Asking For A Friend

by Blakely, Lauren

  “Ah, so he found one of those dog cats.”

  “Exactly.” I lift a finger, aha-style. “Come to think of it, that’d make a good book: Cats Who Think They’re Dogs. I can see the book jacket now—Fluffy chasing a tennis ball.”

  “We need to find that book, Amy. Find it, buy it, and make it a best seller.”

  The way he says my name, like it’s a tasty little treat, sends a shiver through me. And the way he looks at me, like he doesn’t want to walk away, triggers a fresh wave of butterflies in my chest.

  I force myself to stay on the business side of the tracks. “I’m on it. I’ll be hunting for that book while you go work the party in Pine Crest View.”

  “And work it, I will. See ya later.”

  “See ya.”

  Except I’m not ready to say goodbye. “Wait—” I set a hand on his arm.

  “Yes?”

  “Thanks again for Casino Royale. I finished it after my class this morning.”

  “What class do you take?”

  I shake my head. “I teach. Hula-hooping.”

  “Hula-hooping.” He says it as if it’s something sensual and alluring, like white lace or honey body lotion. “You teach hula-hooping?”

  The question comes out slow and luxurious, dripping with amazement.

  I wave my hand like it’s no big deal. “Just a little thing I do for fun. Truly—she’s the gal at Gin Joint—takes all these crazy fitness classes, and she actually recommended me to her gym manager, who said he wanted to add hula-hooping to their offerings. So now I teach New York ladies how to shimmy their hips.”

  His smile is almost too much. He looks like I’ve knocked him the good kind of senseless. Then he seems to recover fully. “Everyone should have an unusual athletic skill, especially a sports hater. Actually, that’s a perfect skill for a sports hater.”

  “And what’s your unusual athletic skill?” I ask.

  “I play a mean—”

  Raphael McNaughton claps him on the shoulder. “Had an idea. Let’s chat.”

  Linc says goodbye with his eyes and walks away.

  I do the same. After all, I’m here to schmooze.

  I work the room, chitchatting for the next hour. I focus on what I’m good at—listening. I listen to people talk about their passions. I listen to Mike wax on about London. I ask questions. And when I’m done, I’m exhausted.

  But it’ll be worthwhile. I didn’t win the hearts of everyone tonight, but at least I made some progress in selling myself. And that’s what I came here to do.

  Mission accomplished.

  “Fun party,” Zoe remarks when I run into her in the ladies’ room, washing her hands.

  “Definitely. And you never know with these things, right?”

  “Exactly. It’s like online dating. You feel like you have to be on constantly, putting your best foot forward. You roll the dice and hope online dating doesn’t bite you in the patootie.” She smiles at her own euphemism.

  I smile back as I dry my hands. “Definitely a good idea to avoid patootie bites. Unless you’re into that kind of thing.”

  She blushes. “Well, you never know. Sometimes a nibble is just what you need.”

  Once she’s gone, something she said tickles insistently in my brain—not about ass bites, though I concur with her about a gentle nip in the right mood. I replay our conversation and hit upon the next step in my path to winning the promotion.

  Rushing out of the bathroom, I track down Lola and pull her to a quiet corner of the rooftop garden. “I can solve two problems at once. I can practice selling myself and we can get Peyton out there again.”

  “Does Peyton want to get back out there?”

  “Yes!” I tell her about Peyton’s phone call earlier. “She’s emotionally ready, but she doesn’t want to promote herself. Meanwhile, I need to work on my personal sales pitch skills. So my idea is this.” I bounce on my toes, amped up by the sheer awesomeness of the idea. “I’ll put together an online dating profile for her. Friends do that for friends all the time. And then I’ll weed out the candidates on her behalf and present her with the best options.”

  The look on Lola’s pretty face tells me she’s weighing my idea and weighing it seriously. “Walk me through this. How does this help her?”

  I’m certain about this plan, and I answer logically, despite the excitement that barrels through me. “Because she wants to try again, but taking the next step is hard, so I can help her with that stage. And it helps me because I can practice my personal sales and marketing skills. This is a great chance to learn how different people like to be marketed to. By the time I’ve found a great guy for Peyton to date, I should have all the skills I’ll need to crush the pitch for the potential new job.”

