The Lucky in Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  “Gah, I want it all,” Vanessa whispers, making grabby hands at the clothing treasures.

  I clasp her wrists. “Shhh. It’s going to be okay. We mustn’t let you short circuit.”

  She wriggles away, her arms shooting out robotically as she walks, trance-like, to a mint-green dress with a typewriter-key pattern across the bodice. Next to it is a skirt with cartoonish images of books on it.

  I yank her over to me, spinning her around. “You made me promise to make you resist.”

  “Resistance is futile. I can’t do it.” She throws one hand on her forehead as if she’s fainting.

  I relent, since I know the trick to keeping her on track. “Fine, get the dress.”

  She snaps me a look. “You’re an enabler.”

  I gesture to my face. “Then enable me instead.”

  She nods crisply, snapping out of it, refocusing on her shopping mission. “You’re right. I’m a personal shopper today,” she says, as if it’s a mantra she needs to remind herself of. Mission accomplished. “Do you want that green skirt?”

  I laugh. “It’s adorable, but today we are here for an apron.”

  “Right. Let me find you a sexy apron, then.”

  We head to a rack near the dressing rooms, where Vanessa sorts through short aprons and cute aprons and boob-boosting aprons.

  I touch a satiny red one then the air, making a sizzling sound. “Hot damn.”

  “Aprons are the new lingerie.”

  “You’re telling me.” I point to one that has a heart-shaped neckline.

  “That’s hella sexy.” She quirks an eyebrow. “And I bet looking that sexy will make you feel hella sexy. So how exactly are you going to answer the door like that and not want to make hot fireman babies with him?”

  “It’s just practice,” I insist, since I need the reminder. “All we’re doing is practice.”

  She hums, seemingly unconvinced. “You know what they say about practice.”

  “Practice makes perfect?”

  “No. They say practicing answering the door in a sexy apron leads to . . .” She mimes a drumroll. “Sex.”

  “I don’t think that’s a saying.”

  “But it should be. Especially in your case.” A note of warning sounds in her tone.

  “It’ll be fine. We’re committed to friendship first,” I say, trying to stay strong.

  But inside, I wonder briefly if she’s right. Each day I do want more and more with Gabe. Every time I see him, the longing grows more intense, the desire stronger. But our friendship matters too much to risk simply for dumb, pesky hormones.

  I want to believe it’s merely hormones at play.

  Trouble is, I can’t quite buy that line of reasoning anymore. Try as I might, when my logical brain feeds that to me, my heart seems to stick out its tongue at my head then laugh.

  Because my heart, my God, it somersaults when he’s near me. It does that shimmy shimmy bang bang, even when I think of him and who he is as a man. The way he takes care of his pops, of the owl, his friends, and all the people he doesn’t know—the strangers he helps every day. How he gives his mom books and makes time for dinner with his parents. They say you can learn all you need to know about a man from how he treats his mom, and Gabe treats Mama Harrison with love, respect, and devotion.

  All the chambers in my heart are hammering right now.

  And I need to be careful because today is about aprons and research and fantasies. It’s not about silly dreams that can’t come true.

  Dreams I don’t entirely understand.

  I shove them aside, kicking them to a compartment in the back of my mind.

  “Ooh! This one!” Vanessa thrusts a black apron in my direction. The little skirt is covered in tiny white dots, and the neckline sports a soft fuchsia bow. “It’s hot—covers the boobs, and a little bit of leg—and it’s so very you.” She presses it against me. “You’re going to look delectable.”

  I turn to the mirror, loving what I see. “It is indeed hella sexy.”

  She squeezes my shoulder. “Also, listen. Maybe you should consider whether there’s something more happening between the two of you. Don’t you think?”

  “He’s not into me like that.”

  She shoots me a steely stare. “But are you? Are you like that? Are you liking this pretend thing?”

  So much.

