“It’s a long story.” I wave a hand, not wanting to dig into the details. “But Lucas and I were sort of thrust together to pick up the dirty laundry of our little brother and sister. And we had an interesting time running about the city.”

  “Interesting,” he says, mulling over the adjective. “Interesting is good.”

  “I’m weirdly looking forward to seeing him in a little while.”

  “Why is that weird though?”

  “Because I don’t know where we go next or what we’re supposed to be. I don’t know what happens after we finish this to-do list.”

  He taps his chin. “That’s always the question, isn’t it? We always want to know what’s coming around the bend.”

  “But we don’t get to know,” I say.

  He shakes his head a little forlornly. “We definitely don’t get to know.”

  We spend the rest of the meeting firming up the design plans, and when I say goodbye, it hits me that I don’t feel guilty I pushed this client meeting back to this morning.

  Last night, I was annoyed I had to rearrange my schedule.

  But this morning, I can see around the bend with my twenty-twenty hindsight. Canceling gave me the chance to reconnect with an old friend.

  And to help my sister, I remind myself, as I walk across the city.

  I’m definitely meeting him in an hour or so to help my sister.

  For the record, I have no choice.

  Not that I’d make a different one.

  But I head to Doctor Insomnia’s to share news of my evening at the command of two queens—my two best friends.

  They peppered me with a barrage of texts this morning, demanding my presence and a full report. From their messages last night, I knew I’d be serving up a plate of details to go with their morning coffee, but nerves scamper inside my chest. After years of Lucas playing a starring role on my dartboard, will last night’s turn of events make me seem like a pushover? One hot kiss and I flip-flop?

  Only, I don’t feel like I gave in to something I’ll regret. Nor do I feel like last night was a mistake. If anything, I wish we’d made up sooner.

  I steel myself, though, because girlfriends don’t always forgive exes—or pseudo exes—as quickly as the one sleeping with the ex does. I head into the coffee shop to find them huddled on a couch with mugs, laughing brightly. When they look up, I simply smile.

  Like the Mona Lisa.

  And it gives everything away.

  “Get over here right now and tell us everything,” Amy commands, stabbing the cushion on the couch and staring at me over the top of her red glasses.

  “Spill,” Peyton seconds.

  “And start with whether that dirty-girl grin on your face means I should take him off the hate list,” Amy says, miming crumpling up a sheet of paper and tossing it away.

  I nod, grinning. “Definitely. We cleared the air,” I say, telling them what he said about our not-date ten years ago, how he apologized and wished he had groveled and asked for another chance, and how I admitted I should have tried harder to stay friends. “And once we talked it out, we realized we’d both made mistakes and we both wanted a fresh start. I felt like this huge weight had lifted. Like all the annoyance I’d been holding on to was just gone. Poof.”

  “It’s good to be able to let go,” Amy says with a sympathetic smile.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. “I’m so glad you don’t think I’m a pushover. I was a little worried you’d berate me.”

  Peyton scoffs. “You? A pushover? You’re the opposite. And for the record, I never thought what happened between you two was so horrible—well, except for losing the friendship. It always seemed like there had to be a reasonable explanation.”

  “Most arguments usually have reasonable explanations,” Amy adds. “We just aren’t always ready to hear them at the time.”

  “I don’t think either one of us was reasonable back then,” I say.

  Amy shakes her head. “You were both full of fire and pride and raw emotions.”

  I stay quiet, not entirely admitting how many wild emotions were swirling inside me then. I didn’t admit it to Lucas last night either.

  But Amy won’t let me get away with a noncommittal answer. Her eyes are piercing as she meets my gaze. “Lo, you really cared about him. You had feelings for him. That’s why it hurt.”

  My heart squeezes at her words. There’s no point pretending with my friends. “Yes. Fine, I did have feelings for him,” I say, speaking honestly. “And that’s probably why I carried the hurt around for so long, nursing it like a houseplant.”

  “You watered it regularly,” Peyton says with a soft smile. “We helped you water it if you needed to. But now you don’t. That’s good. Life goes on, and we move on and forgive.”

