game when I win,” I say as we head toward the bench at the side of the court to grab our gear.

  “You can’t bait me. I don’t feel bad over losing. Not wired that way. I feel good even when you destroy me,” Sam says with a just try me grin. Pretty sure he was born meditating. The dude defines chill.

  “Perks of playing with you. I’ve never met anyone who seems to enjoy losing as much as you do,” I say as I twist the top off my water bottle.

  “Life is infinite, and everything is meaningless. The journey is all that matters, not the score.” Sam lifts his face to the sky like he’s inhaling good vibes from the sun. “And you were going extra hard out there today, my friend. Seemed liked you were trying to hit more than just the ball,” he says, lifting a brow in a silent question.

  I know what he’s asking—how did the date go?

  I told him about it on the way to sushi last night. Well, I told him that I was going out with someone I’d just met.

  Right as I’m about to deflect my friend’s astute observations, my phone pings. I check the text immediately, my pulse spiking when I see London’s name.

  Great. Fucking great. My body’s reaction to her replying to my text isn’t going to make this easy.

  London: Happy Monday! Are you a Monday person? Confession: I am. Mondays get a bad rap, but I think they’re a great chance to do ALL THE THINGS. Today is great for a brainstorm sesh. I can’t thank you enough for helping me.

  Teddy: I’m afraid I’ve got to side with Garfield on Mondays. No use for ’em. That said, since you’re all up in Monday’s business, I’m willing to give it a shot. Where do you want to meet?

  London: Perfect. Meet at McConnell’s Ice Cream in Grand Central Market at two? Maybe I can change your mind about Mondays.

  I whip off a quick reply and tell her I’ll see her soon. When I look up, I meet a set of curious eyes, asking what the fuck I am up to.

  “And who might that be that you responded to so quickly, you eager beaver?” Sam tosses his towel over his shoulders as we make our way off the court.

  “London. The woman I went out with last night.”

  “Next-day text from her. Nice. Things must have gone well,” he says with an arm punch as we walk to the parking lot.

  “They went great. Better than great. It was an awesome date, man. We both have dogs, we’re both into music, we laughed a ton, and we can talk about pretty much anything, it seems.”

  “Sounds like you’re building to an epic but here, man.”

  My shoulders sag. “But . . . she’s Archer’s little sister.”

  He stops in his tracks. Blinks. Stares, like I can’t have said that. “Archer, like the boss man Archer? Archer, who runs the club?”

  “That Archer.”

  He winces, with a sad look that says Sucks to be you. “Dude. That’s no bueno, man. I didn’t even know Archer had a sister.”

  “He does. And she’s awesome. And gorgeous. And—”

  “Totally off-limits,” Sam cuts me off before I can finish. He’s not wrong.

  I was hoping the bright light of day would help me see this situation from a new angle, but all roads still point to not-going-to-happen. “Yes, she’s off-limits,” I repeat as we resume our pace. I say it once more in my head—the reminder is helpful.

  Necessary too.

  “How did you leave things with her? You didn’t fuck, did you?”

  I pause long enough to think about how incredible she must be in bed. Her body is killer, her wit lightning sharp. And with our chemistry, I’m certain the sex between us would be electric. Giving and taking, taking and giving. Learning what she likes. Doing that to her, for her . . . But I’ll never find out.

  “We didn’t sleep together. We kissed, and it was incredible. Then she mentioned who her brother was and that she’s here doing work for the club. And pretty much all hope of a future date shriveled up and died then.”

  He brings his hand to his heart. “I mourn the shriveling of your hope, bro.”

  “Thanks. Appreciate it.”

  “And then, I presume, you were all enlightened and wise, agreed to go your separate ways, and wished each other the best?”

  We reach my car as I turn over what he said—which is not at all what London and I did last night. “Actually, we were enlightened, as you say, in another way. We agreed to put our feelings aside and focus on working together.” As those words come out, they sound . . . too wise. “I’m meeting her this afternoon to help with some new choreography for her show.”

  A laugh bursts from him as he draws air quotes. “‘Help with some new choreography’?”

  “Yes. That’s what I said.”

  He holds up a hand and forces himself to stop laughing. “Sounds like a euphemism.”

  I furrow my brow. “It’s not a euphemism for sex. We are legit meeting for work stuff.”

  He shakes his head. “No, man. Sounds like a euphemism for how painful your lack of a love life is about to become.”

  “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

  “Don’t shoot the messenger. You’re the guy who just signed up to help a babe you like with”—he stops to chuckle—“choreography.”

  And he’s right. Helping her with dance moves sounds like a recipe for disaster. Too bad I left my earthquake kit at home.

  I load the rackets into the trunk of my car.

  “You have time to swing by Ricky’s? Grab some fish tacos?” Sam asks.

