One Night Stand-In (Boyfriend Material Book 3)

by Lauren Blakely

  The woman reaches for the door handle and pulls it open with a flourish.

  “Welcome! You must be the soon-to-be Mr. and Mrs. Abernathy.” Her accent contains a hint of Argentina, adding even more to the authenticity.

  I narrow my eyes, then shake my head. “No, I’m Lucas Xavier. And this is Lola Dumont.”

  The tango woman takes my hand then Lola’s. “I’m Angeline. I have a lesson any minute, but if you two are here to inquire about lessons, I’d love to teach you. I can tell you’d be very good.”

  “How can you tell?” I ask.

  She waves a hand like she’s sprinkling us with fairy dust or something. “I can read couples’ energy.”

  “We’re not a couple,” Lola cuts in.

  Damn straight. “We’re just friends. Good friends,” I say with a smile.

  Lola flashes her pearly whites too. “Great friends. We just reconnected.”

  Angeline glances between the two of us, her eyes gleaming. “Hmm. Your energy is quite strong.” She grins, taking a beat. “What can I do for you?”

  Lola bats first this time. “We’re hoping you have an iPad. Left by Harrison Bates.”

  Her brown eyes sparkle. “Harrison. Yes, of course. He said you might be coming.”

  “Might? Did he bet you a six-pack?” I ask.

  She scoffs, laughing. “No. I’m not a betting woman. I showed him some basic tango steps and told him I’d hold on to the iPad if he came back for a lesson.”

  That’s surprising. “Did he?”

  She glances at the clock on the wall. “He should be here tomorrow. I can’t wait to teach him how to tango.”

  Something about this information throws me off, but I’m not sure why, so I focus on the goal. Get the iPad. Finish the tasks. Snag the security deposit.

  Be done.

  That’s what I want right now. To be done with this fickle landlord and his absurd breakup letter. I have work piling up and projects to finish, as well as a design competition to prepare for.

  This has run its course.

  “Hope he enjoys it. And thanks again for taking care of the iPad. May we have it back?”

  “Of course,” she says. She heads to a desk, grabs it, and hands it over.

  “Thanks, Angeline,” Lola says.

  “If you change your mind, I’m here. I’ve taught tango to all kinds of couples. It can be fun for friends too.” Angeline smiles knowingly.

  “Thanks. We’ll keep that in mind,” I say, but I won’t, because tangoing with Lola won’t help me be the responsible one.

  And that’s who I am.

  That’s the part I know how to play.

  When we reach the street, I take a deep, fueling breath, and Lola seems to do the same. “So, here’s the big question,” she says.

  “Yeah?” A part of me hopes she’ll say, Want to figure out a way to . . .

  But I don’t even know how to finish that sentence. I don’t know how to figure out anything right now.

  She smiles, lifting up her chin. “We’re going to do it this time, right?”

  “Stay friends?” I ask.

  “Yes. We’re not those hotheaded college kids anymore, right?” She adds in an elbow nudge. “We let our friendship die before, but we’re going to be adults this time.”

  I have no choice but to agree. “We so are. We are definitely wiser, more mature. We can do this.” I muster up all my confidence.

  Because we can.

  And we will.

  Because it takes two to tango, and we both want this friendship.

  And neither wants the messiness and the inevitable pain of what Luna and Rowan have. How could they be headed for anything but trouble?

  “We’re doing it.” I offer a fist for knocking, and she takes me up on it like she’s one of the guys.

  We quickly segue into sorting out what to do with the items we’ve collected. I’ll hold on to Rowan’s things, she’ll keep Luna’s, and we’ll both email Harrison by tomorrow morning.

  That’s all there is.

  On Madison Avenue, as the twilight sky surrounds us, I search for what to say next. We’ve bumped fists in agreement that we should remain friends, but what can I do differently this time around?

  I have to make it work.

  “So, my good friend Lola. Do you want to have coffee this week? As friends?”

  She smiles. “I would like that.”

  Setting Luna’s things on the ground, she then wraps her arms around me in a hug, and I try to resist the smell of her hair and the scent of her skin.

  The feel of her in my arms.

  She doesn’t feel like a friend.

  But she has to be. Because we’re adults. Because love is dangerous. Because we’re doing things the mature way this time around.

  I let go. “Bye, Lola.”

  “Bye, Lucas.”

  Trouble is, it doesn’t feel like a friendly goodbye when I turn the other way, my heart weighing ten thousand pounds.

  24

  To: Lola Dumont, Lucas Xavier

  From: Harrison Bates

  Subject: A deal is a deal

  Just gonna come right out and say it. I had NO FAITH in you two. I didn’t think you’d pull it off so quickly. I mean, c’mon. What were the chances? But where there’s a will, there’s a way. And I have to know—did you enjoy it?

  To: Harrison Bates

  From: Lola Dumont

  CC: Lucas Xavier

  Subject: Re: A deal is a deal

  Perhaps the question is—did YOU enjoy it?