  I like it so much I can’t jam all these feelings inside me. They’re bursting, jostling to break free. I sweep my gaze side to side, then whisper, “Yesterday, he pinned my arms above my head in an elevator. Pressed his body against mine. Bit my neck.”

  She fans her face. “I’m getting hot just thinking about it. How was it?”

  “One of the most intense things I’ve ever experienced. The other night I practiced dirty talk on the phone with him.”

  “And?”

  I fan my face this time.

  “Sounds like the line between practice and performance is getting thinner.”

  I draw a deep breath. “I know.”

  “So you’re doing this, then? The whole apron thing?”

  The idea still ignites me. “Yes.”

  She exhales deeply, pushing all the air in the world from her lungs. “You’re a brave and bold woman.” She snags the apron from me and marches to the counter. “This one’s on me.”

  A few minutes later, we meet Perri for lunch at a nearby diner. Over iced tea and salads, Vanessa fills her in on my apron purchase, and I repeat the elevator story.

  I repeat it because . . . it feels good to say it. Because I like sharing it with them. Most of all, I love the way I relive it with a fresh rush of sensations over my skin. A brand-new wave of tingles. It’s like I’m having the moment again and again. And the moment feels good in so many ways—heart, mind, and body.

  Perri reaches for her handcuffs and dangles them before me. “Here. Take these tonight. You’ll need them.”

  A blush creeps across my cheeks. “I don’t think I’m ready for cuffs yet.”

  She laughs. “They’re not for you. You better handcuff Gabe to the mailbox, or he’ll be all over you.”

  Vanessa smacks palms with Perri.

  “Please. I can handle it,” I say.

  Vanessa arches a brow. “But can you? Can you handle it if he wants more than sex charades?”

  My pulse quickens at the thought.

  I raise my chin, playing it cool. “Of course. Just a few more days and we go back to the way we were.”

  Perri takes a sip of her iced tea, looking thoroughly unconvinced. “You really think you can snap your fingers and go back to being pals who bowl and throw darts?”

  “As long as we don’t cross any lines.” I have to believe this.

  Perri gives me a sympathetic smile. “Sweetie, I don’t think it has to do with lines.”

  “What does it have to do with?”

  She taps her sternum. “This.”

  I don’t want her to be right. Because this—my heart—is already fighting against my head.

  31

  Arden

  When I devised the week-long plan, I figured that’d be all I’d need to shore up my skills.

  Or, really, to develop the skills, but as I glance at the clock in the store that afternoon, I’m keenly aware that we have only a few days left to knock out the rest of my list.

  Theoretically, we could go on indefinitely, but that’s not fair to him, or me. The longer this goes on, the harder it will be to separate heart and head.

  Besides, the whole point of this research project is so I have the skills for the next time a handsome man strides into my store and asks me out.

  Or the next time I decide to ask a man out.

  That’s what I should be focused on—my newfound confidence. Not whether my best guy friend would slide out of the friend zone and into the romance zone with me.

  Because . . . THAT WON’T HAPPEN.

  Right now, though, the person coming into my store isn’t a potential date, but the next
meeting of one group of book club ladies. Miriam wanders in first, saying hello, followed by CarolAnn, Sara, and Allison.

  They settle in, discussing a new book this time—Nora Roberts’s Year One, an apocalyptic journey through a ravaged United States in the aftermath of a virus.

  “Think about all the skills you would need at the end of the world,” Sara says in her husky voice, peering at her crew over her cat-eye glasses as I reorganize the shelves.

  Allison, of the nipple clamps, chimes in. “Exactly. What happens to me in an apocalypse? I'm a painter. It’s not as if there’s going to be any need for painters."

  Miriam chuckles. "It makes you realize the value of experience. You actually have to get out and do things. Try things."

  I slide some new travel books into the section on Denmark, battling Henry, who seems to think Copenhagen belongs next to Buenos Aires. He paws at Ten Things to Do in Denmark, and I gently remind him to keep his mitts in his own business. “Entirely wrong hemisphere,” I tell the cat as Sara weighs in on this new world order.

