How to Get Lucky

by Lauren Blakely

  * * *

  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 for 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.

  I’m the lucky recipient not only of a text from London, but a video file.

  Lifting my face to the sky, I offer a silent prayer to all the dirty gods and goddesses. Let this be a video of her stripping down to nothing . . .

  Wait. Nope. That’s so uncouth of me. Truth is, I’d be happy to watch a video of London brushing her teeth.

  As soon as that thought hits my brain, another one slams into it like one car rear-ending another.

  You’ve got it bad for this woman if you want to see her brushing her teeth.

  Shaking my head at my runaway thoughts, I mutter, “No shit, self. Also, fuck off—fresh breath is cool. Right, Bowie?”

  My furry friend tilts his head, his tongue lolling out.

  “Good,” I say as I make my way down the final bend in the trail, clicking open the video clip.

  And happy Sunday morning to me.

  This is way better than good dental hygiene.

  * * *

  London: I’m in the studio this morning. Feeling all kinds of inspired. Here’s what I have so far for “Come as You Are.” What do you think?

  * * *

  At the foot of the trail, I hit play.

  My. Jaw. Drops.

  London drags a hand down her chest.

  Pops her hip to the left.

  To the right.

  Lets her head fall back, her hair trailing down her back as she moves to the music.

  What do I think?

  I think I might come as I am.

  I reply.

  * * *

  Teddy: Change nothing. Not a single fucking thing.

  * * *

  Then I pat myself on the back because I’m so damn focused on this work project with her, and only on the work project.

  Bloom’s nuptials are not my first wedding.

  I’ve spun at plenty before tonight. Not as many as I’d like—Edge keeps me pretty busy on the weekends, and those are the prime coupling days. A few months ago, though, I did get to deejay for some friends who were high school sweethearts and got hitched in their early twenties. Late last year I was in charge of the tunes at the reception for a couple of Sam’s buddies. My mom also hooked me up with one of her book club friends, who met the love of her life at her twenty-fifth high school reunion, and the sheer number of eighties songs to which they got their groove on made for a helluva night.

  What’s not to love about
being at a wedding? An entire day devoted to celebrating love while surrounded by family and friends? An opportunity to meld two separate worlds into a larger, richer community? Sign me up.

  But this is the most fun wedding I’ve deejayed by far.

  Bloom’s friends love to dance. They shake and shimmy to every song, with Nate and London busting out the moves. But I haven’t seen her for the last hour. Not that I’m clock-watching. Besides, I’m in the zone, lasered in on spinning tunes and only on spinning tunes.

  The lady of the evening bounces over to the DJ booth. This is Bloom’s first break from the dance floor since she and her hubs cut the cake, and the bride is absolutely glowing.

  “Insomnia, you are a certified rock star and an official lifesaver. I’ve had more compliments on the music than I can count. I’m leaving you the best five-star review in the history of the internet.”

  “What more can a guy ask for?” Not much. Five-star reviews are up there with blow jobs and tacos. Not always in that order, of course. I’ve had some pretty righteous tacos.

  “Can I pass out a few of these?” Bloom asks, motioning toward a small stack of business cards on the table.

  “A few, a lot, all of them—whatever works for you. And thank you. I appreciate it.” I shoot her a huge grin, then throw on my headphones to fade to the next track. As a Michael Jackson number shifts into Tina Turner, I sneak a peek and find the other reason why I like this wedding.

  Fine, fine.

  I’ve been checking her out all night.

  But there’s nothing wrong with enjoying the view.

  Especially when the brunette beauty heads in my direction.

  She walks over to my deejay setup in perfect rhythm to Tina’s smoky wailing. God bless tight tops—London’s decked out in a light-blue dress with a scoop-neck thing that makes it impossible to look away from her tits, which are bouncing slightly with each step. The dress hits her knees, proper enough for a wedding, but sexy enough to absolutely drive me crazy wondering what she’s wearing underneath. Shaking away those thoughts of blue lingerie, white lingerie, red lingerie that matches her glasses—hell, any color lingerie—I shoot her a cocky glare. “You just can’t stay away from me,” I say, heat and challenge in my tone.

  “I know. It’s impossible. I tried.”

  “How hard? How hard did you try to stay away?”

  “So hard,” she teases. “I tried to go on ignoring you for the whole wedding, but I caved just now.”

  I laugh. “Glad you did. You having fun?”

  “I’m having a blast. But I had to duck out for the last hour. Nate and I both forgot to bring the wedding gift, so I just ran back to their place to grab it.”

  “That must’ve been a really important gift,” I say.

  She leans in closer and stage-whispers, “It’s an Instant Pot.” She sets the wrapped cube down on the edge of my table.

  “That is important. Some people think the rings make a marriage official . . .”

