One Night Stand-In (Boyfriend Material #3) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,12

broody brown eyes.

He’s both an artist and an athlete, just like he was in college.

But when I take in his dark jeans, his T-shirt with a stick figure on it, and the five-o’clock stubble that graces his olive skin, I have a feeling he dipped his hand into the same bag of tricks I did.

The “tempt the old flame” one.

Because that man, does he ever look fine.

I have no choice but to pretend I’m made of ice.

5

Lucas

“Hi. We don’t have time to sit. We have less than forty-eight hours,” she says, all chop-chop without so much as a proper hello.

This woman. The look she fires at me could freeze a dick in a Rio de Janeiro summer. A dick on a beach staring at babes in bikinis.

Did I dodge a bullet in college or what?

Someone was looking out for me then.

Maybe I had some regrets at the time. Maybe I wished I’d handled it differently. But right now, with her icicle eyes, I’m all good with how shit went down.

Even so, I need to lock down my reaction to her. But with her wearing those painted-on jeans and that snug-as-sin shirt that shows off the hollow of her throat and the curves of her breasts, resistance is as hard as stone.

Be casual. Don’t think with your little head this time.

I stretch my arms up high, taking my time answering the ice queen, trying to shake off my inconvenient lust. “True, we do have only two days, but I’m pretty sure you said you’re devoting one mere day to the cause. That’s what you said in your text. So, looks like we have twenty-four hours. But don’t worry. I know math is hard.” I give her a sympathetic smile.

She rolls her chocolate-brown eyes, then adopts a plastic grin. “Yes, and it’s been typically challenging for you too. Differentiating between a weekend and a day was never your strong suit.”

Sighing heavily, I stand. What’s the point in arguing with her? We hashed out this little was it a day, was it a weekend issue back when my lacrosse team captains decided to steal the team away for a weekend instead of an afternoon.

The timing sucked.

The night before, Lola and I had been hanging out, as we often did. That night, though, hanging out had turned into a soft and tender kiss, which had turned into a hot and heavy kiss, which had turned into something more as she fell apart beneath my fingers.

And that turned into me asking, Can I take you to the department dinner on Saturday night?

The one with all the professors?

Yes.

With delight in her pretty brown eyes, she’d said, I’d love to go with you.

Then Saturday came, and my teammates showed up at my door and said they were taking us away for the afternoon for team bonding, no phones allowed.

The afternoon turned out to be the whole weekend.

The net result? Technically, I stood her up. I wasn’t able to make what would have been our first official date, and I’d had no way of reaching her.

I’d felt like complete and utter shit. But when I returned and tried to explain what happened—the captains kidnapping us, the camping and fishing trip—well, Lola said it was no big deal and that we were better off as friends anyway.

Okayyyyyy.

Hell if I was going to let on that I was hurt. Or that I wanted to make it up to her, to take her out again and properly say I was sorry.

No fucking way.

If she wanted to friend-zone me, I wasn’t going to fight for more. Fine, I’d said. It was just one night anyway.

Yeah, that comment didn’t go over so well. But hey, we were going to be friends again and our friendship could withstand a little awkward moment.

Only, we weren’t a rubber band that snapped back into friendship shape.

We are this—the older brother and sister of a pair of crazy young lovers, and also rivals in business. Even more so now with the design competition next week.

I point to my watch. “As the man himself said, ticktock. What do you want to tackle first?”

“The first item, I presume.” Reaching into her back pocket, she grabs her phone, taps on the screen, then scrolls.

But I don’t need to look up the email. I remember it. “If memory serves, the email from the Ringmaster listed where they first met as item numero uno,” I say.

She glances up from the phone, the corner of her lips quirking. “‘Ringmaster,’” she says, like she’s testing