  Lola hums, tapping her chin. “True. That’s all online dating is—promoting yourself. Putting your best foot forward. It’s marketing, plain and simple.”

  “Exactly! If nothing comes of it, no harm, no foul. But if something pans out, well, then I’ll introduce whatever sexy nugget of awesome I meet to Peyton. You know, since I’m just . . . asking for a friend.”

  Lola inhales deeply, the cogs turning visibly in her brain, I swear. “I thought you set the bar for crazy ideas when you wanted us to sign up for pole-dancing classes. But this is good. This is really good.”

  “And pole dancing was worth it. We have two-packs now.”

  She shoots me her patented you’re crazy look. “Speak for yourself.”

  I poke the top of my stomach, then hers. “See? It worked.”

  “I don’t have a two-pack, sweetie. And I think it’s your hula-hooping that formed yours.”

  I raise a finger to make a point. “Be that as it may, pole dancing was a blast.”

  “And we did keep it up for a few months. Now that you mention it, I should do pole-dancing class again.”

  “Exactly. That was a good idea, and so is this. I bet I can find a great guy for Peyton this way. Because I’m not going to use Tinder.”

  “What app are you going to use?”

  I smile, a devilishly delighted kind of grin. “Boyfriend Material.”

  Her lips curve in appreciation. “Ah, that one.”

  “It’s the most likely to match her with the kind of guy she’d want. She’s not a one-and-done girl. She’s all about monogamy and dates with guys who could easily be a part of her life. And since it’s location-based, it’s even better.”

  “That sounds like the best one for her, then.” Lola scrunches her brow. “If you’re handling the initial screening, does Peyton go on the actual dates? Because first dates are definitely part of the weeding out process.”

  I consider her question for a beat. “Hmm. That’s a good one. Should I do preliminary dates?”

  Lola takes a beat. “Sort of like an HR manager handling a first-round interview?”

  My eyes widen. “Yes! Exactly! It’ll be part of my learning process, and I’ll winnow down to the best candidates, like promising manuscripts from the slush pile. Once I have them, I’ll introduce them to Peyton.”

  “When will you tell the guys you’re the screener?”

  I hum, thinking about the best strategy. “I’ll disclose it in the profile, but I’ll confirm that they know before the first interview-slash-date just to be safe.”

  Lola nods thoughtfully, seemingly satisfied with this plan. “Basically, you’ll be surrogate dating for her.”

  I take a deep breath, fueled by the glitter and thrill of this new plan. “Time for me to go ask for a friend, then.”

  8

  Linc

  As a book editor, I’ve always believed first in the idea, then in the execution. You can’t have one without the other, but execution is nothing without a concept.

  But ideas?

  That’s what you’re actually selling, before anyone reads a word. It’s what the marketing department will pitch to bookstores and retailers—the YA dystopian, the new nonfiction self-help book, the police procedural that tur
ns the genre on its head. That’s what I’ve banked on.

  And the cat idea—it’s sticking to me like a hangover after a bender.

  When Baldwin summons me to grab a seat with him at a table in the corner of the party, I mention the book idea to him. “But just to be clear, Amy came up with it,” I say, not about to take credit for her brainstorm.

  His eyebrows shoot into his hairline. “Amy Summers?”

  “Yes, Amy Summers.”

  He shifts from confusion to awareness to you dog over the course of three animated seconds. “Oh my. Do I look like a sheep? Baa! Because I’m feeling sheepish.”

  “Why?”

  He snaps his fingers. “Because I missed the goddamn neon sign! She was the one you were checking out the other morning in the lobby. I thought it was Zoe, but it was Amy. I can see why though. She’s like a Smartie and a cute little SweeTart all rolled into one.”

  “So she’s two types of candy?”

  “She is, because she has so much personality one brand can’t contain her. Anyway, I told you you’d clean up here at Bailey & Brooks.” He rubs his palms together, then pats the table. “The doctor is in. Sit, Superman.”