  To: Lola Dumont

  CC: Lucas Xavier

  From: Harrison Bates

  Subject: So much

  More than I thought I would! After all, I went bowling with a friend, visited some alpacas, devoured cheese, and had the best pancakes in the city. (Guess Luna and Rowan were right about that one!)

  Life has a funny way of working out, doesn’t it?

  To: Harrison Bates

  CC: Lola Dumont

  From: Lucas Xavier

  Subject: So hilarious

  Yeah. It’s a barrel of monkeys.

  To: Lucas Xavier

  CC: Lola Dumont

  From: Harrison Bates

  Subject: Why so sad?

  Aww, is there trouble in romance land?

  To: Harrison Bates

  CC: Lola Dumont

  From: Lucas Xavier

  Subject: Not sad, just busy

  How about the rest of the security deposit?

  To: Lucas Xavier

  CC: Lola Dumont

  From: Harrison Bates

  Subject: I’m a man of my word

  Check your Zelle! Also, maybe you should take a tango lesson to cheer up. But then again, ask me in a couple of hours, since I’m headed off to mine. Who knew? Me? Tangoing? Well, the jury’s still out. I might have two left feet.

  But what I do have is this—a clear mind.

  There’s nothing quite like a quiet place to live to set one’s creativity free.

  And now I’m off to try out the dance of love.

  25

  Lola

  I answer Harrison’s emails while I finish my Sunday morning workout, but his last note gives me an idea.

  Because quiet sounds perfect. After all, creativity is what I need.

  Yep.

  I need to focus on the presentation, on my new clients, and on my existing projects at Bailey & Brooks.

  It’s that simple.

  The Design-Off organizers said it themselves—winning is a huge opportunity. It can open new doors.

  That’s what I want.

  Breath coming fast, I hit end on the elliptical, step off the machine, and begin a series of cool-down stretches.

  When I’m done, I leave the gym, satisfied to have checked the workout off my to-do list. I did it solo too, since Amy is allergic to early Sunday morning exercise. I’ll probably see her later after I knock out some work.

  That’s my plan for the rest of the morning after I
shower, dress, and grab a bagel. Back at home, I do my best to avoid my bedroom.

  Because I’m not sleepy, of course. I work in the living room, where I fine-tune some designs for Peter before I return to my presentation, digging in.

  I focus on the project for a few hours, savoring the silence of my apartment. After I hit my goal for the day, I stretch, adding a contented sigh for good measure.

  “I’ve got the whole day ahead of me,” I say to myself, since there’s no one else there to tell.

  Just the computer screen and me.

  Me and Photoshop.

  That’s how I like it.

  So I hop over to my project notes for a book cover I’m starting, a brand-new romantic comedy from Amy.

  Staring at the spec sheet, I review the themes, mulling over how to present them—it’s a second-chance romance set against the backdrop of New York City.

  Well, la-di-da.

  That should be a piece of cake.

  But as I consider the possibilities, I can’t quite settle on the right look. Should it be illustrated? Photographic? Perhaps a combination of the two?

  I shoot a text over to Amy, seeing if she wants to chat.

  Her reply is fast and furious.

  Amy: Would love to see you later! Linc and I are going to Brooklyn to see the shopping cart races with Baldwin and James. Then I have to grab a drink with an agent who wants to send me an exclusive submission later this week. A new comedy! Gah! I love exclusive submissions, almost as much as I love shopping cart races. But maybe we can do something tomorrow?

  Lola: Of course. Have fun.

  I stare at the exchange, furrowing my brow, wondering why it feels empty somehow. This is a perfectly normal exchange with my friend.

  My friend who is busy with her fiancé.

  But that’s normal. It doesn’t bother me. So then what’s this spark of tension shooting through my shoulders, and why does my pulse spike with nerves?

  That’s odd. Why would I be nervous or worried? I’m not an anxious person.

  And yet, the quiet feels cloying, like it’s sticking to me, a perfume that’s lingered too long.

  Maybe the strange presence is coming from the bedroom.

  Nope. Don’t want to go there, literally or metaphorically.

  In fact, I need to get out of here. And perhaps I need company—to discuss this cover with.

  Peyton’s not in the same field, but no matter. She has a great eye for pretty things.

  I fire off a text, asking what she’s up to.

  Peyton: Tristan and I are taking Barrett and a friend to the movies later tonight. But first, inventory. Admit it: you’re dying to come to my store and help Marley and me with inventory.

  I consider her note. Inventory? Sure. Sounds like a better way to spend the rest of my Sunday afternoon than avoiding the room where I started to let Lucas into my heart.

  Note to self: inventory is the opposite of fun.

  Fortunately, I arrive at the tail end of it.

  The gals are nearly done—just cataloging one more item.

  I hold up a silky red bra for Peyton and Marley. “How about this sexy thing?”

  “Ooh, that’s a dazzling one,” Marley says, eyes widening as she gawks at the lingerie. “I wore something like that in sapphire blue last night.”

  I take a closer look at the lace. “Come to think of it, this reminds me of the—”

  I stop because I don’t want to say that out loud. It reminds me of Lucas, and what I wore last night with him.

