It’s nerve-racking. The last time I felt this way was with her, and look what happened.

  We combusted, splintered into shards, and we’ve only begun to put the pieces back together, and that’s only because we were forced to.

  That’s what happens when emotions take over. They break you apart.

  The bags of clothes in the living room are a reminder that feelings this intense lead to arguments and splits, to makeups and breakups, and maybe even to capricious landlords scattering your things all over the tri-state area.

  That’s why I’ve wisely avoided entanglements all my adult life, and keeping those blinders on has served me well. I have this sweet apartment, a growing business, and a healthy client list.

  What I don’t have are the hassles and headaches that inevitably come with a relationship.

  Something Lola doesn’t seem to want either, based on our conversation at The Cousin Sanctuary.

  That’s why it’s a damn good thing we both know sex doesn’t change anything, no matter how stupendous it is.

  When we’re fully dressed post-shower—her in her jeans and a shirt of mine that says If you can’t play nice, play lacrosse, and me in jeans and a gray shirt—she scans the walls of my apartment, landing on a Pollock print.

  She points at it. “Hey! You still like Pollock.”

  “I do. It makes me think about whether abstract art can represent a thing,” I say, recalling our conversation when we first encountered each other.

  “I think it can,” she says thoughtfully.

  “Me too. I like to think this piece represents . . . a lacrosse stick.”

  She laughs. “You and lacrosse.”

  “I love it. No matter what. In fact, I have practice tomorrow.” Those are two things that work well in my life—sports and friendship. “You should come to a game sometime.”

  She arches a brow. “Be your cheerleader?”

  I smile and nod at her, loving that idea. Then my gaze drifts to the Pollock. Right now, it represents something else. It’s my reminder that we started as friends the day we met, and we can stay friends now, no matter what else happens.

  I clear my throat. “So, I guess we don’t smell like llamas anymore.”

  “Group shower for the win,” she says with a pump of her fist and a glint in her eye.

  I rub my palms together. “Ready to tango?”

  Before she can answer, both our phones buzz, a second apart. I grab mine and click on the text from Rowan.

  * * *

  Rowan: Settle this for us. Do I look more like a llama or does Luna?

  * * *

  An image follows of the two of them making animal faces—or so I surmise.

  * * *

  Rowan: Luna says I look like an alpaca. I think she does, but she keeps insisting I’m the alpaca! But that’s nuts, right? She does. She totally does.

  * * *

  Shaking my head, I hit reply.

  * * *

  Lucas: Before you venture down this rabbit hole, are you sure “alpaca” is a compliment?

  * * *

  Rowan: Dude! I love alpacas. Love them so madly they’re all I think about sometimes.

  * * *

  Rowan: Also, that was hyperbole.

  * * *

  Rowan: But I do love them madly. I should write a simile song about loving Luna like I love alpacas.

  * * *

  Rowan: One more thing. I fucking love you like an alpaca too. But brotherly alpaca love, know what I mean? Also, cell service is spotty again! See you later.

  * * *

  Lucas: And I love you like a llama.

  * * *

  I close the text and look at Lola, who’s smiling as she types.

  “Luna?” I ask.

  She nods. “They’re arguing about—”

  “Alpacas and llamas,” I finish, imagining the other end of the debate.

  “It never ends with them,” she says.

  “It never does.” It comes out more heavily than I expect. But I’ve seen where fighting can lead. Today, the tiff might be over llamas and alpacas. Tomorrow, it could be houses and lives.

  She swipes her thumb across the screen, then blinks at it. “Did you see this?”

  “See what?”

  “It’s just this email from Design-Off. The competition.”

  I go to my inbox, opening and scanning the note. It’s a recap of the event and the details of the presentation. I read the last few lines out loud. “As a reminder, the winner of the award will have his or her work featured prominently on our website and in our literature for the year ahead. Past winners have gone on to design for Madison Avenue agencies, Fortune 500 firms, and noteworthy start-ups. We wish all of you the best of success.”

  She looks up, excitement in her eyes. “Speaking of Design-Off, I need to refine my presentation. I have to do that tomorrow.”

  I scratch my jaw. “Same here. Guess we better get this show on the road?” I point my thumb to the door, and she grabs her sister’s bag of clothes and the songwriting notebooks.

  “Time to tango.”

  As we wind around the staircase up to the tango studio, time presses heavily onto my shoulders. My boots weigh a hundred pounds.

  An unfamiliar bout of anxiety zips through me, which is odd and fucking unacceptable.

  I have nothing to worry about.

  Lola and I are killing it in this quest. That’s what matters—we’re finishing on time. Hell, we’re finishing early.

  “So,” I begin, keeping my tone light, “has it occurred to you we could have a future as career scavenger hunters?”

  She laughs, but it’s short and humorless. “As long as the hunts center on our siblings.”