  I look him dead in the eye and tell him a universal truth. “I always have time for fish tacos.”

  Tacos for lunch, ice cream for a snack, and my radio show tonight? Plus, some London time? Mondays might be looking up after all.

  9

  Monday afternoon

  From the Woman Power Trio, aka the text messages of London and her two besties, Olive and Emery

  London: LADIES.

  Olive: Uh-oh. She’s breaking out the all caps.

  Emery: That means shit just got serious. London is about to take a pledge.

  London: THE ALL CAPS PLEDGE.

  Olive: I am listening.

  London: I CAN PULL OFF THIS WHOLE WORK-AND-FRIENDSHIP THING WITH TEDDY. WATCH ME. I DID MY YOGA. I SET MY INTENTION FOR THE DAY.

  Olive: And that intention is to refrain from jumping on the guy you’re hot for?

  London: Yes. My intention is work-related. Not spark-related.

  Olive: Or three-dick-related. You’re not touching any of his three alien dicks?

  London: THERE WILL BE NO DICKING, ALIEN OR OTHERWISE.

  Emery: Impressive restraint. Yoga is indeed good to you.

  London: When I see him, I’m going to discuss my routine and ask questions. Like what kind of music works with this routine? What genres play well in the club? What inspires you creatively?

  Olive: “Seeing your ankles over my shoulders inspires me.” (BTW, I totes said that in a deep, sexy, manly voice.)

  Emery: We know!

  London: Your man-voice is so sexy, Liv. Also, ankles-over-shoulders-related-ques
tions are off-limits. Along with another question I won’t ask: if I wasn’t your boss’s little sister, would you press your body against mine and kiss me until my lips were bruised, my knees wobbled, and my stomach flipped?

  Olive: Pro tip? Also don’t ask, “Do you want to go home with me so I can show you how flexible I am?”

  Emery: She is super flexible. It’s pretty impressive.

  London: *sends selfie of touching my elbow with my tongue*

  Olive: Stahp, stahp. You’re turning me on, and I need to go make drinks.

  Emery: I need to get back to work. I have pitch meetings, and now all I can think about is London’s elbow tongue twisters, you pervert!

  London: Are you impressed with how I got all my pervy tendencies out with you two clowns?

  Emery: Yes, but if he’s into elbow licking, we have other issues.

  Olive: Issues I want to hear about! I love kinks. Any kinks, even elbow-licking ones.

  London: There will be no elbow licking or other displays of flexibility.

  Emery: But if you do cave, send a full report.

  London: I WILL NOT CAVE. YOU HAVE MY WORD.

  10

  I pop out of the Pershing Square subway station shortly before two with my most comfortable Chucks on my feet and one gorgeous brunette on my mind. I’m not entirely sure what London has planned for this brainstorming session, but the fact that I’m going to see her again works for me.

  Except that is the kind of dangerous thinking I need to avoid. London is off-limits. Period. It’s a damn good thing she set this meetup at one of LA’s busiest locations. A public spot to talk over some ice cream guarantees we won’t make out like teenagers an hour before curfew.

  As I enter the bustling market, the smells of barbecue, pupusas, and fresh-baked bread assault my senses in the best way. Some parts of LA can make you feel like you’re traveling the world without leaving the city, and Grand Central Market is like that, with its eclectic mix of international cuisine. From homemade pastas to grandma’s tamales, this place has whatever I’m craving.

  As I turn down an aisle, the McConnell’s Ice Cream sign beckons, as does the woman standing under it. My gaze locks onto a pair of red glasses framing deep brown eyes that I swear, even with yards of space and dozens of people between us, are looking at me like she’s as psyched for our second date as I am.

  Nope. Stop. This is not a date.

  This is definitely not our second date.

  It’s our third.

  The dog park was kind of the first. Sushi was the second. So, if it were a date, which it is not, this would be number three.

  I need to slam the brakes on that kind of thinking. Trouble is, slowing this car keeps getting harder because none of my thoughts about London are friendly.

  Very few are professional.

  I take in her loosely braided hair and the way those jeans were made for her curves.

  As I make my way to her, I smile and offer her a one-armed hug, because this thing between us needs to stay aboveboard. I value my job, I respect her brother, and I don’t want a repeat of what happened with Tracy’s dad. I have to keep my personal life and my professional life in their own lanes, double yellow line between them.

  Better yet, a retaining wall.

  But the scent of orange peel takes over and derails my train of thought.

  I linger in the hug for longer than I should.

  When we break apart, I try to clear my head and control my pulse. Work meetings should not get my heart rate up to wind-sprints level. “Great to see you again. But ice cream before dinner? You are trying to make me enjoy Monday, aren’t you?”

  “That’s the goal. I intend to change your mind about Mondays.” Her smile curves slightly higher on one side of her mouth, and I’ll be damned if it’s not the cutest thing ever. “I hope this place works for you.”

