First, the day after the ultimate text trick, as he called it, he sent licorice to my home along with this text. Bought some licorice tonight, hottie. I’m practicing hitting myself with it. But they keep breaking. Got any tips?

  Hit yourself harder, I’d replied.

  The day after my first win, he sent an order of pancakes to my house with syrup on the side, along with a text: I wore these today on my tits. Hope you love your brekkie, hot-stuff stud-muffin.

  I ate the pancakes. They were tasty. But not as tasty as getting back at him by snapping a picture of myself on the beach with a clown and tagging it with his name—Hanging with my finance wizard, Patrick.

  I’m waiting for the next installment. It’s got to be coming tonight. This taco truck has setup written all over it.

  He strides over to me, whipping off his aviator shades. They complete the look he’s working—the pressed pants, the polished shoes, and the tailored white shirt. He probably came from the office. By contrast, I’m in jeans, a T-shirt, and a ball cap.

  He flashes me a grin. “Two in a row, man. That’s the way to do it.”

  Hmm. I’m not picking up on a prankster vibe. I peer around. “Did you bring a bag of skittles? You’ll give me some then say you licked them all?”

  He pulls a face like that’s ridic. “Who has time for that?”

  “Fair point.”

  I glance at the yellow truck. “Did you hire a stripper to jump out of a giant taco while wielding a starter spanking kit?”

  Patrick scoffs. “Starter? I’d figured advanced for you. Also, don’t try to guess my next move. This won’t end. Ever. And you don’t want it to.”

  Truth. We’ve played so many pranks on each other over the years that it’s our love language. “But when I can predict your next move, I win the round,” I say, seizing a chance to take control of the game. I do like control—almost as much as I love winning.

  “Fair enough,” Patrick says, then clears his throat, nodding to the nearby truck. “In all seriousness, the owner of Ruby’s Taco Truck loves you. I had lunch here the other day, and you came up. Hope you don’t mind if we skip the Maddox rec and go here? The tacos are huge. You only need one.”

  Boom. I spot my opening. “Hold on. You just reminded me I forgot to reply to Maddox’s last text.”

  I grab my phone, and type out a quick message and send it, but not to my agent.

  Rejoining the conversation, I tell Patrick, “Tacos sound great. Just make sure it’s big enough for me.”

  “That’s what she said,” he quips without missing a beat.

  I smirk, feeling smug. “Check your texts, asshole.”

  He does, and his eyes widen as he lets out a long “Fuuuuuck” as he reads my note to him: You’re going to say this in five seconds.

  I blow on my fingernails. “Don’t forget I play to win.”

  “You bastard,” he mutters.

  “You mean you fucking steely-eyed, brilliant bastard who just schooled you in your game?”

  “Yes,” he grumbles, then adds, “I’m not worthy.”

  “That is true. But I’ll treat you to tacos anyway.”

  We reach the truck, which features an illustration of a Chihuahua holding a big taco. “Is that the owner’s dog?”

  Patrick nods. “Yup. Roman’s pup is Ruby. She has a dog bed attached on the side of the truck. That way she won’t get in the way of the food, but she can hang with Roman.”

  I walk around the truck, smiling when I spot the cute min-pin critter sleeping in a comfy-looking bed. I snap a shot of the truck and send it to Milo in New York. He’s obsessed with his pooch too, and his dog goes to work with him every day at his bike shop.

  When I return to Patrick, he says, “Roman will probably want a selfie with you. You cool with that?”

  “Always,” I say.

  “Good. I figured the team would be happy as well, since they love your good-guy-about-town image. They released some shots of you from that charity thing you did the other week.”

  I don’t follow that stuff too closely, but I know Maddox does, and if there were a problem, he’d have told me. Still, I’m curious. “What sort of shots?”

  “Just you shaking hands, chatting with donors and such. Oh, and like you asked me to, I got in touch with the org about you doing volunteer work and making a donation.” He confirms the amount we discussed and suggests we meet with Paul. “You’re still good with that?”

  “Absolutely. Thanks for making that happen.”

