One Night Stand-In (Boyfriend Material #3) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,3
liked Lucas.”
“I used to like Lucas,” I correct.
I used to like him a hell of a lot.
Amy’s eyes widen to planet size when she hears that name. She knows the story.
Years ago, Lucas and I were friends. And then briefly, late one night, he kissed me like I was the only thing that mattered. Then that weekend passed, and I had to erase all my burgeoning feelings for the guy.
Now, he’s my rival. A former friend. A sexy ex who didn’t go back into the friendship box.
And I want to wipe that cocky smirk right off his face every damn time I see the man.
2
Lucas
I have this theory that your behavior in a coffee shop reveals your true personality.
Spend a little time in one and you can learn everything you need to know about a person.
Does the freckle-faced redhead with the penchant for chai tea treat the corner chair as her personal den, taking phone calls from her best friend to discuss her douchey ex who she dumped three days ago but then slept with again last night?
Yes.
Yes, she does.
How about the goateed guy who’s FaceTiming his roommate to discuss whether the guy on the other side of the screen Venmoed enough money to cover his portion of the extra-cheap ramen noodles they made last night? Meanwhile, goateed guy is sipping the granddaddy of expensive coffee shop concoctions—a grande latte made with espresso beans harvested by rare raccoons or something like that.
The number of things wrong with this tableau is too many to list.
Over there at a nearby table is a tattooed guy headbanging to Metallica rather than Sara Bareilles.
I’m not a big fan of either, but only one of those artists is supposed to be audible—the Sara Bareilles tunes Doctor Insomnia’s coffee shop is piping through its sound system, rather than the metal screaming from the guy’s headphones.
Noise-canceling for him maybe.
Not for the rest of us.
The Doctor Insomnia’s owner ambles from behind the counter to ask the Metallica fan to turn it down.
I mouth thank you to Tommy, who gives me a don’t mention it nod.
I return to my computer screen and the design Reid and I have been immersed in for the last two hours, fine-tuning the leaves on a book cover. He’s bent over his laptop too, AirPods in. I wish I could work with music in my ears. Never been able to.
A few minutes later, the gabby redhead finishes a mind-numbing conversation about the merits of SoulCycle when you’re back on the dating market. Her eyes swing to the restrooms, then she scans the shop.
Yup, I know what’s coming.
The call-in-a-favor-from-a-stranger.
And after the morning I’ve had, I am not in the mood.
I rap on the table to get my business partner’s attention. He removes an AirPod as I issue my prediction. “Count of ten. She’s going to ask us to watch her laptop while she goes to the restroom.”
He groans under his breath. “Don’t do it, Lucas. Don’t say it.”
“Why?”
“Because it makes you sound like a dick,” he mutters.
“Maybe I am one.”
“You’re just in a right pissy mood because of your brother.”
He’s right. He’s always right on this count, but I can’t think about Rowan this second. “Be that as it may, if we had a dime for every time someone turned around and asked us to babysit a laptop . . .”
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’d have enough for a couple of Metro trips, mate.”
“The Metro isn’t free. I’d take a MetroCard on the house.”
“Yeah? How’s that working out for you? Anyone paying you for the number of times a stranger’s asked you to keep an eye on a piece of electronics in a café?”
“No, but asking a stranger to watch your laptop is an evolutionary litmus test. It’s Darwin’s way of culling men and women from the herd.”
“You’re a piece of work. Also, for the record, I can’t decide if I wish our new office space were ready so we could work there, or if watching you lose your mind at coffee shops every day is tops as the best spectator sport ever,” he says, while the woman in the corner rises, surveying the landscape of patrons once more.
And I count down.
Ten, nine, eight.
The headbanger’s eyes are closed, so the redhead aims her crosshairs at the goateed guy first.
Seven, six, five.
Then an older woman with her hands full of three toddlers.
Four, three, two.
Then at us.
Two guys in dress shirts and nice jeans, with expensive computers.