  She seems to feel it too—like time is running out for some reason. But I give a full-court press on the friendship thing. “Nah. We have serious skills, Lo. We could crush it in competitions.”

  “Then you let me know when you find a scavenger hunt league, Lucas,” she says wryly.

  There. That’s better. Awkwardness banished. We’re doing this right this time, dammit.

  We reach the second floor, and Lola taps on the glass door of the studio. I peer inside. A woman in a satiny red dress meets our gaze, a smile tugging at her pouty red lips, lighting up her face.

  “She looks exactly like you’d expect a tango instructor to look,” I remark.

  Lola smiles. “She does. She’s straight from central casting, with that cascade of black curls, those hips, and legs for days.”

  The woman reaches for the door handle and pulls it open with a flourish.

  “Welcome! You must be the soon-to-be Mr. and Mrs. Abernathy.” Her accent contains a hint of Argentina, adding even more to the authenticity.

  I narrow my eyes, then shake my head. “No, I’m Lucas Xavier. And this is Lola Dumont.”

  The tango woman takes my hand then Lola’s. “I’m Angeline. I have a lesson any minute, but if you two are here to inquire about lessons, I’d love to teach you. I can tell you’d be very good.”

  “How can you tell?” I ask.

  She waves a hand like she’s sprinkling us with fairy dust or something. “I can read couples’ energy.”

  “We’re not a couple,” Lola cuts in.

  Damn straight. “We’re just friends. Good friends,” I say with a smile.

  Lola flashes her pearly whites too. “Great friends. We just reconnected.”

  Angeline glances between the two of us, her eyes gleaming. “Hmm. Your energy is quite strong.” She grins, taking a beat. “What can I do for you?”

  Lola bats first this time. “We’re hoping you have an iPad. Left by Harrison Bates.”

  Her brown eyes sparkle. “Harrison. Yes, of course. He said you might be coming.”

  “Might? Did he bet you a six-pack?” I ask.

  She scoffs, laughing. “No. I’m not a betting woman. I showed him some basic tango steps and told him I’d hold on to the iPad if he came back for a lesson.”

  That’s surprising. “Did he?”

  She glances at the clock on the wall. “He should be here tomorrow. I can’t wait to teach him how to tango.”

  Something about this information throws me off, but I’m not sure why, so I focus on the goal. Get the iPad. Finish the tasks. Snag the security deposit.

  Be done.

  That’s what I want right now. To be done with this fickle landlord and his absurd breakup letter. I have work piling up and projects to finish, as well as a design competition to prepare for.

  This has run its course.

  “Hope he enjoys it. And thanks again for taking care of the iPad. May we have it back?”

  “Of course,” she says. She heads to a desk, grabs it, and hands it over.

  “Thanks, Angeline,” Lola says.

  “If you change your mind, I’m here. I’ve taught tango to all kinds of couples. It can be fun for friends too.” Angeline smiles knowingly.

  “Thanks. We’ll keep that in mind,” I say, but I won’t, because tangoing with Lola won’t help me be the responsible one.

  And that’s who I am.

  That’s the part I know how to play.

  When we reach the street, I take a deep, fueling breath, and Lola seems to do the same. “So, here’s the big question,” she says.

  “Yeah?” A part of me hopes she’ll say, Want to figure out a way to . . .

  But I don’t even know how to finish that sentence. I don’t know how to figure out anything right now.

  She smiles, lifting up her chin. “We’re going to do it this time, right?”

  “Stay friends?” I ask.

  “Yes. We’re not those hotheaded college kids anymore, right?” She adds in an elbow nudge. “We let our friendship die before, but we’re going to be adults this time.”

  I have no choice but to agree. “We so are. We are definitely wiser, more mature. We can do this.” I muster up all my confidence.

  Because we can.

  And we will.

  Because it takes two to tango, and we both want this friendship.

  And neither wants the messiness and the inevitable pain of what Luna and Rowan have. How could they be headed for anything but trouble?

  “We’re doing it.” I offer a fist for knocking, and she takes me up on it like she’s one of the guys.

  We quickly segue into sorting out what to do with the items we’ve collected. I’ll hold on to Rowan’s things, she’ll keep Luna’s, and we’ll both email Harrison by tomorrow morning.

  That’s all there is.

  On Madison Avenue, as the twilight sky surrounds us, I search for what to say next. We’ve bumped fists in agreement that we should remain friends, but what can I do differently this time around?

  I have to make it work.

  “So, my good friend Lola. Do you want to have coffee this week? As friends?”

  She smiles. “I would like that.”

  Setting Luna’s things on the ground, she then wraps her arms around me in a hug, and I try to resist the smell of her hair and the scent of her skin.

  The feel of her in my arms.

  She doesn’t feel like a friend.

  But she has to be. Because we’re adults. Because love is dangerous. Because we’re doing things the mature way this time around.

  I let go. “Bye, Lola.”

