Maybe the strange presence is coming from the bedroom.

  Nope. Don’t want to go there, literally or metaphorically.

  In fact, I need to get out of here. And perhaps I need company—to discuss this cover with.

  Peyton’s not in the same field, but no matter. She has a great eye for pretty things.

  I fire off a text, asking what she’s up to.

  * * *

  Peyton: Tristan and I are taking Barrett and a friend to the movies later tonight. But first, inventory. Admit it: you’re dying to come to my store and help Marley and me with inventory.

  * * *

  I consider her note. Inventory? Sure. Sounds like a better way to spend the rest of my Sunday afternoon than avoiding the room where I started to let Lucas into my heart.

  Note to self: inventory is the opposite of fun.

  Fortunately, I arrive at the tail end of it.

  The gals are nearly done—just cataloging one more item.

  I hold up a silky red bra for Peyton and Marley. “How about this sexy thing?”

  “Ooh, that’s a dazzling one,” Marley says, eyes widening as she gawks at the lingerie. “I wore something like that in sapphire blue last night.”

  I take a closer look at the lace. “Come to think of it, this reminds me of the—”

  I stop because I don’t want to say that out loud. It reminds me of Lucas, and what I wore last night with him.

  A bra he couldn’t stop staring at. A bra I loved taking off for him when I stripped on the way to the shower. A shiver runs through me at the white-hot memory—the sweet agony of his touch and the exquisite sensations that raced through me when he kissed me everywhere.

  The bone-deep connection I felt with the man.

  I won’t belittle my heart by saying it was just sex.

  It wasn’t just sex whatsoever.

  But that’s beside the point.

  “Earth to Lola.” Peyton waves a hand in front of my face.

  I snap my gaze up. “Sorry. I drifted off.”

  “Yes, I know inventory is not that thrilling. That’s why we always have a drink after. Besides,” Peyton says, shooting Marley a knowing glance, “I want to hear more about what you did in your dazzling sapphire-blue lingerie.”

  Marley adopts an overly demure smile. “Who said it was dazzling?”

  “Um, you did.” Peyton points at the brunette. “Might it have involved a certain someone you met yesterday?”

  “Maybe it did,” she trails off and adds a flirty little grin.

  That piques my interest, and when the three of us head to Gin Joint to grab some libations, I wait until we order and then command playfully, “Tell us, Marley. Dare I say dazzle us?”

  As we drink, Marley shares a few details and I lean closer, doing my best to stay in the present moment. It’s a scintillating tale, but I have to work to focus on the details.

  Because the moment I want to be in is my last night. My yesterday. My twenty-four hours with Lucas.

  Except that’s not how we fix mistakes.

  We repair the past with a better present.

  By doing things right this time around.

  And as it happens, I’m not technically any closer to figuring out the design issues of my new book cover. So maybe, just maybe, I should see if Lucas wants to help.

  When Marley and Peyton grab refills at the bar, I fire off a text.

  * * *

  Lola: Hey! Want to grab that coffee tomorrow? I could use your brain.

  * * *

  Lucas: My brain is at your disposal.

  26

  Lucas

  I’d like other parts to be at her disposal too.

  Not just that part.

  All the parts. Except that’s not in the cards, so I shove those annoying, irresponsible, nagging notions of romance and a future and I’m falling for you into the corner, then I stomp them pancake-flat and light them on fire for good measure.

  There.

  I wipe my hands of emotions, falling, love, and all those other dangerous ideas.

  Besides, I have plenty to deal with.

  Like the fact that our office space still isn’t ready.

  Like the work I fell behind on over the weekend.

  Like the presentation.

  That’s my Monday.

  And all day long as I refine my work, I check the clock. I check it religiously. I check it like it’s my motherfucking job.

  And when the clock ticks closer to coffee time, I close the laptop, head home, and change into a T-shirt I know she’ll like. I run my fingers through my hair and head to the coffee shop.

  This is good. Everything we fucked up last time, we are unfucking now.

  We are such goddamn adults we should earn medals for excellence in adulting.

  And really, isn’t that everything I’ve ever wanted?

  The second I open the door to Doctor Insomnia’s, my heart springs out of my chest, scampering to her.

  What the hell?

  I grab the outlaw organ, stuff it back between my lungs, and tell it to settle the hell down.

  This is not the time or place for stupid displays of affection.

  Yet as I head over to her, there’s a smile on my face that I can’t hide. My skin warms, my pulse races, and my mind is surfing a dopamine wave just being near her.

  She stands and smiles too, and then it happens.

  The awkward sets in.

  We’re a foot away from each other, and I don’t know if we should hug, or shake hands, or something else.

  “Hey, you,” she says, going first, a note of sweetness in that last word that winds its way around my heart, tugging it perilously close to her.

  “Hey there.” I don’t know if I should respond to the sound or the situation. Where is this covered in the rules we laid down?

  “Good to see you,” she says, shifting to full-on friends mode. Pursing her lips, she draws a breath then wraps me in a hug. “Thanks for letting me borrow your brain.”

