My pulse beats between my legs, and I ache for him. Here on the streets of New York, as the sights and sounds of the city mingle with my desire, I want to take him up on that offer.

  I want to forget what we’re doing, and why, and go back to his place, my place, anyplace.

  “I would like that Lucas,” I say, choosing stark honesty because I can. Because we’re not actually going to act on this in public.

  But before I can say another word, he bends closer, moves his mouth to my ear, and whispers, “I thought about you last night. When I was home. I was so fucking turned on still. I couldn’t get you out of my head.”

  The pulse turns into an insistent ache. “What did you do?” I ask, heat spreading over my skin.

  “What do you think I did? I took a hot shower, and I pictured licking you. Sucking you. Tasting you. I made you come over and over on my tongue and my lips, and then I came so fucking hard in my hand I was sure you heard me all the way at your place.”

  I melt into a pool of lust. I’m nothing but atoms and elements, crackling and sizzling.

  The image he paints is so alluring, so arousing, that I can’t think straight. I might need to revise my ruling on diner bathrooms.

  Brrrrrr-iiing.

  But that sound breaks the moment.

  Brrrrrr-iiing.

  Lucas grabs at his phone in his back pocket. “Holy shit, it’s Rowan.”

  The little fucking cockblocker. But I couldn’t be happier to hear from him.

  19

  Lucas

  I answer in a nanosecond, grabbing Lola’s hand, tugging her around the corner and darting under the awning of a building, where it’s slightly quieter.

  “Rowan! What’s going on?” I say on FaceTime.

  “Dude! How are you? I have to tell—” The phone stutters, and he cuts out.

  Shit. My pulse speeds up. “Rowan, are you there?”

  “—rup.”

  “What?” I ask, shaking my head. Maybe the lust has fogged my brain. I can’t make out his words. “What are you saying?”

  “Service is bahhhd.” He sounds like a sheep.

  Impatience threads through my body. “No shit. Just tell me the lottery clue. We know the rest.”

  “Oh. Syrup. You got the syrup one? Because that’s Wendy’s Diner. Quickie by the Casablanca sign. Damn good movie.”

  Groaning, I wave a hand, telling him to speed it up. “Got it. Got the others. I need the lottery one.”

  “That Pin-Up Lanes one was. . .” He cuts out again. When he comes back, he says, “Tricky. It was so damn tricky. I’m sorry about that one. Should have told you that when I forwarded the email. My bad.”

  “No shit it was tricky,” I say, recalling with crystal clarity how Lola and I argued over it like our younger halves. “Now, the lottery. What’s the answer to that one?”

  “I’ll tell you, but you got the tango studio? Please tell me you got that one, man? Because I totally need my iPad. It has everything on there. All my music, and the poetry I started writing, including a poem I wrote that I’m going to recite when I propose to Luna. And I fucking love you for doing this. Like, mad, insane brotherly love.”

  “Yeah, I know. Love you too, and I’m sure she’ll love the poem. And we’ll go to Takes Two to Tango. Just tell me the lottery answer. Is it an amusement park? Because there better be a lifetime ticket for me to Great Adventure for this.”

  “No. I’m not that selfish. C’mon. I want to save the—”

  And he cuts out again.

  “Alpacas,” he barks out breathlessly when he comes back.

  “Alpacas?”

  “Yes. The alpaca sanctuary. It’s one of my dreams.”

  Lola’s eyes brighten, and she mouths llamas.

  “You mean llamas?” I say to Rowan.

  “No. I mean alpacas. That’s what’s so funny. That’s what we fought over. If alpacas and llamas were the same things. Because they’re not, man. Isn’t that crazy? But the funny thing is this—”

  The connection crackles.

  Stutters.

  And spits up a frozen image of my brother’s face, mouth open but silent.

  Call ended.

  Groaning in frustration, I call him back. I need the final answer. Why can’t anything ever be easy with him? The phone rings and rings, and I want to stomp my feet and throw the device. “Name. A name would be nice, Rowan.”

  But Lola is jumping up and down with her phone, shoving the screen at me. “The Cousin Sanctuary! It’s an hour away. It’s for alpacas and llamas. They must have argued over whether they were the same thing, but they both wanted the same thing. To give the money to the animal sanctuary.”

  Her eyes glitter with excitement, and my heart handsprings. All my annoyance vanishes. This woman, I could kiss her.

  I could fucking kiss her all day.

  I cup her cheek, pull her close, and plant a hot, possessive one on her lips. “You’re brilliant.”

  When I let go, she looks dazed, staring at me like that moment was sponsored by left field.

  But the funny thing to me is kissing her seems like right field, and left field, and center field.

  It seems like what we do every day.

  What we should do every day.

  We should take our daily kisses like vitamins.

  No, like breathing.

  But she’s waiting for some kind of answer.

  I shrug casually. “You needed to be kissed. That simple.”

  A smile seems to tug at her lips. “Fair enough. And now we need to visit some farm animals.”

  She waggles the phone, and I peer at the location of The Cousin Sanctuary. It’s in Connecticut, but not too far away, and Grand Central is nearby.

