One Night Stand-In (Boyfriend Material #3) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,69
grab my buzzing phone and check my email.
It’s from the competition organizers.
“Oops,” I say when I read it. “Turns out we were disqualified on account of not showing up.”
She laughs as she shrugs. “Win some. Lose some. Win some more,” she says, then drops a kiss on my lips.
Yep. I won.
I won big.
And later that night, she wins when I take her bowling at Pin-Up Lanes.
She crushes me.
But in my defense, I can’t stop touching her, kissing her, wrapping my arms around her. I have years to make up for. And I plan on doing just that.
After the game, we indulge in fries.
“It was one week ago when we were here,” she says, glancing around.
“Who would have thought twenty-four hours would change everything?” I muse.
She takes a bite of another fry, and when she’s done, she lifts her chin, a quizzical look in her eyes. “Do you think you can fall in love in twenty-four hours?”
I shake my head.
Her brow furrows. “You don’t think so?”
I lean across the table and press a kiss to her lush lips. “I don’t think so. I know so.”
When we leave, we pass the counter, and the guy in the vest snaps his gaze to us. “Hey! How did it all work out?”
“We gathered all their things,” I say. “Got it all sorted out.”
“That’s great,” he says, but then he makes a rolling gesture. “I mean the other thing. The thing Harrison was working on?”
Lola’s brow creases. “That was it. The scavenger hunt thing?”
The man’s expression falls, and he waves a hand. “Never mind.”
But something else is going on. “What should we ‘never mind’?” I ask.
The guy shakes his hand. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Just a crazy idea.”
Lola tilts her head and smiles. “Maybe tell us.”
The man exhales sharply. “It’s not my story to tell.” He takes a beat. “It’s sort of yours.”
31
Lola
I whip out my phone at lightning speed.
With guns blazing, I click open an email, ready to fire off a note to my sister’s landlord.
But as Gmail auto-fills his address, a name blasts across my screen.
Amy.
I answer right away. Bowling pins clang on the hardwood from a nearby game.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Remember that exclusive submission? The one I was meeting the agent about on Sunday night?”
“Sure,” I say, recalling what she’d told me. “The comedy, right?”
“It arrived this morning. I read most of it this afternoon. It’s spectacular. Sarcastic, clever, original, and full of more heart than I ever expected. I want it badly, and if we get it, I want you to do the cover.”
“That’s great.” Only, I doubt that’s why she’s calling on a Friday night. “But . . .?”
“There’s no real ‘but.’ Well, except the ending. It needs a better one. I’m going to talk to the writer about fixing the ending,” she says, excitement in her voice. “And a title change for sure. Talk about rambling. But the story felt somewhat familiar.”
The hair on my arms stands on end, and Lucas shoots me a what the hell is going on look. “What do you mean, Amy? Is this bad?”
She laughs. “No, it’s not bad. It’s . . . interesting.”
I pull Lucas aside, around the corner, down the hall, sharing the phone as Amy tells us about the novel she received.
It’s not The Happy-Go-Lucky Sadist.
But it is written by him. He’s not a TV writer anymore. He’s writing books, and this one is called That Time I Kicked Out the Love Birds, Bowled a Perfect Game, and Hung Out with the Llamas.
32
Harrison
What a difference quiet makes.
I stretch my arms and sigh contentedly, pleased with the last week of my life.
Is there anything better than conquering writer’s block?
I think not.
Well, fine. Maybe one thing is better—conquering it like a motherfucking badass, because that’s what I am. Judging from this late-night email from my agent telling me there’s interest in my manuscript, that’s exactly what I pulled off in a mere week.
I settle down into my couch, crack open a new can of orange soda, and set my feet on the coffee table.
Then I do my new favorite thing.
I listen.
To the sound of nothing.
Nada.
Zip.
It’s heaven. A balm for the creative soul, and it’s unleashed a torrent of ideas during the last seven days. A caper of sorts. A comedy. One man’s journey to restore his faith in, well, himself.
Through cheese and bowling, pancakes and alpacas, and dance lessons.
That was unexpected. I never planned to take tango lessons. But I can’t seem to stop taking them.