  “And that was a nice shot of you and the babe from the front office,” he says offhand as we move up in line.

  Wait. Hold the hell on. “What do you mean?” I ask cautiously.

  “You and the blonde. There was a shot of the two of you in front of the banner,” he says, and instantly, I relax.

  “Oh, cool. Yeah, she’s fun to chat with. We’re buds,” I say, not quite making eye contact.

  Carter’s the only one who’s privy to the full truth. But there’s no reason to tell Patrick the details since nothing is going on with Brooke and me. And he doesn’t know Brooke is my IOU. He thinks the woman I was texting was just a random hookup.

  It’s better that way. If I tell him, he’ll worry. He has ever since college when I was involved with Marie my senior year. The guy has never forgotten what went down when I dated her, so I don’t need to stress him out until there’s something to tell.

  I shake off my worries, too, when we reach the window and Patrick drops a hand to my shoulder and introduces me to Roman.

  A tattooed but baby-faced burly man extends his hand from behind the window. “Good to meet you. Big fan. Whatever you want. It’s on the house.”

  “Thanks, man, but I’m more than happy to pay for your fine food. And I appreciate the compliment.”

  “And I’d appreciate it if you could bring a ring to Los Angeles,” he says with a wry smile.

  “I will absolutely do my best,” I say, and when the food is ready, Roman refuses the cash, so I stuff a fifty in the tip jar.

  Roman grabs his phone, and we smile for the camera.

  After we eat, Patrick and I wander along Ocean Avenue. When we near the old parking garage, that was converted into a movie theater, my gaze snags on the marquee for Silver Screen Theater. A wave of nostalgia crashes into me. “It’s tonight. Fake Play.”

  I’d forgotten the showing was this evening.

  Patrick knits his brow in question. “That old flick?”

  “That old flick is a good flick, man.” I check the time. It’s almost seven. Perfect.

  “You and your love of old movies,” he says, shaking his head, amused.

  “Me and my love of old movies are going in. See you later.”

  I give Patrick a tip of the cap, and head for the ticket counter, when he calls out, “Dude, I’m going with you.”

  I arch an eyebrow. “To see that old flick? I don’t want to cramp your new, flashy style.”

  “I’ll just pretend I don’t know you. It’ll be fine.”

  “Too bad I was going to treat. Not so sure I will now,” I say as I slap some bills at the counter and buy the tickets anyway. I like to treat, especially after college.

  “Now I do owe you,” he says with a smirk as we head into the lobby.

  “I’ll be sure to send a clown to collect.”

  He growls. “You wouldn’t.”

  “I might,” I say as I catch sight of a woman at the popcorn counter who looks a lot like Brooke.

  And then…Brooke.

  Wowzers.

  She wears a pink sundress and strappy sandals. Her hair falls loosely over her tanned shoulders.

  She must be with her sister.

  Brooke’s eyes catch mine and she smiles warmly—a colleague smile, but that’s cool. “Hey, Adams,” Brooke says, using my last name like most people in the organization do. “Good to see you.”

  “And you too,” I say, going along with the just friends bit.

  I mean, we are friends-ish.

  The last few weeks of dirty texting aside.

  Brooke gestures to the woman next to her. “This is my sister. Cara.”

  “And you two must be the guys planning clown pranks,” Cara says with an I-caught-you expression.

  Patrick adopts a serious look as he eyes Brooke’s sister. “For the record, I am vehemently opposed to clown pranks. And to clowns.”

  Cara nods sagely. “I get that.”

  “Well, clearly this was meant to be,” he says with a smile now.

  Cara laughs, then she gestures to the theater. “Are you two clowns heading to see Fake Play?”

  Patrick nods. “We are.” Then, with a lingering glance Cara’s way, he says, “Would you like to sit together? That way, if there are clowns or anything in the flick, we can support each other through it.”

  She sets a hand on her chest. “That’d be great.” Cara turns to Brooke, raising her eyebrows in question. “Does that work for you?”

  “Works for me,” Brooke says.