  “And sometimes I guess we forgive ourselves,” I say, sinking back into the couch, mulling over what happened over the years and in one evening. “Maybe we needed to be forced to spend time together to face the past. Because in this flash of clarity, I saw how I should have done things differently at the time. I should have told him why it hurt so much.”

  “You weren’t ready then. Don’t beat yourself up,” Peyton says. “You were young and hotheaded. Both of you. Misunderstandings happen and can fester.”

  “Definitely. And you found an opportunity to deal with it when you were ready, when fate forced you to. But tell us more about how it un-festered,” Amy says, big green eyes imploring me.

  With the heart-to-heart behind us, I feed Amy her favorite meal—a true story with a touch of romance.

  I tell them about last night, the barbs, the fiery banter, the moment he yanked me away from the motorcyclist, our hands in the button shop, the confessions in the comic store, the glee in finding the cheese shop, and then how we talked at Pin-Up Lanes, and how the talking led to long overdue apologies, and how I’m sorrys led to the bedroom.

  “It was like a movie. You know those movies where you reconnect with the guy from your past, and you wind up wandering the whole city together? Talking as you crisscross New York? It would be called One Night Stand-In. That’s how Lucas referred to himself.”

  Amy arches a brow. “Oh, did he now?”

  “It was a joke. It was a thing. We were just messing around,” I explain.

  “Messing around indeed,” Peyton puts in under her breath.

  “Anyway, we could also call it Two Nights in the City or something,” I say, returning to the name for our story.

  Amy sticks her arm up straight. “I vote for One Night Stand-In. Also, hello! Can it please be a book before it’s a movie? The book is always better than the flick. Plus, this can be my next great rom-com.”

  “It doesn’t have a rom-com ending, Ames,” I point out.

  She bares her teeth at me. “Hush. Stop speaking such blasphemous things.”

  Peyton chimes in, shaking her head, her lush red hair swishing back and forth. “Book or movie, I say we call it Two-Night Stand.”

  Amy smacks Peyton’s knee playfully. “But we can’t. We don’t know if they’re having another night together.”

  Peyton rolls her blue eyes. “Obviously they are.”

  I clear my throat, cutting into their conversation. “Obviously we aren’t sleeping together again.”

  Amy quirks a brow. “Why is it obvious? Was the sex bad? Oh no.” She gasps, covering her mouth, before whispering in horror, “Lucas is a two-pumper.”

  Peyton frowns. “He couldn’t find your magic button. Oh, I’m so sorry, hon.”

  “Both of you need muzzles.” I lower my voice, glancing around. “He’s insane. He’s an animal. He’s completely ungentlemanly, and it’s totally what I want. But . . .” I sigh heavily. “We were just getting it out of our systems. It was pent-up stuff from years ago. Like a powder keg. You defuse it, and then you move on.”

  “Is that how powder kegs work?” Amy deadpans.

  “I’d like to know that too. Because I only know the simile our lust was about to explode like a powder keg. Which sounds like you last night,” Peyton says, meeting my gaze with eyes full of sass.

  I shrug, but I’m smiling, owning this moment. “Last night was good. What can I say? But it can’t happen again. Because the friendship is too important. I like being friends again. I missed him so much, and I don’t want him out of my life again. He’s like . . .”

  I pause to think of the right word to describe Lucas, but he’s hard to categorize. “He’s like a brainstorm partner. Like that person you can bounce ideas off of. Someone who truly understands what I’m trying to accomplish with a design project. Someone I connect with on many levels. And talking to him again kind of lit up all those parts of me that desperately missed having that. He’s a friend, but it’s deeper than that, if that makes any sense.”

  Amy nods thoughtfully as she takes a drink of her latte. “I get that. Linc and I love talking about books. And having a fellow editor as my fiancé is energizing and thrilling. It’s like you’re a set of Christmas lights, plugged in and flashing, blinking at all hours.”

  I smile and point at her. “Yes! That. Exactly.”