  Ah, yes. The situation. Focus on that. “You’ve got all access. Twenty-four seven,” I say, turning my nose away from her hair because if I spend too long inhaling her fantastic scent, I will backslide.

  Hell, I’ll relapse into offers of group showers and sleepovers and breakfasts, and spending every single second with her, like I stupidly want to.

  We separate and sit. She clears her throat, gesturing to the empty table in front of me. “Want a coffee?”

  “Sure. Yeah. Definitely. Coffee is good.” I sound like an overeager teenager on a first date. I gesture with my thumb to the counter. “I’ll go grab one.”

  I tell myself to be cool as I wait for the drink.

  And maybe I listen.

  After I snag a coffee, I return to her, nodding at her mug. “Coffee. One sugar.” I tap my temple. “I remember.”

  She shrugs happily. “Some things never change.”

  But some things do.

  And we’re one of those things.

  I take a drink, set down the mug, and rub my hands together. “All right, let’s do this.”

  She tells me the cover concept, and we spend the next thirty minutes tossing around ideas, sketching out possibilities, and brainstorming.

  It’s stimulating and fantastic, and I love every second.

  I’ve missed this. I’ve missed her. I’ve missed the camaraderie. I lost this for nearly ten years, and I don’t want to give it up again, no matter how much I long to touch her.

  That’s what I need to keep in mind. Not how cute she looks when she is concentrating and nibbling on the corners of her lips. I could lick that lip.

  That’s just the kind of thinking that got us into trouble before.

  Just focus on the present.

  I lean back in my chair, and because the present is pretty damned good, I say, “We should do this again.”

  “We should definitely do it again,” she says, her tone cheery.

  “How about tomorrow? Same time?”

  “It’s a plan.”

  Right.

  A plan, not a date.

  When I leave, I give her another hug, and for a moment, I consider the risk of hauling her in for a hot, wet kiss that could turn into a long, sweaty night together.

  But I don’t.

  And I’m both happy and miserable at the same time.

  27

  Lola

  When you’re friends again with the guy you like a whole helluva lot, you get to do super-fun things like analyzing every text you want to send him to make sure you’re not crossing a line.

  For instance, this one:

  * * *

  Lola: At MOMA right now. Staring at Starry Night. This painting makes me feel all the things.

  * * *

  But nope. You can’t send that because what if he thinks you’re feeling all the things for him?

  So you try another time:

  * * *

  Lola: Just walked past Wendy’s Diner on the way to work. By the way, we should try the silver-dollar pancakes. I hear they’re spectacular.

  * * *

  But that stays in the drafts too, because what if “silver dollar” is a new euphemism for, I dunno, a bathroom bang? These are the hurdles a modern woman attempting to navigate a rekindled friendship has to face.

  The challenges compound when I see him again and it’s terrific and painful and utterly unhelpful.

  It’s Tuesday, and we meet at the Pin-Up Lanes bowling alley and play a game, catching up on our favorite music and trading stories about our zaniest clients.

  I tell him about Peter the Blade, and he tells me about a woman he and Reid worked for who they called the Stickler.

  “And that was an understatement,” he says, then he picks up a ball and effortlessly throws a strike.

  “Woo-hoo!” I shout—because strikes are impressive and deserve a cheer, even when it’s the competition nailing them.

  He blows on his fingers. “When you’ve got it, you’ve got it.”

  “And you definitely have it,” I say with a saucy wink.

  And like that, his brown eyes flame.

  My skin heats.

  But we’re out-of-bounds.

  That’s another obstacle in this resurrected friendship. If you slip into innuendo, you have to dial it back, cool it off, and zip it up.

  I’m still hopscotching around the heat on Wednesday when we meet for a drink after work, hitting Gin Joint this time.

  I’m armed and ready with innocuous topics, but as soon as I fire away with the first one, I realize it’s not innocuous whatsoever.

  “Did you hear about Reid and Marley?” I ask.

  He wiggles his brow. “I got the gist of it. Didn’t expect that.”

  “I know, right?” I say with a grin. “But I guess—”

  Then I stop myself, because talking about the two of them is not going to keep my mind in the friend zone.

  It’s going to send me spinning into the let’s try again zone.

  I execute a one-eighty, and we spend the next hour talking about Luna and Rowan. Cell service is still spotty for them, but we’ve gotten occasional updates, and their tour is going well.

  When the night ends, that thing happens again.

  That awkward thing where we stand on the street, rock on our heels, and don’t say, Fuck it, let’s go home together.

  Instead, I rise up on my tiptoes, plant a kiss on his cheek, and say, “See you at the competition.”

  “See you Friday, Lo,” he says, and when I return home, I trudge up the stairs, kick off my boots, and flop on the couch. I grab a book, but after a few pages, I toss it because I can’t retain a damn word.

  I grab a blanket from the arm of the sofa and curl up under it, because I can’t stand being in the bedroom.

  I haven’t been able to stand it since we spent the night together.

  I reach for my phone, but when I reread the email from the design committee, I feel nothing.