  Patrick goes to the counter, picks up the cost of the air-popped popcorn Brooke was buying as well as one for himself, and then hands her the bucket. Patrick and Cara chit-chat the whole time.

  Brooke and I are quiet, but our eyebrow arches and knowing looks are their own language, saying well, those two hit it off quickly.

  As we enter the movie theater, I drop back, letting Patrick and Cara walk in front of us. “That was fast,” I say, nodding to them.

  “It was. Tell me he’s a good guy,” she says, her tone deadly serious, her jaw tight.

  I hold up my hand as if taking an oath. “He’s like a brother. I trust him with my life.”

  “I will hurt anyone who hurts my sister. I don’t care if those two just met. If he does her wrong…”

  I squeeze her shoulder in reassurance. “I swear. Also, he’s petrified of clowns, so he definitely needs the protection.”

  She seems to relax under my touch and from my words. I lean into Brooke, drawing a quick inhale of her sexy, sunshine scent. “By the way, you look amazing,” I whisper, low, just for her. No harm in a little compliment.

  “So do you,” she whispers.

  “What were the chances we’d run into each other here?” I ask as we head down the aisle.

  “Pretty good, technically. Considering we talked about this being our favorite movie, and it’s only playing tonight.”

  “Okay, then. So those are damn good odds,” I say with a smile. “But I swear, I wasn’t stalking you. It was…serendipity.”

  Her smile is magical. “Let’s go with that.”

  Patrick stops at a middle row and heads in first. Cara follows, then Brooke, then me. What a fantastic impromptu seating chart.

  Brooke offers me some of her popcorn. “I know you like food. Want to share?”

  “I’m always hungry.” I take her up on her offer and grab a handful. But before I crunch into the kernels, I ask, “Any idea where I could get a great risotto?”

  “My kitchen,” she whispers.

  I flash back to that night with her, kissing her while she was cooking. Damn. I wish we’d had that second date. Glancing across at Patrick, I confirm he’s busy then lean closer to Brooke, stealing a moment. “In our parallel universe, I’m back in your kitchen.”

  “Wow. You are hungry,” she teases.

  “I sure am.”

  She adopts a thoughtful look. “Am I making…eggplant parmesan?”

  “You’re doing something with an eggplant,” I say. “As far as I’m concerned, you hold eggplant power over me. Zucchini too.”

  “Ooh, I love zucchini in a pasta primavera.”

  I breathe an over-the-top sigh of relief. “I’m so glad you didn’t say zucchini muffins.”

  “Muffins should be abolished.”

  “Right? What’s the point of muffins? They don’t know if they want to be bread or dessert.” I’d planned on dirty-talking her with a scenario of kissing her in her kitchen, and now we’re harshing on muffins.

  But I’m a happy camper.

  “If I want a cupcake,” she says, “I’ll have a cupcake and I’ll frost it, thank you very much.”

  “Just pick a side, muffins,” I say.

  Brooke peeks over at Patrick and Cara, who look like they might be wearing sandwich boards for insta-love, then leans a little closer to me, her hair swishing over my shoulder. “You’re back in my kitchen too. I’m up on the counter,” she whispers.

  Yes. Let’s do this. “I’m lifting your skirt.”

  “I’ve got my hands on your shoulders.”

  “You’re pushing me down,” I say.

  A small gasp falls from her mouth. “So you can work on your deal.”

  “I will work very hard on my deal.”

  Brooke closes her eyes and inhales sharply. When she opens them, those brown irises glimmer with heat.

  “We should have cupcakes later,” I suggest.

  She nibbles on her lower lip, then smiles wickedly as the opening credits begin.

  13

  JUST A TROUBLEMAKER

  Drew

  When the movie ends, Patrick and Cara walk ahead, gabbing the whole way out. Once we’re on Ocean Avenue, I’m not surprised at all when my friend suggests, “Want to grab a beer? Shave ice? Smoothie?”

  The question’s directed at the group but I know who it’s really for. He’s a goner already. Maybe Cara is too, because she chimes in with an enthused, “Definitely.”

  But Brooke yawns rather than answers.