  “I’d have to learn all the things I don't know. I couldn't fake my way through it,” she says. “I’d have to figure out how to fish. Learn how to catch my dinner in the river."

  Miriam glances up and meets my eyes. “Arden, what do you think?”

  I point to Sara. “I’m sticking with her in this scenario. Since I’ve no clue how to fish, and she seems determined to find dinner.”

  Miriam laughs. “See? Brains matter. Arden has a plan. Glom onto the fisherwoman.”

  “Clearly, there won’t be a great need for bookstores or book clubs, but if you ladies are the survivors, I can also cook the fish for our little community,” I offer.

  Allison cracks up. “I like that approach. You have to be willing to roll up your sleeves and try all sorts of new things."

  CarolAnn stares at Allison with curious eyes. “‘Try new things’ is your mantra.”

  Allison smiles like she has a secret. “I do like trying new things.”

  CarolAnn makes a rolling gesture with her hands as if to say serve up the goods. “Is this the moment you tell us about how you learned some crazy new position in bed, like you were telling us the other week when you tried the wheelbarrow?”

  Miriam slaps her linen-clad thigh, and the book club ladies all slide back into their bawdy style, talking about what they’d do to pass the time at the end of the world. “Allison will be busy trying new things then,” Miriam says.

  Sara chimes in with, “After catching the fish and hunting for food, the only thing to do would be sex. There would be no cell phones.”

  “Don’t look to me to repopulate though. I’m in menopause,” Allison says, joined by a chorus of Hear! Hear!

  As they chat about their apocalyptic sex plans, I take inventory not only of my shelves, but of my own plans.

  Is it true that there’s no substitute for experience? Can I really learn how to catch a fish by pretending to catch a fish?

  A shiver runs up my spine as I think about the difference between pretending and reality.

  I wonder how risky it would be to cross that line tonight.

  Maybe it won’t be too dangerous.

  After all, if I can continue to keep this—my heart—under lock and key, I should be fine.

  Perfectly fine.

  That night, while the dinner I cook for Gabe warms in the oven, I take a shower, then dry my hair, brush some powder on my face, comb mascara on my eyelashes, and spread a new jasmine lotion up and down my smoothly shaven legs.

  Am I really doing this?

  I look in the mirror and take a deep breath, answering my own question.

  I am doing this.

  I grab the apron from my bed and wrap it around my waist then over my breasts, tying it at the neck. It covers me, but only barely. It’s sinfully short and hits me mid-thigh. I slip on a pair of simple white panties, since I’m not ready to answer the door with nothing on beneath this scrap of frontal nudity–covering fabric.

  I step into a pair of black heels and stare at my reflection again.

  You are crazy.

  But crazy has never felt so seductive or sensual. That’s exactly how I look and precisely how I feel.

  I do something else I’ve never done. I snap a sexy selfie, but it’s not a full body shot. It’s only a sliver of me, enough to show my thigh, the apron, and the tie around my waist.

  It’s an appetizer.

  Feeling daring and loving it, I send it to him.

  Seconds later, my phone pings with a text.

  Gabe: It’s now official. Let the record reflect, there is nothing sexier than an apron.

  But what’s sexier is the next note he sends.

  Gabe: Allow me to amend that. Nothing sexier than an apron on you. And while I’m giving official pronouncements, I’ll just add, so it’s clear: I CAN’T FUCKING WAIT TO SEE THE REST OF IT.

  A knowing smile spreads across my face. I can’t wait for him to see it too.

  Arden: I’m ready . . .

  As I hit send, I let that word roll around my brain. Ready. I feel ready to answer the door. The food is cooked, the coconut bars are done, and now I'm going to live out a fantasy.

  I'm not really sure why my fantasy has been to answer the door in an apron and little else. I think it’s the sheer incongruity of the moment. The idea that a woman can be cooking and working and reading, and then do something entirely risqué.

