One Night Stand-In (Boyfriend Material #3) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,64

I wait for the drink.

And maybe I listen.

After I snag a coffee, I return to her, nodding at her mug. “Coffee. One sugar.” I tap my temple. “I remember.”

She shrugs happily. “Some things never change.”

But some things do.

And we’re one of those things.

I take a drink, set down the mug, and rub my hands together. “All right, let’s do this.”

She tells me the cover concept, and we spend the next thirty minutes tossing around ideas, sketching out possibilities, and brainstorming.

It’s stimulating and fantastic, and I love every second.

I’ve missed this. I’ve missed her. I’ve missed the camaraderie. I lost this for nearly ten years, and I don’t want to give it up again, no matter how much I long to touch her.

That’s what I need to keep in mind. Not how cute she looks when she is concentrating and nibbling on the corners of her lips. I could lick that lip.

That’s just the kind of thinking that got us into trouble before.

Just focus on the present.

I lean back in my chair, and because the present is pretty damned good, I say, “We should do this again.”

“We should definitely do it again,” she says, her tone cheery.

“How about tomorrow? Same time?”

“It’s a plan.”

Right.

A plan, not a date.

When I leave, I give her another hug, and for a moment, I consider the risk of hauling her in for a hot, wet kiss that could turn into a long, sweaty night together.

But I don’t.

And I’m both happy and miserable at the same time.

27

Lola

When you’re friends again with the guy you like a whole helluva lot, you get to do super-fun things like analyzing every text you want to send him to make sure you’re not crossing a line.

For instance, this one:

Lola: At MOMA right now. Staring at Starry Night. This painting makes me feel all the things.

But nope. You can’t send that because what if he thinks you’re feeling all the things for him?

So you try another time:

Lola: Just walked past Wendy’s Diner on the way to work. By the way, we should try the silver-dollar pancakes. I hear they’re spectacular.

But that stays in the drafts too, because what if “silver dollar” is a new euphemism for, I dunno, a bathroom bang? These are the hurdles a modern woman attempting to navigate a rekindled friendship has to face.

The challenges compound when I see him again and it’s terrific and painful and utterly unhelpful.

It’s Tuesday, and we meet at the Pin-Up Lanes bowling alley and play a game, catching up on our favorite music and trading stories about our zaniest clients.

I tell him about Peter the Blade, and he tells me about a woman he and Reid worked for who they called the Stickler.

“And that was an understatement,” he says, then he picks up a ball and effortlessly throws a strike.

“Woo-hoo!” I shout—because strikes are impressive and deserve a cheer, even when it’s the competition nailing them.

He blows on his fingers. “When you’ve got it, you’ve got it.”

“And you definitely have it,” I say with a saucy wink.

And like that, his brown eyes flame.

My skin heats.

But we’re out-of-bounds.

That’s another obstacle in this resurrected friendship. If you slip into innuendo, you have to dial it back, cool it off, and zip it up.

I’m still hopscotching around the heat on Wednesday when we meet for a drink after work, hitting Gin Joint this time.

I’m armed and ready with innocuous topics, but as soon as I fire away with the first one, I realize it’s not innocuous whatsoever.

“Did you hear about Reid and Marley?” I ask.

He wiggles his brow. “I got the gist of it. Didn’t expect that.”

“I know, right?” I say with a grin. “But I guess—”

Then I stop myself, because talking about the two of them is not going to keep my mind in the friend zone.

It’s going to send me spinning into the let’s try again zone.

I execute a one-eighty, and we spend the next hour talking about Luna and Rowan. Cell service is still spotty for them, but we’ve gotten occasional updates, and their tour is going well.

When the night ends, that thing happens again.

That awkward thing where we stand on the street, rock on our heels, and don’t say, Fuck it, let’s go home together.

Instead, I rise up on my tiptoes, plant a kiss on his cheek, and say, “See you at the competition.”

“See you Friday, Lo,” he says, and when I return home, I trudge up the stairs, kick off my boots, and flop on the couch. I grab a book,