  Grabbing the chair across from him, I oblige. “I don’t believe I need a doctor’s appointment though.”

  “Oh yes, you do. Because I am the romance doctor, and you’re the first caller here in the Romance Hour,” he says with the smooth tone of a late-night radio host.

  “First-time caller, long-time listener,” I say. I’ve learned with Baldwin you just need to go with it.

  He smiles approvingly. “Let’s talk about Superman and the SweeTart. I’m here to help you win the woman of your dreams.”

  “I swear, I’m not trying to win her.”

  “Hush, you. Just hush. Let me tell you about Amy Summers. She likes books and dogs and treats, and she’s also into ramen noodles, but not the cheap kind that college students eat—the fancy kind. She digs her girl-power rock and Broadway shows, and is completely disinterested in sports. Also, she seriously enjoys those creeper mugs. You know the kind?”

  I shake my head. “What on earth is a creeper mug?”

  He gives a what am I going to do with you sigh. “Linc, your game is seriously lacking in the trendy but amusing kitsch department. They’re mugs with a ceramic thingy, like a cat or a dog or a skull or a unicorn, at the bottom, and it shows up halfway through your cup of coffee. I left mine in the break room once, and she thought it was adorable, so naturally, I bought her a set of six. I guess I’ve converted her.”

  I arch a skeptical brow. “Dude, is she into creeper mugs or are you into creeper mugs?”

  He waves a dismissive hand. “Can I help it if the woman knows good taste when she sees it? Also, she likes The Far Side, Jane Austen, and—”

  “Agatha Christie, skirts with pockets, and word games. She thinks cat videos are the height of humor, and she is a devout follower of Nala, the cat some Scottish guy adopted and now cycles with across Europe.”

  He whistles under his breath. “Someone does have a crush. I knew you were just like me. When you fall, you fall hard and fast.”

  I shake my head, cutting off the idea with a slice of my hand through the air. “No. Just no. No office romance for me.”

  He pouts. “But she’s a hoot. She’s funnier than Iliza Shlesinger. Wait. No.” He gazes skyward, then whispers in contrition, “I did not say that, Iliza. Forgive me, O queen of comedy.”

  “Iliza’s not dead. Why are you talking to her like she’s in heaven?”

  “Because she’s one of my heroes. But back to our girl. Amy Summers is clever and cute, and she likes dresses with pockets as you so wisely noted.”

  “Yeah, she’s obsessed with them,” I say, a smile tickling at my lips because I like knowing this detail about her. I like that Baldwin isn’t the only one who’s privy to insight on the woman I want.

  Wait.

  The woman I can’t have.

  I’d be breaking all my work entanglement rules.

  Still, when he crooks a finger to beckon me closer, I’m an eager acolyte, ready to hear what he has to share.

  “Do you know it says something about a woman if she likes dresses with pockets?”

  “What? Also, how do you know so much about women?”

  “I have lots of female friends. A man like me can be your most valuable asset, because women like to tell their gay friends everything. Which is how I know women who like dresses with pockets have a tendency to be . . .” He scans the area then lowers his voice. “Fun in bed. Because pockets are fun.”

  “Wow,” I deadpan. “I just assumed they wanted to carry their phone or something. Who knew that pockets were a signifier of sexuality.”

  He’s dead serious. “Of course they are.”

  For a moment I imagine Amy in bed, and yeah, I bet she’d be fun. Because she is fun.

  “And,” Baldwin continues, “she’s just your type.”

  I groan, dragging a hand through my hair. That’s the problem. She’s precisely the kind of woman I could fall for. She’s enchanting, and that’s why I can’t let a damn thing happen.

  I make stop signs of both my hands. I do not let him pass go. “Amy is definitely . . . a SweeTart and a Smartie and a Snickers bar too.” I take a deep breath, shaking my head at Baldwin and at myself. “But I’m not going to pursue her.”

  He moans, sulking. “Why? I want to see the two of you together so badly.”

  “Look, as much as it pains me to disappoint you, I won’t have an office romance.”