  She can completely floor her man.

  As I return to the kitchen to check that everything’s ready, I stop in my tracks like a cartoon character whacked into awareness by a frying pan.

  Surprise.

  I'm missing the element of surprise. I've already told him I’ll be wearing an apron.

  I’ve detailed this fantasy. I’ve delineated every step. I sent him a freaking photo, for crying out loud. There’s no more mystery. There’s no gift for him to unwrap.

  But that’s the fantasy—the surprise.

  I want to witness the shock in his eyes.

  I want to experience how his shock sends electricity shooting all over my body, reaching to every cell.

  I want to stun him into . . . arousal.

  When that stark truth hits my brain, I know I need to change my plans. I’m not sure what to do with all this desire, but I know what to do with the fantasy.

  I scurry to my bedroom, untie the apron, and toss it onto the bed.

  I slide off the cotton panties, rummage through my top drawer, and find something I bought for myself a few months ago. Something pretty, just for me.

  A burgundy lace push-up bra, with matching low-rise panties.

  That’s it.

  I put them on.

  The doorbell rings.

  32

  Arden

  My nerves skyrocket, but they’re not only nerves. They’re fluttering hummingbirds, zinging around inside me. They’re desire, my desire to catch a fish rather than paint a fish.

  I want the experience, all of it.

  You can do this, I tell myself.

  Then out loud, “I can do this.”

  With my head high, I walk to the door in my heels, a sway to my hips, feeling confident, feeling sexy.

  I peer through the peephole, and my world goes whoosh.

  I ache as I look at him.

  He wears well-worn jeans and a light-blue shirt that shows off his strong biceps and ropy forearms. He’s holding a bottle of sparkling white wine.

  It goes well with a striptease, I told him the other night.

  Through the peephole, I study him, and the tingles spread down my bare arms, because he looks like he wants to be here.

  Only here.

  Nowhere else.

  There are no nerves in him, just some kind of wild hope, and I can feel that hope centered on me. At this moment, I know. He wants me the same way I want him.

  Like we both wanted each other in the elevator.

  What comes next?

  I’m not sure
of the answer.

  But I’m sure of this new truth—that ache I feel isn’t only sexual. It’s a pull and a tug from deep inside me. Because of who he is, what he’s been to me, what we’ve done. Not only for the last several days, but the last year. I long for him in so many ways, and I hardly know what to do with this explosion of awareness, with this burst of feelings for him. Wildly intense feelings that make me want so much more than a striptease.

  I do what I can do.

  The practical.

  I can open the door.

  I reach for the knob and turn it. It creaks, and here goes nothing. I open the door all the way, as ready as I’ll ever be for the rest of the night to unfold, starting with my fantasy turned reality.

  I glide one arm up the doorjamb so my hip juts out, and I give him my best seductive housewife pout. “Hey there. Dinner is on the table.”

  He blinks and slides a hand across his stubbled jaw, as a strangled moan of appreciation slides past his lips.

  His lips part, but he appears thoroughly incapable of words as his eyes travel up and down my body. Up and down, then back again, his gaze heating me up, sizzling my skin. After a few more tours of duty, he stops at my face, his baby blues shimmering with desire. “I’m ready for dinner. And for dessert.”

  His words come out hot and heavy, and the weight of them makes my pulse soar.

  I gesture to my outfit. “I guess this meets your approval.”

  “This meets every seal of approval in the world.”

  I’ve never heard his voice sound so husky. The rasp in it feeds me. It moves through me, giving me another dose of confidence, another serving of naughtiness.

  I bring my hand to my mouth, an exaggerated Betty Boop move. “Oh no! You were expecting me in an apron. Oops!” I raise a finger, the sign to wait. “I’ll be right back.”

  I turn on my heels, giving him a view of my barely-covered derriere as I saunter back to my bedroom.