One Night Stand-In (Boyfriend Material #3) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,65

but after a few pages, I toss it because I can’t retain a damn word.

I grab a blanket from the arm of the sofa and curl up under it, because I can’t stand being in the bedroom.

I haven’t been able to stand it since we spent the night together.

I reach for my phone, but when I reread the email from the design committee, I feel nothing.

Not a thing.

Not an ounce.

The same applies the next day, and on into Friday.

That morning, I shower, dress, and head to work, trying to psych myself up about tonight.

Or about the haunted carnival podcast, because spooky shit is going down behind the Ferris wheel.

Or about Luna’s exclamation-point-laden text with the news that the Love Birds were invited on another honeymoon cruise.

Or even about Peter’s enthusiastic email that arrives when I reach the office.

My channel is crushing it! Views are up, comments are bonkers, and I nabbed a sponsor. Also, big news! The ex doesn’t want me back, and I don’t care because I met a lady blader in the park. This might sound crazy, and of course my brother says it’s impossible . . . but it just feels right. It’s been a whirlwind in just twenty-four hours. But sometimes that’s how it goes!

Fine, I am excited about Peter’s turnaround in his fortunes, and in his attitude too.

But I’m also insanely jealous of him as I ride the elevator up to my stop at Bailey & Brooks.

I reply, letting him know how happy—and not how envious—I am for him. What I want to say, but don’t, is that it doesn’t sound impossible at all, and sometimes you can totally fall for someone in twenty-four hours.

Give or take ten years.

In my office, I jump into the pool of book covers, swimming in ideas and designs.

I spend the morning working on the new romantic comedy, and it’s singing, thanks to Lucas’s feedback from the other night.

But my heart pinches when I think about him, and I’m caught up in a wave of missing him. A wave so punishing it feels like I’ve been pummeled by the ocean.

Which is silly, since I just saw him the other night.

And I’ll see him again tonight at the awards ceremony.

I shake it off, focusing on the presentation.

A little before lunch, Amy pops into my office with a delighted glint in her green eyes. “Knock, knock.”

“Come in.”

She cups the side of her mouth, then whispers, “Word on the street is that Baldwin is going to ask James to marry him this weekend.”

She does a little happy dance in the doorway, and I try—I swear, I try so hard—to get excited for our friend Baldwin.

I love good news and romance, and I love little nuggets of intel about colleagues, especially Baldwin, who is a fantastic guy.

But I’m a blank person.

I slap on a grin that feels plastic. “That’s great.”

Amy stares daggers at me. “That’s great?”

“Of course,” I say.

Amy shakes her head, heaves a sigh, and parks her palms on my desk. “It’s not great, Lola. It’s stupendous. No. It’s more. It’s life-affirming, love-affirming, shout-to-the-heavens news.”

She’s right.

She’s so damn right.

When she puts it like that, my dumb heart cracks open. Wide and brutally. My throat tightens, and without warning, I burst into tears.

In a second, Amy shuts the door to my office, rounds my desk, and kneels next to me. “Sweetie, what’s wrong?”

Sobbing, I cry some more, then choke out the painful words that constrict my throat. “I don’t want to be just friends with Lucas.”

She sighs sympathetically, then rubs my arm. “Of course you don’t. You want him to be your person.”

I nod, sniffling at the ease of her understanding, the simplicity of her pronouncement. “I do. Isn’t that stupid? It’s so stupid because it won’t happen, and we agreed to be friends because we were so dumb last time, and so foolish and young. And I don’t want to be foolish and young. I want to be smart and mature.”

She takes a beat, then asks softly, “How’s that working out for you?”

A fresh, hot well of tears rises up and falls from my eyes. I drop my head in my hands. “I hate everything.”

She laughs, but it’s a loving laugh. “That’s the issue. You’re not a hater, Lola. You’re a lover. You’re a smart, vibrant, strong woman. The last thing you are is a hater. But you’re also stubborn.”

I raise my face, letting her truth weave its way into my heart. She’s more than right. She’s bull’s-eye accurate, and I can’t hide