  “It’s past your bedtime,” Cara teases. “It’s already nine.”

  “Yes, someone has been working early and late,” Brooke says, with another yawn. “But I don’t mind if you want to stay.”

  “I’ll drive you home,” Cara says brightly. Maybe she feels guilty that she wanted to stay since they’re sharing a car.

  “I’ll drive you, Brooke,” I offer. “My car’s nearby.”

  Cara’s big eyes widen more. “You don’t mind?”

  “I don’t mind at all,” I say, my poker face tight.

  Brooke turns away from me, but she’s smiling. “Thanks. That’s sweet of you.”

  Venice is about four miles away. But in Los Angeles, that trip could take fifteen minutes or an hour.

  Good thing I like the company.

  “So, are you really tired?” I ask as I open the passenger side door to my car in the parking garage.

  Brooke shoots me a coy look. “What do you think?”

  With a lopsided grin, I walk around to the driver’s side. “You little enabler,” I tease as I start the car and back out.

  “Well, have you ever seen two people hit it off so fast?”

  “It was pretty instant. Just add clown phobia and popcorn.”

  She laughs. “Cara hasn’t dated anyone in a long time. She’s been so focused on school and classes. But those two had that bam! chemistry.”

  “I think I know what that’s like,” I say.

  “Me too,” she says as I exit the garage and pull onto the street.

  And right into traffic.

  Of course there’s traffic at nine-fifteen on a Wednesday night.

  “Sorry, Drew,” she says. “I should have taken a Lyft.”

  I slice that notion off at the knees. “Do I look like I don’t want to spend time with you?”

  She smiles, apologetic. “But this is bad,” she says, gesturing to the long slog of cars ahead of us.

  “I did offer,” I say as I slow even more at a light. “And I know what this town is like. Besides, I figure we need to do our movie review for Fake Play.”

  That earns me a grin. Nothing apologetic in it at all. “Well, a fake romance between the quarterback and the girl next door is hard to resist,” she says with a wistful sigh. “It only works because he’s so enchanted with her but takes forever to realize it.”

  I let that sink in for a moment. “Huh. I never saw it that way.”

  “You don’t?”

  “I think he knows from the start that she revs his engine, and that’s why he suggests her when his agent says he needs a fake date.”

  Brooke holds up a finger to make a point. “But he only realizes he’s attracted to her. He’s sort of delightfully clueless that he’s falling for her.”

  She has a point, but I still think the hero was into her for a long time. “I think it just took him an age to say it out loud. It’s funny how two people can see the same film and take away different things from it.”

  “It is. I also notice different aspects of the story now that I’m older.”

  “For sure. When I first saw it as a middle schooler, I just loved the football scenes. The romance part was way over my head,” I admit, then furrow my brow. “Maybe my younger self was protecting me. I did see it with my mom.”

  “Is she a movie fan too?”

  I tap the gas lightly, scooting a car length ahead. “Sure is. Movies were our guilty pleasure growing up. It was just the two of us, and we tried to hit all the big releases. The superhero flicks, the talking dog movies, the PG romances, the adventure tales. She made air-popped popcorn and tucked a Ziploc bag of it in her purse.”

  Brooke laughs. “I love her already. Smart woman with her big-purse life hack.”

  “I used to tease her that she could carry a tent in her purse, and she’d say, You think I don’t have one in there already?”

  “Do you still go with her to the movies?”

  “Sometimes. I try to take the twins too, when I go, though it’s tough during the season. I took them a lot during the off-season. I can pretty much sing any song from any animated princess flick.”

  “‘Let My Hair Down,’” Brooke says, firing off the signature tune from a Rapunzel remake.

  I scoff, then sing the opening lines.

  Brooke claps in approval. “Well done.”

  “Why, thank you very much,” I say.

  “Now, speaking of your mom, I have to know—does she call you Andrew a lot?” Brooke asks as we cruise along another block. “You said she was the only one who called you that, but only when you were in trouble.”

  “I was a troublemaker growing up, Brooke. Don’t let this sweet face fool you.” I give her a smoldering grin that’s not at all sweet.