One Night Stand-In (Boyfriend Material #3) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,49
the funny thing is this—”
The connection crackles.
Stutters.
And spits up a frozen image of my brother’s face, mouth open but silent.
Call ended.
Groaning in frustration, I call him back. I need the final answer. Why can’t anything ever be easy with him? The phone rings and rings, and I want to stomp my feet and throw the device. “Name. A name would be nice, Rowan.”
But Lola is jumping up and down with her phone, shoving the screen at me. “The Cousin Sanctuary! It’s an hour away. It’s for alpacas and llamas. They must have argued over whether they were the same thing, but they both wanted the same thing. To give the money to the animal sanctuary.”
Her eyes glitter with excitement, and my heart handsprings. All my annoyance vanishes. This woman, I could kiss her.
I could fucking kiss her all day.
I cup her cheek, pull her close, and plant a hot, possessive one on her lips. “You’re brilliant.”
When I let go, she looks dazed, staring at me like that moment was sponsored by left field.
But the funny thing to me is kissing her seems like right field, and left field, and center field.
It seems like what we do every day.
What we should do every day.
We should take our daily kisses like vitamins.
No, like breathing.
But she’s waiting for some kind of answer.
I shrug casually. “You needed to be kissed. That simple.”
A smile seems to tug at her lips. “Fair enough. And now we need to visit some farm animals.”
She waggles the phone, and I peer at the location of The Cousin Sanctuary. It’s in Connecticut, but not too far away, and Grand Central is nearby.
I google train times. “We can catch a train and go there now, be there by early afternoon.”
Lola’s eyes seem to dance with delight. “I’ve always wanted to go there. Every time Luna mentioned it, I thought I should check it out. But I never did.”
“Then I guess all your dreams are coming true too,” I say as I order a Lyft to take us to the train station.
“Maybe they are.”
Thirty minutes later, we’re chugging out of Manhattan.
But we’re not simply blindly chasing a clue. Since we’re the so-called “responsible ones,” I called The Cousin Sanctuary first to make sure we weren’t wasting our time heading out of town.
“Hey! This might sound weird,” I’d asked when a kind woman answered. “But is there any chance you have some clothes left there for Luna Dumont and Rowan Xavier? This is Rowan’s brother.”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
As the train rumbles away from the city, I scan the car. It’s half full, the nearby seats filled with chattering kids and busy families.
I lower my voice so just Lola can hear. “What are the chances they’re all on wild-goose chases too, tracking down items for friends or family?”
“Oh, definitely,” Lola says conspiratorially. She points to a harried but happy-looking mom with two squirmy toddlers who switch seats every thirty seconds or so. Her equally exhausted-looking partner is next to her, a smile on his unshaven face. “My money is on a mix-up with their old storage unit. Their precious stuff was accidentally sold at a garage sale,” she says, making up a tale on the spot. “Now they’re taking the kids to retrieve their old clown paintings, high school yearbooks, and baseball cards.”
“Clown paintings?” I ask with an eyebrow arch.
“You know, those sad ones where the clowns are crying?”
“This sounds like a horror story. Why did you pick clowns?”
She nudges me with her elbow. “You’re afraid of clowns.”
“Everyone is afraid of clowns.”
“I’m not,” she says proudly.
“Now you’re just showing off.”
“And now I know how to scare you for Halloween.”
Her words tickle a memory. “Hey, are you still into scary books and stories?”
“I am. I started listening to a new podcast last night about a haunted carnival. It’s awesome. Want to listen with me?” She reaches for her AirPods, but I shudder.
“No way.”
“You don’t?”
“If it’s a haunted carnival, there are probably clowns in it.”
“You can handle hearing about a clown.”
I cross my arms, lift my chin. “Nope.”
“Ah, I get it. You like escapist fare. You still secretly read romance novels, right?”
I narrow my eyes. “I never read romance novels.”
“Not publicly at least,” she says in a low, taunting voice.
“What are you talking about?”
“I saw you pick up my Nora Roberts when you were in my dorm once.”
“I picked it up! Doesn’t mean I read it.”
She nods several times, like she’s doling out nods. “Right. You only read manly books.”