  “But it’s actually the Instant Pot,” London finishes my joke, and we share a flirty look.

  One that spurs me on. “London, why don’t you just admit you came to the wedding to see me?”

  She narrows her eyes, pointing at my chest. “You crashed the wedding,” she teases. “Nate asked me to be his date a week ago.”

  “If you say so,” I toss back.

  She crosses her arms. “Just admit you took the job so you could see me.”

  I laugh. “Fine, fine. I wanted to watch you dance. You caught me.”

  “Knew it,” she says. I shouldn’t like flirting with her, because of work, because of my past, because of her brother. But when I’m around London, she has a way of derailing all rational and irrational thought.

  I have a way of forgetting everything else.

  Like promises I made to myself.

  And if I stay in the flirting zone too long, I may lose higher brain function entirely, and I need that for work.

  Maybe she’s wary of the fine line between flirty and fun too, since she changes the topic to an innocuous one. “So, what’s your favorite wedding song ever?”

  I go with it, since I’m still on the clock.

  “‘Uptown Funk’ by Bruno Mars has to be a pretty strong contender. That always gets the people moving. But it’s also not a wedding without a little ‘Unchained Melody.’”

  “Mmm, the Righteous Brothers’ second-best song.”

  “True. What would Top Gun be, after all, without ‘You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’? But that’s probably not the best title for a wedding song.”

  “Maybe the worst title ever for a wedding song,” she says with a laugh. Music is great, but her laughter is quickly becoming my favorite sound. “How about if you had to dance to one song at a wedding? What would it be?”

  “What are we talking here? Slow dance? Fast dance? Group dance?”

  “Deejay’s choice,” she says.

  “Slow dance definitely goes to ‘At Last.’ Etta James classic.”

  “Mmm. And what if you wanted to speed it up a bit?”

  “Well, I have a confession to make. I’m an awful fast dancer,” I admit sheepishly.

  “That’s a shame.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I love the fast tunes. If you throw on any Usher or Queen Bey, you can’t keep me off the dance floor,” she says, tossing her gaze toward the sway of bodies.

  But I barely notice the guests, because my head swims with memories of London dancing downtown the other day, and on my phone this morning. I can’t stop my eyes from traveling the length of her curvaceous body.

  I don’t want to stop them on their voyeuristic journey up her legs, around her hips, to the dangerous dip of her dress that exposes just a hint of freckles scattered across the top of her breasts.

  “That’s definitely something I would love to see, so have at it anytime.” I like the idea of dancing with her a lot, so I lean in closer and whisper, “I do kill it at the slow dancing though.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “I don’t mean to brag, but I was voted best male lead at cotillion in seventh and eighth grade, so . . .” I leave the sentence hanging with a smile.

  “In that case, I should probably check out this award-winning slow dancing. For the sake of hypotheses that need to be tested.”

  “Yes. You should conduct all the experiments. That is, if you insist.”

  She adopts a serious expression. “I do insist. I need to run my own research. Corruption in the cotillion circuit is well-documented.”

  I’m about to offer to spin her around on the dance floor for a number when a loud, bright voice hits my ears.

  “London!” Bloom exclaims as she makes her way to us, then tugs at London’s arm. “My bridesmaids are demanding an epic dancer, and you’re an epic dancer. So your presence is requested on the floor.”

  London’s smile takes over her face. “Then we must dance all night long.”

  Bloom glances my way, then at London, then at me again. Something sparks in her eyes. “But don’t you worry. I’ll let you return to flirting with this handsome musical Jedi very soon. Come dance.”

  With a sexy shrug that says she’s following the flirting orders from on high, London’s eyes travel in my direction.

  Exactly where I want them.

  I fade into Usher’s “Yeah!” and as the beat drops hard and fast, Bloom and London bound to the dance floor to a chorus of cheers from the other guests.

  As London dances, her eyes keep meeting mine.

  I know exactly what she’s thinking.

  Same thing I am.

  Looks like we both want to break the rogue-kissing pact.

  20

  Two hours of celebratory revelry later, London is still here with a few lingering guests. The crowd has thinned, and several centerpieces are conspicuously absent. Past a sea of half-empty champagne glasses and partially eaten cake slices, London stands at the edge of the dance floor, fingers toying
with her bracelets, looking like the heroine at the end of a wedding sequence in a movie.

  Fade in on the candlelight from the tables flickering off her cheeks, the party lights sparkling through her wavy hair. Her soulful brown eyes lock right on me.

  She walks over to me. “All right, DJ. Let’s test those slow-dancing skills.”

  “All in the name of science,” I say a little huskily because my throat is dry from looking at her. I hit play on “End of the Road.” I’m a hopeful guy tonight, and I’ve had this track ready and waiting for London’s invitation. Boyz II Men floats across the warm evening air.