  Peyton chimes in. “That sort of sounds like a good thing though. Especially what Linc and Amy have. That you’re both in the same field of work as your guys. So, what’s the problem, Lo?”

  “It’s good for Linc and Amy,” I say, keeping my head on straight. “But Lucas and me? We combusted the last time we went down that path. And now we’re friends again. I don’t want to lose that. Our friendship feels both familiar but also tender and new. Like, one false step and it blows up a second time.”

  “So the friendship is a powder keg too,” Peyton deadpans.

  “Yes. I suppose it is.”

  “But you also still have that wild chemistry,” she adds.

  Tingles race down my spine at the memories of last night. “We do.”

  “Which makes me wonder . . .” Peyton screws up the corner of her lips, thinking.

  “Wonder what?”

  She waves a hand, like she’s shaking it off. “This might be crazy, but hear me out. Your sister knows you and Lucas were close. She knows you were briefly involved. She knows you have been more like frenemies since college. Do you think she constructed this whole thing to try to—”

  “Get you back together!” Amy’s eyes light up as she jumps in at the same moment.

  “Jinx!” Amy says to Peyton.

  “Jinx to you,” Peyton says, as my best friends high-five, then stare at me, waiting.

  But I know the answer. “That’s not Luna’s style. She’s not manipulative.”

  Amy shakes her head. “But that’s not a manipulative thing per se. Sometimes two people need a little nudge here and there to see what’s right in front of them.”

  “I didn’t mean manipulative in a bad way. It’s just not Luna’s style to intervene like that. It’s too much thinking,” I say, tapping my skull. “Too much social engineering. Luna is all about this,” I say, patting my breastbone. “She’s a heart person. So it’s not her doing. Plus, we’ve been talking to the landlord.”

  “The Happy-Go-Lucky Sadist?” Amy asks.

  “Yes. Lucas and I emailed with him this morning. So that’s another reason I say that Luna didn’t engineer this.” I arch a brow as a wild thought descends on me. I point at Amy. Then Peyton. “Unless you two did? J’accuse!”

  Amy holds up her hands in surrender. Peyton follows suit. “For the record, I absolutely wish I had thought of that, but I did not,” Amy says.

  Peyton nods intently. “Yes. I’m kicking myself that we didn’t adopt the landlord persona sooner. It’s freaking genius. But I swear on my love of La Perla, it’s not me.”

  “And I swear on my love of pockets, I am not the puppeteer,” Amy says a little wistfully. “Damn it. Why didn’t I come up with a quest to bring Lola and Lucas back together?”

  “Because we’re not getting back together. And it’s a ridiculous quest even for you two, and definitely for my sister. So, my point is this. It’s not you two troublemakers. It’s not Luna. It’s just exactly what it is—my sister and her boyfriend being indulgent, loud, dramatic lovebirds.”

  “And the by-product is a powder keg,” Amy adds.

  “But a powder keg that has been dealt with,” I say, chin raised, holding my ground on this point. Because even though I joked about Lucas’s tongue while texting with him earlier, I meant what I said last night. This changes nothing. “Because if we do have more than a one night stand-in, then we’re going to be the powder keg that explodes to smithereens,” I add.

  Amy’s gaze drifts toward the door. “Speaking of hot powder kegs, isn’t that him walking through the door?”

  16

  Lucas

  Running helps clear my mind.

  Since the last thing I want to do is think, I hit the pavement early on Saturday. I don’t want to marinate in what-ifs or what-happens-nexts.

  Reid joins me on the running path with a quick nod and a “Morning.”

  “Good morning to you,” I say, and we take off.

  He’s a cyclist first and foremost, but now he’s training for a marathon, and though I have no interest in that kind of long-distance event, running is good for lacrosse, and lacrosse is good for my soul. Once a week, I join him on his shorter runs.

  “Good morning, eh?” he asks. “That’s an awfully chipper greeting for you. Normally you’re only up for a few grunts.”

  “It is Saturday, ergo . . .”

  “Ah, I’m sure that’s it. That has to be it,” he says in a tone dripping with sarcasm.