  A bra he couldn’t stop staring at. A bra I loved taking off for him when I stripped on the way to the shower. A shiver runs through me at the white-hot memory—the sweet agony of his touch and the exquisite sensations that raced through me when he kissed me everywhere.

  The bone-deep connection I felt with the man.

  I won’t belittle my heart by saying it was just sex.

  It wasn’t just sex whatsoever.

  But that’s beside the point.

  “Earth to Lola.” Peyton waves a hand in front of my face.

  I snap my gaze up. “Sorry. I drifted off.”

  “Yes, I know inventory is not that thrilling. That’s why we always have a drink after. Besides,” Peyton says, shooting Marley a knowing glance, “I want to hear more about what you did in your dazzling sapphire-blue lingerie.”

  Marley adopts an overly demure smile. “Who said it was dazzling?”

  “Um, you did.” Peyton points at the brunette. “Might it have involved a certain someone you met yesterday?”

  “Maybe it did,” she trails off and adds a flirty little grin.

  That piques my interest, and when the three of us head to Gin Joint to grab some libations, I wait until we order and then command playfully, “Tell us, Marley. Dare I say dazzle us?”

  As we drink, Marley shares a few details and I lean closer, doing my best to stay in the present moment. It’s a scintillating tale, but I have to work to focus on the details.

  Because the moment I want to be in is my last night. My yesterday. My twenty-four hours with Lucas.

  Except that’s not how we fix mistakes.

  We repair the past with a better present.

  By doing things right this time around.

  And as it happens, I’m not technically any closer to figuring out the design issues of my new book cover. So maybe, just maybe, I should see if Lucas wants to help.

  When Marley and Peyton grab refills at the bar, I fire off a text.

  Lola: Hey! Want to grab that coffee tomorrow? I could use your brain.

  Lucas: My brain is at your disposal.

  26

  Lucas

  I’d like other parts to be at her disposal too.

  Not just that part.

  All the parts. Except that’s not in the cards, so I shove those annoying, irresponsible, nagging notions of romance and a future and I’m falling for you into the corner, then I stomp them pancake-flat and light them on fire for good measure.

  There.

  I wipe my hands of emotions, falling, love, and all those other dangerous ideas.

  Besides, I have plenty to deal with.

  Like the fact that our office space still isn’t ready.

  Like the work I fell behind on over the weekend.

  Like the presentation.

  That’s my Monday.

  And all day long as I refine my work, I check the clock. I check it religiously. I check it like it’s my motherfucking job.

  And when the clock ticks closer to coffee time, I close the laptop, head home, and change into a T-shirt I know she’ll like. I run my fingers through my hair and head to the coffee shop.

  This is good. Everything we fucked up last time, we are unfucking now.

  We are such goddamn adults we should earn medals for excellence in adulting.

  And really, isn’t that everything I’ve ever wanted?

  The second I open the door to Doctor Insomnia’s, my heart springs out of my chest, scampering to her.

  What the hell?

  I grab the outlaw organ, stuff it back between my lungs, and tell it to settle the hell down.

  This is not the time or place for stupid displays of affection.

  Yet as I head over to her, there’s a smile on my face that I can’t hide. My skin warms, my pulse races, and my mind is surfing a dopamine wave just being near her.

  She stands and smiles too, and then it happens.

  The awkward sets in.

  We’re a foot away from each other, and I don’t know if we should hug, or shake hands, or something else.

  “Hey, you,” she says, going first, a note of sweetness in that last word that winds its way around my heart, tugging it perilously close to her.

  “Hey there.” I don’t know if I should respond to the sound or the situation. Where is this covered in the rules we laid down?

  “Good to see you,” she says, shifting to full-on friends mode. Pursing her lips, she draws a breath then wraps me in
a hug. “Thanks for letting me borrow your brain.”

  Ah, yes. The situation. Focus on that. “You’ve got all access. Twenty-four seven,” I say, turning my nose away from her hair because if I spend too long inhaling her fantastic scent, I will backslide.

  Hell, I’ll relapse into offers of group showers and sleepovers and breakfasts, and spending every single second with her, like I stupidly want to.

  We separate and sit. She clears her throat, gesturing to the empty table in front of me. “Want a coffee?”

  “Sure. Yeah. Definitely. Coffee is good.” I sound like an overeager teenager on a first date. I gesture with my thumb to the counter. “I’ll go grab one.”

  I tell myself to be cool as I wait for the drink.

  And maybe I listen.

  After I snag a coffee, I return to her, nodding at her mug. “Coffee. One sugar.” I tap my temple. “I remember.”

  She shrugs happily. “Some things never change.”

  But some things do.

  And we’re one of those things.

  I take a drink, set down the mug, and rub my hands together. “All right, let’s do this.”

  She tells me the cover concept, and we spend the next thirty minutes tossing around ideas, sketching out possibilities, and brainstorming.

  It’s stimulating and fantastic, and I love every second.

  I’ve missed this. I’ve missed her. I’ve missed the camaraderie. I lost this for nearly ten years, and I don’t want to give it up again, no matter how much I long to touch her.