One Night Stand-In (Boyfriend Material #3) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,28
would be number one.”
I smile. “That’s the Lucas I know. Saving the world.”
He parks his hands behind his head. “I’m magnanimous with my soul. I’d totally sell it for Mother Earth’s benefit.”
“So thoughtful. But, not to knock you down too many pegs, how much do you actually think your soul is worth?” I posit. “How do you know the devil would accept that deal?”
He clasps his hand to his heart, affronted. “I have an excellent soul, thank you very much. I’d like to think it’d command top dollar from Lucifer.”
“In that case, I’ll schedule the seance to summon the dark lord and get the paperwork ready. What’s the second thing?”
He slashes a hand through the air, like he’s ridding the planet of another offense. “Erasing all coffee shop phone calls from existence.”
“Again, look at you. So considerate. Sacrificing yourself so others won’t be aurally accosted in coffee shops.”
He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “I’m a generous guy, Lola. I’m looking out for the eardrums of others. Or maybe I just can’t take another second of Can I start my dating profile with ‘Is that a turtle in your pocket?’ Or Dude, I’m so drunk today, but no one at the office could tell. Isn’t that rad? To which I wanted to say, Everyone could tell. But wait—there’s more! From coffee shop phone calls, I’ve learned how to fix an old record player, how to trick a guy into thinking he meant to text you, how to convince a woman to dump you first, how to ghost effectively and still look like a nice guy, and where to buy a wet suit in Manhattan.”
“And you’ve been keeping all this from me? Didn’t you know I was looking for a wet suit?”
He raises his brows. “Go to Don’s Surf Shop on East Fifty-Ninth Street. He’ll give you a twenty percent discount if you whisper, ‘Fins up.’”
“I’m so there.” I laugh. “Also, is that what people are talking about in cafés? Because if they are, you could write a book—Things Overheard in Coffee Shops.” I’m thinking of Amy and her penchant for sniffing out ideas for quirky gift books.
“Caffeine reveals our true selves. And coffee shops are a window into the soul. So, for that book, I’d design a cover featuring latte foam art in the style of Edvard Munch’s The Scream.”
I can picture it perfectly, and it’s so him. “That’s a good concept. But here’s mine: a coffee cup with headphones on it.”
He strokes his chin, considering. “Yours might be more inviting. Mine could perhaps suggest postapocalyptic coffee wars, and that might be off-putting.”
“Just a tad. And if we go with my concept, we’d make sure the foam art had a wicked grin. Sort of a cheeky nod to either the clandestine joy found in eavesdropping or the satisfaction derived from blocking out the conversations of others.”
“That’s it. It’s official. We’re designing it together.”
I laugh. “We’ll submit it for next year’s Design-Off International.”
“Speaking of that competition,” he says, wiggling his fingers, goading me on, “you know you’re dying to tell me about your presentation.”
I roll my eyes as I lift my empty glass. “One more gin and tonic, and I’ll dish it all up.”
He raises a hand and calls “Oh, waiter” in jest.
But I don’t laugh, because a smidge of guilt settles into my gut. Guilt over my original plan for the evening. And since we’re on a truth bender, I follow that path. “I have a confession.”
He leans forward and hums invitingly. “I’ll be your priest. Tell me your sins.”
I draw a breath. “I maybe, possibly, might have been hoping to spy on you tonight.” I flash a toothy please forgive me grin.
One eyebrow arches. “Is that so? Were you hoping to know what color boxers I’m wearing? Because you can just ask.” He whispers, “They’re black.”
Great. Now I’m thinking about Lucas nearly naked, and it’s a mouthwatering image. “That’s not my confession.” I square my shoulders and press on. “I was actually toying with trying to get some intel on your presentation.” It sounds gross as it comes out, but I’m still glad I’ve said it.
His other eyebrow rises, and he wags a finger at me. “You are nefarious. I mean that as the highest compliment. But I have to ask—how’s espionage working out for you?”
I slump. “Turns out I’m a terrible spy. I realized about ten minutes into our night that I wasn’t going to be able to extract anything, and I’d also feel like a complete ass