One Night Stand-In (Boyfriend Material #3) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,34

up if I had six months to live. But right now? I’m not looking for a new life, or a deeper meaning. I’m content. Life is good. Work is good. I can’t complain.”

“So the cover made you think that you had no need to take off—that you had everything you needed right in front of you?”

Staring at the image, I nod decisively. “Yeah, it did. I sort of took stock as I stared at it. Asked myself what I’d do. If I wanted something else. Sometimes you have to ask that question to know where you are.”

Her brown eyes sparkle, and she nods excitedly. It’s like we’re on the same wavelength once more, as she answers, “I agree. How do you know if you need to make a change in your life if you don’t stop and meditate on where you are?”

“Exactly. And that’s what I did when I saw this cover. I asked myself if there was something else out there calling to me, like in this story, and like you captured with this design. That’s what I thought about when I saw it. Maybe that’s not the answer you want. Maybe you wanted something—”

She grabs my arm, her brown eyes vulnerable. “No. I didn’t want a different answer. I wanted a true answer. You gave me a true one. I’m glad it made you think and feel. What more can I ask for?”

“Nothing,” I say, setting the book down and meeting her gaze. “You can’t ask for anything more when you create. You want to have an impact, and you did that,” I say, and it feels so good to talk like this again. Once upon a time, we were comrades in arms, two aspiring artists trying to figure out how to make their mark. Leaning on each other for a second opinion, another voice here and there.

We’re doing it again, and it feels natural and right. Like something I didn’t know was missing, but now I don’t want to go without. She was the balance to my grouch. She helped me see and feel beyond life’s little annoyances. And she pushed me to look beyond the practical.

“Thank you for saying that.” Her eyes lock with mine, holding my gaze. “And I’ve missed this too. These little moments. It’s nice to have them again,” she says, echoing my thoughts as she smiles. But in an instant, her good humor disappears, and her eyes flash with worry. “Wait. This isn’t the part where you tell me you have six months to live, is it?”

A laugh bursts from me. “Why would you say that?”

She swats my shoulder. “You just said if you had six months to live, you’d maybe hit the open road. Please tell me that wasn’t a subtle hint that you’re counting down the last days of your life?”

The thin stretch of her voice tells me her worry is legit. But her train of thought is also highly amusing. “Not that I know of. But,” I say, lightly tapping her nose, “I’ve made a note that the mere thought of me disappearing from the face of the earth makes you sad.” I run my finger over her top lip. “Just look at that frown.”

“Stop it,” she pouts.

I laugh, grabbing her waist and administering a series of tickles that make her squirm. When she stops laughing, I say, “I was just messing around. It was hypothetical. But I’m glad I said it, since now I know you’re going to cry at my funeral.”

She huffs. “I’m taking back anything nice I ever said about you.”

“So that’s what? Ten words?” I tease, and now I definitely don’t want to leave. I’m having too much fun with this unexpected turn of events.

“Please.” She adopts a serious expression. “It was eleven. I said eleven nice words. Don’t sell me short.”

“Well, then. You’re a veritable town crier, singing my praises.”

“Also, I’ll have you know, I will definitely cry at your funeral,” she says, dipping her head, then her shoulders shake and her lip quivers.

I freeze, worry racing through me as she looks back up. “Shit, are you okay?” I ask as a tear slips down her cheek.

She frowns, bringing her hand to her mouth as another tear falls.

Is she that upset about the prospect of my someday funeral? “Lola,” I say softly, stroking her arm. “Are you . . .?”

She giggles.

The trickster giggles like a naughty little kid.

I narrow my eyes, squeezing her arm roughly. “You are a devil, woman. It’s official. Where the