  But we hit our stride, and as we do, we talk less, exchanging only a few words, the occasional commentary about goings-on in the city, client updates, and the like. The quick pace and focus keep my mind entirely where it should be.

  On the present. Only on the present.

  If I linger on last night with Lola, I’ll be studying a jigsaw puzzle that’s missing too many parts, trying to link up pieces that don’t fit together and, frankly, don’t need connecting.

  When we’re done, we agree to meet up again in thirty minutes to head to the coffee shop.

  And when we do, I can’t avoid the topic of last night any longer, since Reid dives right into it with renewed vigor.

  “About that good morning.”

  “Nothing gets by you, does it?” I ask wryly.

  “That or you’re remarkably easy to read. So . . . inquiring minds want to know.” He leaves the statement hanging there on Madison Avenue as we walk, passing a hot dog vendor who’s already serving at this early hour.

  “About what came before the big bang?” I toss out, dodging and darting. “Or if there’s life after death? Or whether, say, a hot dog counts as a sandwich?”

  “A hot dog is definitely not a sandwich. That’s an affront. As for the other queries, especially on the topic of bangs, we’ll have plenty of time to debate those. What I want to know right now is this—how did last night go, and is it responsible for your good morning?” he asks, imitating my too-bright tone.

  “That’s the problem with friends. They know you too well,” I say.

  “I’ll try harder to be an enemy, then. That work for you?”

  “Yes. Good plan. My business partner, my enemy,” I say, like it’s a new movie title. Then I answer him diplomatically. I don’t want to spend too much time diving into last night. Not for my head, and not for my heart. It’s easier to keep the conversation simple. Especially since this guy can sniff a lie like a bloodhound. “Everything is ticking along. We found two of the five items, and we know where to go for the third one. I think we’ll finish everything by tonight, so I’ll be back on track with work then.”

  He rolls his eyes. “I mean with the woman. The one you pretend to hate.”

  “Ah, her. Well . . .” I don’t say anything more as we cross the street. Maybe he’ll lose the scent.

  “So you nailed her?”

  I whirl around, stopping in my tracks outside a souvenir shop, narrowing my eyes. “Don’t talk that way about her,” I say sharply, my muscles tensing.

  Reid laughs. The bastard laughs. Clutching his belly. Pointing at me. “Oh, that’s brilliant. That’s bloody fucking brilliant. It took basically less than three seconds to get you to admit it.”

  Rubbing my hand across my jaw, I grumble, “I didn’t admit it.” But hell, I did. He got me, and he knows it.

  He pumps a fist. “You did. And I knew you were still into her. Bet that’s why you didn’t mind Rowan asking you to pick up his dirty laundry.”

  “For the record, I didn’t know she was a part of the whole wild-goose chase at first.”

  “Details, details,” he says as we resume our pace. “She’s clearly the reason for your good morning.”

  “From here on out, you will only ever get surly greetings.”

  “Fine by me. But the greeting wasn’t how I got the truth out of you. Also,” he says, like a dog refusing to let go of his prized toy monkey, “congratulations.”

  I wave a hand dismissively, ready to erase this conversation. “Not necessary.”

  “Aww, who’s the sensitive one now? Want me to play ‘You Need to Calm Down’ by my girl Taylor?”

  I groan. “You and your pop music.”

  “You and your college love.”

  I shoot him a you can’t be serious look. “I wasn’t in love with her in college.”

  “Are you now, then?”

  “No,” I say immediately, squashing that notion, then stomping on it for good measure. “Not at all. We’re just friends again,” I say, even though that description doesn’t entirely sound right to my ears. It feels too neat, too easy for last night.

  Maybe Reid senses it, since he lobs another question at me. “Friends with bennies, you mean?”

  I don’t answer, but he doesn’t need me to because he claps me on the back.

  “Good on you, mate. And I take it you want more than bennies, since that’s what got you so worked up you nearly clocked me in the jaw.”

  I groan from deep within my soul. He’s too on the mark. “Why are we having coffee together?”