  I google train times. “We can catch a train and go there now, be there by early afternoon.”

  Lola’s eyes seem to dance with delight. “I’ve always wanted to go there. Every time Luna mentioned it, I thought I should check it out. But I never did.”

  “Then I guess all your dreams are coming true too,” I say as I order a Lyft to take us to the train station.

  “Maybe they are.”

  Thirty minutes later, we’re chugging out of Manhattan.

  But we’re not simply blindly chasing a clue. Since we’re the so-called “responsible ones,” I called The Cousin Sanctuary first to make sure we weren’t wasting our time heading out of town.

  “Hey! This might sound weird,” I’d asked when a kind woman answered. “But is there any chance you have some clothes left there for Luna Dumont and Rowan Xavier? This is Rowan’s brother.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  As the train rumbles away from the city, I scan the car. It’s half full, the nearby seats filled with chattering kids and busy families.

  I lower my voice so just Lola can hear. “What are the chances they’re all on wild-goose chases too, tracking down items for friends or family?”

  “Oh, definitely,” Lola says conspiratorially. She points to a harried but happy-looking mom with two squirmy toddlers who switch seats every thirty seconds or so. Her equally exhausted-looking partner is next to her, a smile on his unshaven face. “My money is on a mix-up with their old storage unit. Their precious stuff was accidentally sold at a garage sale,” she says, making up a tale on the spot. “Now they’re taking the kids to retrieve their old clown paintings, high school yearbooks, and baseball cards.”

  “Clown paintings?” I ask with an eyebrow arch.

  “You know, those sad ones where the clowns are crying?”

  “This sounds like a horror story. Why did you pick clowns?”

  She nudges me with her elbow. “You’re afraid of clowns.”

  “Everyone is afraid of clowns.”

  “I’m not,” she says proudly.

  “Now you’re just showing off.”

  “And now I know how to scare you for Halloween.”

  Her words tickle a memory. “Hey, are you still into scary books and stories?”

  “I am. I started listening to a new podcast last night about a haunted carnival. It’s awesome. Want to listen with me?” She reaches for her AirPods, but I shudder.

  “No way.”

  “You don’t?”

  “If it’s a haunted carnival, there are probably clowns in it.”

  “You can handle hearing about a clown.”

  I cross my arms, lift my chin. “Nope.”

  “Ah, I get it. You like escapist fare. You still secretly read romance novels, right?”

  I narrow my eyes. “I never read romance novels.”

  “Not publicly at least,” she says in a low, taunting voice.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I saw you pick up my Nora Roberts when you were in my dorm once.”

  “I picked it up! Doesn’t mean I read it.”

  She nods several times, like she’s doling out nods. “Right. You only read manly books.”

  I mime pounding on my chest. “That’s me. I only read The Catcher in the Rye and Heart of Darkness and A Confederacy of Dunces. Just in case the man committee ever asks for my credentials.”

  She laughs. “I’m calling you on it. You don’t like those books. You like Nora.”

  I roll my eyes. “Fine, I read your Nora Roberts. But it was good. That woman can write. Also, I like A Game of Thrones.”

  “So manly.”

  “And I like Our Dumb World.”

  “The book published by The Onion? A bunch of articles?”

  “Love it. Best social satire ever.”

  She shoots me a satisfied grin. “Okay, that’s totally you. I can see how you’d enjoy parodies about the ridiculous ways of people.”

  “That’s definitely me. Clown hater, spoof lover, and occasional sneak reader of Nora Roberts.”

  She tips her forehead to a couple of guys a few rows ahead of us who are nursing blue coffee cups, haggard looks on their faces. “Your turn. What’s their wild-goose chase?”

  “Ah,” I say, furrowing my brow as I craft a tale, taking my stab at a story. “Two buddies. Their college roommate went on a bender last night after his girlfriend dumped him. He was sad and pissed, and he tossed all her things around town. Left her stuff in a series of dumpsters.” I stop, holding up a finger. “But she called him this morning, begged him to take her back, and he said yes, but now he has to get all her things back right away before she knows what went down. So he called his two buddies.”

  “Ouch.”

  “It’s a cruel world,” I say.

  She sighs and stares out the window. “At least we aren’t the only ones on a crazy mission.” She turns, then meets my gaze. “But I like our mission.”

  Her voice is soft, earnest. It weaves through me, hooking into me. Opening my heart a little more. “Yeah. Me too.”

  “You do?” Her voice wobbles. It lacks the usual boldness of Lola Dumont. But I don’t mind because what I hear is a vulnerability—the same tender side of her that formed the foundation of our friendship years ago.

  That side of her is what led to all our late nights, our talks, our bonding over art, inspiration, ambitions, and dreams. I hear the honesty in it that led me to open up to her about my family, my brother, my parents. I wasn’t raised to be that kind of guy, wearing his heart on his sleeve, sharing all his shit.

  But with her, I was that guy.

  Lola unlocked that side of me without even trying to. She was easy to talk to then, and now that we’ve peeled away our hard shells, she’s that way again.

