One Night Stand-In (Boyfriend Material #3) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,14

hard out of the street and smack back onto the sidewalk.

Stumbling, she slams against me, her spine to my chest as the motorcycle screeches to a stop. In a split second, my arm ropes around her waist, her body tight against mine.

Like it was that night.

The memories flood back in a rush—her scent, her sounds, her moans. How she said my name.

As I tell myself to focus, her breath catches, and she gasps. “Holy . . .”

My heart stutters, adrenaline pumping through me. “Yeah.”

“Wow,” she says under her breath, shuddering.

“You okay?” I ask softly, trying not to breathe in the luscious smell of her hair. She smells like a tropical sea breeze, and that is not fucking helpful. Nor is the snug way she fits against me, her curves lined up just so.

“Yes. I’m fine.” She takes another deep inhale, then brushes her hands over her shirt, gently tugging away. “I didn’t see him coming.”

“Yeah, I didn’t at first either,” I say, wishing for a second that she were still sealed to me.

But that’s a stupid wish, so I focus on the dickhead on the Vespa. A DoorDash bag hangs on the back of his bike, and he’s tapping away on his phone. Seriously?

I cup my hands around my mouth and call out to the asshole, “Put your phone away! You could have killed someone.”

But my helpful suggestions fall on deaf ears. The light’s changed again, and he’s cranked the throttle on the bike, revving away.

Lola, seeming less shaken now, stares at me like I’m a dog doing a handstand.

“What?”

She points, drawing a circle to encompass me. “You’re one of those people now?”

My brow creases. “One of what people?”

“Those people who yell at strangers,” she says, smirking.

“For texting and driving and nearly killing someone? Yes. Yes, I am.” I own it as we wait for the walk sign again.

“Lucas Xavier from São Paulo.” She gives a satisfied sigh, saying my name the same way she did the first time we met in a graphic design studio class at art school, like it tastes good in her mouth.

I’m Lola Dumont from Miami, but I was raised in New York, and I want to be a great designer, she’d said.

Lucas Xavier from São Paulo, and I grew up in Connecticut, and I want to be an even better designer.

Then I guess we’ll see who wins, Lucas Xavier from São Paulo.

“You always did want to save the world,” she continues. “I just never thought you’d do it this way.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“You know what I mean. You were the king of causes in college. You were always taking up rallying cries. Free speech. Recycle more. Save the forests.”

“Those are all good causes.” To make my point, I grab an empty water bottle from the sidewalk and drop it with panache into a recycling bin at the corner. I wait for the satisfying thwap of plastic against plastic. “There. The world is a tiny bit better now.”

“I’m not arguing with you over the value of those causes. They are definitely worth speaking up about. But do you think shouting at an asshole biker is going to do anything? If he heard you, it would probably only inflame him.”

The light changes and we cross, hitting the next block. “I disagree. I bet it’d make him think twice next time,” I say, holding my ground.

Her eyebrow climbs, then she laughs and pats my shoulder. “Such an idealist.”

My eyes drift to her hand. To those long fingers curled over me momentarily. To the casual everydayness of her touch. We were like this before—playful touches, friendly hugs, the kind of tangled up in each other that you can only be in college with a big group of friends spread out across futons, listening to music, eating takeout, and debating the future of art, business, and the world itself.

And then, for one brief night, she and I were more.

Now, her eyes lock with mine, and heat flashes in her irises, a look I remember far too well. It pairs perfectly with that scorching memory of her calling out my name. She yanks her hand away, stuffing both into her jeans pockets.

“Anyway, thank you for saving me from the biker,” she says. She’s suddenly cool Lola again, in-charge Lola, marching forward to the stupidly named button shop.

That’s the Lola I know.

Not the one who gabs about silly names and remembers my passions from college.

And definitely not the one whose heart seemed to race too, when she fell