  “Bye, Lucas.”

  Trouble is, it doesn’t feel like a friendly goodbye when I turn the other way, my heart weighing ten thousand pounds.

  24

  To: Lola Dumont, Lucas Xavier

  From: Harrison Bates

  Subject: A deal is a deal

  * * *

  Just gonna come right out and say it. I had NO FAITH in you two. I didn’t think you’d pull it off so quickly. I mean, c’mon. What were the chances? But where there’s a will, there’s a way. And I have to know—did you enjoy it?

  * * *

  To: Harrison Bates

  From: Lola Dumont

  CC: Lucas Xavier

  Subject: Re: A deal is a deal

  * * *

  Perhaps the question is—did YOU enjoy it?

  * * *

  To: Lola Dumont

  CC: Lucas Xavier

  From: Harrison Bates

  Subject: So much

  * * *

  More than I thought I would! After all, I went bowling with a friend, visited some alpacas, devoured cheese, and had the best pancakes in the city. (Guess Luna and Rowan were right about that one!)

  * * *

  Life has a funny way of working out, doesn’t it?

  * * *

  To: Harrison Bates

  CC: Lola Dumont

  From: Lucas Xavier

  Subject: So hilarious

  * * *

  Yeah. It’s a barrel of monkeys.

  * * *

  To: Lucas Xavier

  CC: Lola Dumont

  From: Harrison Bates

  Subject: Why so sad?

  * * *

  Aww, is there trouble in romance land?

  * * *

  To: Harrison Bates

  CC: Lola Dumont

  From: Lucas Xavier

  Subject: Not sad, just busy

  * * *

  How about the rest of the security deposit?

  * * *

  To: Lucas Xavier

  CC: Lola Dumont

  From: Harrison Bates

  Subject: I’m a man of my word

  * * *

  Check your Zelle! Also, maybe you should take a tango lesson to cheer up. But then again, ask me in a couple of hours, since I’m headed off to mine. Who knew? Me? Tangoing? Well, the jury’s still out. I might have two left feet.

  * * *

  But what I do have is this—a clear mind.

  * * *

  There’s nothing quite like a quiet place to live to set one’s creativity free.

  * * *

  And now I’m off to try out the dance of love.

  25

  Lola

  I answer Harrison’s emails while I finish my Sunday morning workout, but his last note gives me an idea.

  Because quiet sounds perfect. After all, creativity is what I need.

  Yep.

  I need to focus on the presentation, on my new clients, and on my existing projects at Bailey & Brooks.

  It’s that simple.

  The Design-Off organizers said it themselves—winning is a huge opportunity. It can open new doors.

  That’s what I want.

  Breath coming fast, I hit end on the elliptical, step off the machine, and begin a series of cool-down stretches.

  When I’m done, I leave the gym, satisfied to have checked the workout off my to-do list. I did it solo too, since Amy is allergic to early Sunday morning exercise. I’ll probably see her later after I knock out some work.

  That’s my plan for the rest of the morning after I shower, dress, and grab a bagel. Back at home, I do my best to avoid my bedroom.

  Because I’m not sleepy, of course. I work in the living room, where I fine-tune some designs for Peter before I return to my presentation, digging in.

  I focus on the project for a few hours, savoring the silence of my apartment. After I hit my goal for the day, I stretch, adding a contented sigh for good measure.

  “I’ve got the whole day ahead of me,” I say to myself, since there’s no one else there to tell.

  Just the computer screen and me.

  Me and Photoshop.

  That’s how I like it.

  So I hop over to my project notes for a book cover I’m starting, a brand-new romantic comedy from Amy.

  Staring at the spec sheet, I review the themes, mulling over how to present them—it’s a second-chance romance set against the backdrop of New York City.

  Well, la-di-da.

  That should be a piece of cake.

  But as I consider the possibilities, I can’t quite settle on the right look. Should it be illustrated? Photographic? Perhaps a combination of the two?

  I shoot a text over to Amy, seeing if she wants to chat.

  Her reply is fast and furious.

  * * *

  Amy: Would love to see you later! Linc and I are going to Brooklyn to see the shopping cart races with Baldwin and James. Then I have to grab a drink with an agent who wants to send me an exclusive submission later this week. A new comedy! Gah! I love exclusive submissions, almost as much as I love shopping cart races. But maybe we can do something tomorrow?

  * * *

  Lola: Of course. Have fun.

  * * *

  I stare at the exchange, furrowing my brow, wondering why it feels empty somehow. This is a perfectly normal exchange with my friend.

  My friend who is busy with her fiancé.

  But that’s normal. It doesn’t bother me. So then what’s this spark of tension shooting through my shoulders, and why does my pulse spike with nerves?

  That’s odd. Why would I be nervous or worried? I’m not an anxious person.

  And yet, the quiet feels cloying, like it’s sticking to me, a perfume that’s lingered too long.