  The question is—am I still the guy I was before? The guy who launched into self-preservation mode the second the going got rough?

  Nearly ten years ago, I wrapped steel around myself when things looked like they were going to fall apart with Lola.

  With this woman I was . . .

  Even in my head, it’s hard to say how I felt, hard to admit it.

  But I knew in my heart what was happening then.

  Why it hurt when we blew up.

  Because I’d been falling for her.

  I could easily fall for her again.

  My eyes drift down to her lap. Her hands are folded together. We’ve kissed, we’ve touched, and we’ve made each other come.

  We’ve poked, prodded, laughed, nudged.

  We’ve argued; we’ve grown angry. We’ve fought. We’ve forgiven. We’ve started over.

  We can do this.

  I reach for her hand, slide my fingers through hers, and say, “Yes. I like it too. I like it a lot.”

  She presses her lips together like she’s holding something inside. Swallowing, she whispers, “I almost don’t want it to end.”

  I squeeze her hand tighter. “Me neither.”

  I run my thumb across her palm, stroking, caressing, as the wheels rattle over the tracks, the towns whipping by.

  We’re silent for a few minutes, saying nothing, but maybe saying everything as I touch her hand and she lets me, shifting a little closer until her shoulder is against mine.

  “Lucas?” she whispers.

  “Yes?”

  “That term. Wild-goose chase.”

  There’s a question in her statement. “Yes?”

  “They aren’t successful. That’s what worries me. That’s the very definition of the concept—a waste of time because the thing you’re searching for doesn’t exist, or is somewhere else.”

  “Right, but we have three things so far. We’ve found them. They do exist.”

  “But we’re not technically searching for the things. Well, we are. But the things unlock the money, the security deposit. We don’t actually know if he’s going to give us the money back when we have all the things. We don’t really know much about him except he’s their landlord. I googled him and barely found any details. All we know is he’s a landlord and a writer. But what if we collect all this stuff and he doesn’t give back their money? What if we fail them?”

  I want to say that it was still worth it because I’m having a blast with her. But that’s not the answer she’s looking for. Nor is it the answer my head can supply. My brother does need my help. I do want to help him.

  “Let’s ask the man,” I say, since Lola needs a practical answer, not a heart one. She needs me to be me, not a bit of Rowan or a bit of Luna.

  “Really?

  I let go of her hand. “We’re the responsible ones, right? It’s the responsible thing to do.”

  I grab my phone and tap out an email.

  * * *

  To: Harrison Bates

  From: Lucas Xavier

  CC: Lola Dumont

  Subject: Making sure

  * * *

  Hey. So, we snagged three of the five items, but with all due respect, how do we know you’re going to give Luna and Rowan the security deposit back? Or, to put it another way, is this just a wild-goose chase?

  * * *

  To: Lucas Xavier

  From: Harrison Bates

  CC: Lola Dumont

  Subject: No geese were harmed in the making of this chase

  * * *

  I’m offended! You’ve questioned my character!

  * * *

  To: Harrison Bates

  From: Lucas Xavier

  CC: Lola Dumont

  Subject: Good to know, but . . .

  * * *

  Sorry, not sorry. Just want a legit answer, man.

  * * *

  To: Lucas Xavier

  From: Harrison Bates

  CC: Lola Dumont

  Subject: And the answer is . . .

  * * *

  Actually, I’m shocked it took you so long to ask. You must be having a grand old time.

  * * *

  Admit it, you’re having fun.

  * * *

  To: Harrison Bates

  From: Lucas Xavier

  CC: Lola Dumont

  Subject: Sure, but . . .

  * * *

  We are. But the point is still valid. What happens when this is over?

  * * *

  To: Lucas Xavier

  From: Harrison Bates

  CC: Lola Dumont

  Subject: Have faith

  * * *

  You’ll get the money back. And as a show of good faith, here you go. Presumably, you use this email address for Zelle.

  * * *

  A minute later, my bank sends a Zelle notification of five hundred dollars, a portion of the security deposit, sent via my email. I blink in surprise, showing the screen to Lola.

  “Okay. That’s a relief. Because I was definitely feeling foolish,” she says.

  “You were?”

  “Yeah, like we were just running around for no reason. Like we were chasing bubbles on the beach or something.”

  “His bubbles have dollar bills,” I say, but something doesn’t sit well with me. The fact that she felt foolish. Does that mean she’s not enjoying this the same way I am?

  I return to the emails.

  * * *

  To: Lucas Xavier

  From: Harrison Bates

  CC: Lola Dumont

  Subject: See?

  * * *

  Do you believe me now? Now tell me, how much fun is it, on a scale of one to ten?

  * * *

  I’m half tempted to turn to Lola, to ask for her rating. But maybe I don’t want to know if it’s different than mine. Because mine’s an eleven. But no way am I letting the Ringmaster know that.

  * * *

  To: Harrison Bates

  From: Lucas Xavier

  CC: Lola Dumont

  Subject: Rating

  * * *