One Night Stand-In (Boyfriend Material #3) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,66

from the truth anymore. “And afraid. Don’t forget afraid.”

She takes my hand, squeezes it. “But you don’t have to be afraid. You don’t have to be scared you’ll be like your parents, blinded by love. And you don’t have to be like your sister, a wonderful but loose cannon.”

“I don’t have to,” I say, nodding, agreeing, feeling.

Because she’s right. Holy smokes. She’s so damn right.

I don’t have to make their choices. I can love without losing my humanity, without losing myself.

I can love, not how they love, but like myself, with my whole heart and my head too.

And dammit, my head is on straight.

I’m not my family.

I’m not my sister.

I’m not Lucas’s parents.

I’m my own person, and I can choose to love in my own way.

I raise my face, wipe the tears, and speak from my heart. “I don’t want a halfway love. I don’t want the middle ground. I want all of Lucas—the friendship and the connection and the sex and the love and the French fries.”

Amy scoffs playfully. “Well, always say yes to the French fries.”

But there’s something I need to say no to.

Something I need to kick to the curb.

My fear.

It’s time to shed that bitch.

28

Lucas

The voice grates on my ears.

She’s too cheery.

Too happy.

Too much everything.

“And then he said, ‘Well, can I get you some coconut whipped cream?’ And I was like, ‘Did I hit the jackpot or what?’”

I grit my teeth, willing the blonde at the table next to me to stop talking on FaceTime.

But no such luck.

“Cha-ching! You hit triple cherries,” her friend says at the decibels of a jet engine.

The woman points at her on the screen. “He hit the triple cherry.”

I groan at the terrible pun, my annoyance meter reaching one thousand as I try to review this client pitch while the ladies make bawdy jokes about cherries.

The meter is about to run higher, because out of the corner of my eye, I see the blonde stand, glance around, and head straight for Reid and me.

“Hey, can you just watch my—”

“No,” I bite out. I don’t even look her way.

She holds up her hands in surrender. “Oh, okay, sorry.”

“Forgive him,” Reid says. “He knows not what he’s done. He’s having a bad week. We’d be happy to watch it. Especially for a pregnant woman.”

I snap my gaze back to the blonde. Whoa. She has a basketball in her belly.

“Are you sure?” she asks Reid.

“Positive. My mate simply has his pants in a twist because he’s in love with a woman and can’t man up and tell her.”

The pregnant woman laughs. “You should just tell her, sweetie.”

I stare at Reid, my eyes narrowed to slits. “Seriously?”

“Yes, I’m serious.”

The woman holds up a finger. “I’ll be right back, and then I want to hear all about this.” She dashes off to the restroom.

I huff. “No, I meant did you seriously need to tell her?”

“Yes, I did. Because someone needs to tell you. Oh, wait, let me do it.” He squares his shoulders, clears his throat, and forms a megaphone with his hands around his mouth. “Get your head out of your arse.”

I stare at him, unblinking. We’re two cats, facing off. I cast about for a snarky reply. Search for a smart-aleck remark. But I’ve got nothing.

I just shrug.

“So it is that bad,” Reid remarks.

“What do you mean?”

“You have it so bad that you have no fight left in you.” He heaves a sigh. “You’re a mess.”

“Yes. I am definitely a mess,” I concede.

A mess of sadness. A mess of frustration. A mess of missing and longing and wanting.

Seconds later, the woman waddles back, pulls up a chair, and says, “I’m Meg. I’m eight months pregnant. Tell me everything.”

Reid smiles and extends a hand. “I’m Reid. Pleasure to meet you. This is Lucas. See his face? It’s a sad face. Why is Lucas sad? Because poor Lucas suffers from a pathetic condition known as pigheadedness. It’s preventing him from telling the woman he spent last weekend with that he doesn’t want to be just friends. That he wants to be with her literally all the time. And do you know the side effect of this condition?”

“What is it?” Meg asks, enrapt.

Reid taps his chest. “He’s infecting me with his negative mood. I’m an hour away from binge-watching tearjerkers and drowning my sorrows in Ben and Jerry’s.”

Meg turns to me, frowning. “You shouldn’t infect your friend. You should talk to this woman you met.”

“I didn’t just meet her. I knew her ten years ago,” I correct