  “Why not?”

  I sigh. It’s not something I talk about often, but he’s been a good, fast friend, and he’s been honest with me, so I should level with him, at least a little. “Office romances and I—we don’t get along. There’s . . . baggage there.”

  He perks up at the promise of gossip. “Do you have a dark and mysterious past with a coworker?”

  “So tawdry”—I pause, and his eyes twinkle avidly—“that the tale is not for public consumption.”

  “How many drinks would it take for you to dish the details?” He hooks his thumb over his shoulder. “I’m happy to hit the bar and start plying you with shots.”

  “One, I don’t do shots. My sense of self-preservation is too strong. And two, it’s seriously not a story I want to revisit.”

  His shoulders sag, but seconds later, he pops back up like a jack-in-the-box. “I know how you can make this up to me, then.”

  “I didn’t know I had to,” I say dryly, then sweep out a hand, inviting him to proceed. “But please, enlighten me. How can I make your night brighter?”

  He pokes the table for emphasis. “We are going to find someone to distract you from all these feelings you’re trying to deny.”

  “I’m not trying to deny a thing.”

  He rolls his eyes so far I swear they reach Hoboken and back, before he pats my hand. “Right. Sure. But just in case, let’s get you online.”

  “I’m not interested in getting laid online.”

  Baldwin’s jaw drops, and he looks offended. “How little do you think of me? You think I’d try to get you to Bone Town?”

  “Yes.” I laugh again. This guy does not have an off switch. “Yes, I do.”

  He pauses to think, then shrugs. “You’re right. I do believe all routes should lead to Bone Town, but not every train is the express.”

  He grabs his phone, swipes a few times, then taps furiously into it. “You’re not seriously signing me up for a dating app.”

  He looks up and meets my eyes intently. “Do I look like I’d joke about online dating and matchmaking?”

  “No. You don’t.”

  “Exactly. And I am excellent at putting together pitches for people, so I’ve got this. My sister loves this app—Boyfriend Material. It’s perfect for you.”

  “How am I boyfriend material?” I am, but I’m curious how he came to that assessment so fast.

  “Because you don’t want to go to Bone
Town on the first date.” He weighs invisible scales. “The tracks either go through Boyfriend Material or Bone Town.”

  “I’m not averse to Bone Town. I like—hell, I love Bone Town.”

  He stares at me. “Of course you do, but if you loved Bone Town so much, you’d be on Tinder. Are you on Tinder?”

  “No,” I admit grudgingly.

  “My point exactly. You’re a local train kind of guy.”

  “But the two intersect, right? Bone Town and Boyfriend Material?”

  “Oh yeah,” he says with a most satisfied grin. “But only for the very, very lucky.”

  He swings the phone at me, declaring, “Avatar time. No photos on Boyfriend Material for the first forty-eight hours.”

  I nod, since I’m cool with the app’s premise, then I check out the one he’s selected. An image of Bit-O-Honey candy.

  “Yeah, that’d be a hard no. What kind of message does that send to the ladies? Come lick me? No. Just no.”

  “Fine. How about this?” He swipes across the screen, then shows me some cartoon prince.

  “Isn’t that the guy one of the princesses hated?”

  He heaves a dramatic sigh. “This is not Gaston. This is Flynn Rider. From Tangled.”

  “Never saw it.”

  “Let’s hope third time’s a charm,” Baldwin mutters as he works his phone magic one more time, then swivels the screen toward me. It’s a cartoonish Clark Kent.

  “I dunno. Isn’t that a little too on the nose?”

  Exasperated, he tosses his hands in the air. “You pick, then. Wait. I spoke too soon. If I let you pick, you’d pick a freaking taco, and no woman wants to date a taco.” He studies my face. “I just need one little thing from you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Take off your glasses for a second.”

  I oblige, wary but also curious as to where this is going.

  “Now, muss up your hair a little bit.”

  “Seriously? Why am I mussing up my hair?”

  “Humor me.”

  I drag a hand through my hair.

  “Yes! Spitting image. I freaking knew it.”