How To Get Lucky

by Blakely, Lauren

  “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 should 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 might 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.

  I show the text to Bowie. “We’re talking sex now. That’s promising, right?”

  He thumps his tail.

  Wait. Shit. No. I shouldn’t talk sex with a woman I want to have sex with but can’t have sex with.

  But that’s like taunting a dog with a tennis ball and not throwing it for him.

  Like a dog, I chase it.

  Teddy: Good for them. Seems like the key to happiness.

  London: Yes. Seems to be. You met them. They’re the happiest people I know.

  Teddy: Scientific studies have shown happiness is a by-product of sex on the reg. Twice daily, in fact.

  London: I do believe I’ve seen those studies too. ☺ But here’s the thing . . .

  Uh-oh. Like its cousin but, nothing good ever comes after here’s the thing. I jump on the grenade.

  Teddy: Here’s the thing, what? Good sex is better than ice cream?

  London: That depends on the ice cream.

  Teddy: Depends on the sex.

  London: That may be true. But what I was saying is this: Emery and Olive—already world-wise before they even hit thirty—claimed that only bad boys are good in bed.

  Teddy: And good guys are . . . what? Awesome? Incredible? Fucking amazing? Way better than bad boys? I hope you defended the honor of good guys in bed!

  She’s silent. Well, text silent. But the dots are moving. Then they stop. C’mon, London.

  I look at Bowie. “What do you think, buddy? On the one paw, she mentioned sex. On the other paw, she thinks I might be bad at it.” He says nothing, but I know what he’s thinking. We can’t let this happen. Fuck it. I can’t wait for her response. I keep going.

  Teddy: I can’t believe you’d allow your friends to talk trash about good guys!

  London: I didn’t say I agreed with them! I don’t want to agree with them. But I have no empirical data, Teddy.

  Teddy: You’ve never been with a good guy? Please don’t tell me you like jerks or assholes.

  London: My last boyfriend was sort of . . . nice enough. And honestly, before that, I mostly dated . . . well . . . not nice guys. Let’s leave it at that.

  Teddy: So you don’t actually have any data to draw from?

  London: I don’t! Isn’t that terrible?

  Teddy: Awful. I bet you wanted to contribute your insight to the debate.

  London: I so did. Especially because Olive said it’s a scientific fact that nice guys are bad in bed.

  Teddy: Olive is wrong.

  London: She said it’s Newton’s fourth law of thermo-dude-namics. A man can be two of these, but never all three: hot, nice, good in bed. And you’re obviously hot, and now I’m finding out you’re nice, so . . .

  Damn, it feels good to hear her call me hot. But she’s leaving those ellipses dangling on the end of that text like a gauntlet thrown at my feet. I’m so caught up in this moment, so caught up in her, that I pick that glove right up.

  Teddy: Sounds a bit more like a hypothesis than a law to me.

  London: Hmm. Good point. And hypotheses do need to be tested. Did you have an experiment in mind?

  Teddy: The kind where we’d need to run multiple tests to ensure the accuracy of our results.

  London: I do like the sound of multiples.

  Teddy: Me too.

  I’m burning up everywhere. I head to the refrigerator to grab a seltzer because this interaction with London requires a cooldown.

  I return to the couch, staring at the screen. The ball is in my court.

  This feels like a challenge. The good-guy challenge. And I’m not sure I can refuse it.

  But am I ready to throw my personal rules and guidelines out the window?

  I flash back to Archer and our conversation last night.

  I flash forward to tomorrow and the wedding.

  The wedding London’s attending too.

  I groan, wanting her, and wanting to resist her.

  Which side will win?

  I don’t have a clue.

  All I know is I can’t wait to see her again.

  Teddy: See you tomorrow at the wedding. I’ll be the guy with the headphones on, resisting rogue-kissing the prettiest woman there.

  London: I’ll be the girl resisting rogue-kissing the DJ. After all, we made a pact.

  And I’m going to do my damnedest to honor it.

  19

  The first thing I do when I’m out of bed the next morning is check my texts, feeling a little like Bowie nudging his nose in the dog food bowl in the early a.m., hoping kibble will magically appear.

  But there aren’t any new texts from the city’s sexiest woman, so my guy and I hit the trails f
or a morning hike.

  An hour, several checks of my phone, and some hard-earned sweat later, I understand my dog a whole lot more.

  Staring at the dog food bowl can reap rewards.

  Because check this out.