  “Absolutely. I love the market. I even took the train down from my place. Super easy.”

  She shoots me an I’m impressed look. “I didn’t think anybody took public transportation in LA.”

  “I’m not sure anybody does, but hey, they built it—may as well give it a shot. Plus, let’s be honest—driving is the worst.”

  “Driving is almost as painful as finding out the adorable guy you want to date is off-limits,” she says.

  I laugh. “Still not as painful as finding out the adorable woman you want to date is off-limits. That’s the worst of the worst.”

  I’m glad we’ve got that out in the open.

  That we’re acknowledging the score.

  And that we’re going to stick to the plan.

  If she can be up-front about this, I can too.

  Hell, we’ve got this.

  Cutting through the din of the open-air market, Ben Folds’s “The Luckiest” blares from a boom box on a nearby deli counter. London points toward the music. “But hearing this song? Definitely not the worst. This song rocks.”

  “Best of the best. Ben Folds is a stellar songwriter.”

  I have a theory about certain songs. Sometimes something happens in your life and a song you’ve heard a thousand times becomes new again. You hear it as though for the first time, because in many ways it is.

  This could be one of those moments—an old song becoming new.

  But that seems like an observation you might share with someone on a date—not at a business meeting between two like-minded professionals who are putting their careers first. Maybe there’ll be another time for it.

  For now, it’s time for ice cream. “Want to grab those cones?” I ask.

  “It’s like you can read my mind. Shall we walk and talk? I do my best thinking on my feet, especially when powered by my favorite food group.”

  “Walk and talk and eat is a great idea. McConnell’s has the best mint chip in the city, so I’m an easy date. Plus, I’ve been told that counts as a veggie.”

  “You’re learning my ice cream ways,” she teases.

  “I find ice cream logic quite convincing.”

  We step up to the refrigerated countertop to order. While my heart may be set on mint chip, the swirls of strawberries and cream and gooey chunks of white-chocolate raspberry are too tempting to resist.

  I avail myself of the generous sampling policy, trying both.

  London rolls her eyes. “You are powerless to resist the sample.”

  “No one can resist. Plus, it’s fruit and veggie and dairy and everything my body needs.” I could say the same about London—my body needs this gorgeous woman, and God, I’d like to sample more of her.

  She holds up her hands, shaking her head. “No need to justify the science of ice cream to me, nor the philosophy of free samples.”

  I opt for mint chip in a waffle cone, and London picks a cup of salted caramel with graham crackers, claiming it meets the daily quota for grains. My wallet is out and ready to go, but she sets a hand on my arm, and my brain melts faster than this double scoop. “My invite, my treat,” she says as she swipes her card.

  I like to treat a woman when we go out, but this isn’t a date and it’s not my place to push. Plus, I’m not gonna lie—it’s pretty sexy to see her being both considerate and assertive at the same time.

  Not that her sexiness matters. This isn’t our second date, or our third date, and we already outlined the off-limits rules mere minutes ago.

  Once we’re a safe distance away from the shop, London shoots me a playful look. “You said at the get-go that you wanted mint chip.”

  I take a slow lick from my cone. “I did say that. But I can think I know what I want and not be sure until I’ve done some taste-testing. Experimentation is the key to self-awareness.”

  “Props for the application of the scientific method, but it sounds like you’re an ice cream rake.”

  My brow knits. “What’s an ice cream rake?”

  “Like a Victorian-era man who enjoys all the ladies. All the flavors. Like Willoughby from Sense and Sensibility or Wickham from the best book ever
.”

  “That’s me. I’m an ice cream rake, like those two.” I chuckle and shake my head. “No, I’m more of a Wentworth-style one-shop man. Once you’ve picked the right parlor, though, it’s fun to explore the menu.”

  With a look of contentment, she crooks a smile, then says, “Happiness is all about exploring ice cream flavors.”

  “I can’t argue with that.” As I lick the mint chip, I wiggle my fingers on my free hand, the sign for her to tell me everything. “All right. Lay it on me. I want to know the details of this epic new dance show you’ve planned.”

  She spreads her arms wide, practically bouncing as we walk. “This is my plan. Everyone knows Magic Mike, right?”

  I scoff. “Of course. Magic Mike is a cultural institution, along the lines of Michelangelo and Shakespeare.”

  She raises a you don’t say eyebrow. “Oh, absolutely. Magic Mike’s legacy is secure for the rest of time, right alongside other titans like Jane Austen and Charlotte Brontë.”

  I smile at her. “London, did you bring up Jane Austen so that I would ask about Mr. Darcy?”

  She brings her hand to her chest in a What? Not me gesture. “Actually, I’m a little offended that you haven’t asked about him yet.”