  Not a thing.

  Not an ounce.

  The same applies the next day, and on into Friday.

  That morning, I shower, dress, and head to work, trying to psych myself up about tonight.

  Or about the haunted carnival podcast, because spooky shit is going down behind the Ferris wheel.

  Or about Luna’s exclamation-point-laden text with the news that the Love Birds were invited on another honeymoon cruise.

  Or even about Peter’s enthusiastic email that arrives when I reach the office.

  * * *

  My channel is crushing it! Views are up, comments are bonkers, and I nabbed a sponsor. Also, big news! The ex doesn’t want me back, and I don’t care because I met a lady blader in the park. This might sound crazy, and of course my brother says it’s impossible . . . but it just feels right. It’s been a whirlwind in just twenty-four hours. But sometimes that’s how it goes!

  * * *

  Fine, I am excited about Peter’s turnaround in his fortunes, and in his attitude too.

  But I’m also insanely jealous of him as I ride the elevator up to my stop at Bailey & Brooks.

  I reply, letting him know how happy—and not how envious—I am for him. What I want to say, but don’t, is that it doesn’t sound impossible at all, and sometimes you can totally fall for someone in twenty-four hours.

  Give or take ten years.

  In my office, I jump into the pool of book covers, swimming in ideas and designs.

  I spend the morning working on the new romantic comedy, and it’s singing, thanks to Lucas’s feedback from the other night.

  But my heart pinches when I think about him, and I’m caught up in a wave of missing him. A wave so punishing it feels like I’ve been pummeled by the ocean.

  Which is silly, since I just saw him the other night.

  And I’ll see him again tonight at the awards ceremony.

  I shake it off, focusing on the presentation.

  A little before lunch, Amy pops into my office with a delighted glint in her green eyes. “Knock, knock.”

  “Come in.”

  She cups the side of her mouth, then whispers, “Word on the street is that Baldwin is going to ask James to marry him this weekend.”

  She does a little happy dance in the doorway, and I try—I swear, I try so hard—to get excited for our friend Baldwin.

  I love good news and romance, and I love little nuggets of intel about colleagues, especially Baldwin, who is a fantastic guy.

  But I’m a blank person.

  I slap on a grin that feels plastic. “That’s great.”

  Amy stares daggers at me. “That’s great?”

  “Of course,” I say.

  Amy shakes her head, heaves a sigh, and parks her palms on my desk. “It’s not great, Lola. It’s stupendous. No. It’s more. It’s life-affirming, love-affirming, shout-to-the-heavens news.”

  She’s right.

  She’s so damn right.

  When she puts it like that, my dumb heart cracks open. Wide and brutally. My throat tightens, and without warning, I burst into tears.

  In a second, Amy shuts the door to my office, rounds my desk, and kneels next to me. “Sweetie, what’s wrong?”

  Sobbing, I cry some more, then choke out the painful words that constrict my throat. “I don’t want to be just friends with Lucas.”

  She sighs sympathetically, then rubs my arm. “Of course you don’t. You want him to be your person.”

  I nod, sniffling at the ease of her understanding, the simplicity of her pronouncement. “I do. Isn’t that stupid? It’s so stupid because it won’t happen, and we agreed to be friends because we were so dumb last time, and so foolish and young. And I don’t want to be foolish and young. I want to be smart and mature.”

  She takes a beat, then asks softly, “How’s that working out for you?”

  A fresh, hot well of tears rises up and falls from my eyes. I drop my head in my hands. “I hate everything.”

  She laughs, but it’s a loving laugh. “That’s the issue. You’re not a hater, Lola. You’re a lover. You’re a smart, vibrant, strong woman. The last thing you are is a hater. But you’re also stubborn.”

  I raise my face, letting her truth weave its way into my heart. She’s more than right. She’s bull’s-eye accurate, and I can’t hide from the truth anymore. “And afraid. Don’t forget afraid.”

  She takes my hand, squeezes it. “But you don’t have to be afraid. You don’t have to be scared you’ll be like your parents, blinded by love. And you don’t have to be like your sister, a wonderful but loose cannon.”

  “I don’t have to,” I say, nodding, agreeing, feeling.

  Because she’s right. Holy smokes. She’s so damn right.

  I don’t have to make their choices. I can love without losing my humanity, without losing myself.

  I can love, not how they love, but like myself, with my whole heart and my head too.

  And dammit, my head is on straight.

  I’m not my family.

  I’m not my sister.

  I’m not Lucas’s parents.

  I’m my own person, and I can choose to love in my own way.

  I raise my face, wipe the tears, and speak from my heart. “I don’t want a halfway love. I don’t want the middle ground. I want all of Lucas—the friendship and the connection and the sex and the love and the French fries.”

  Amy scoffs playfully. “Well, always say yes to the French fries.”

  But there’s something I need to say no to.

  Something I need to kick to the curb.

  My fear.

  It’s time to shed that bitch.

  28

  Lucas

  The voice grates on my ears.

  She’s too cheery.