Too happy.

  Too much everything.

  “And then he said, ‘Well, can I get you some coconut whipped cream?’ And I was like, ‘Did I hit the jackpot or what?’”

  I grit my teeth, willing the blonde at the table next to me to stop talking on FaceTime.

  But no such luck.

  “Cha-ching! You hit triple cherries,” her friend says at the decibels of a jet engine.

  The woman points at her on the screen. “He hit the triple cherry.”

  I groan at the terrible pun, my annoyance meter reaching one thousand as I try to review this client pitch while the ladies make bawdy jokes about cherries.

  The meter is about to run higher, because out of the corner of my eye, I see the blonde stand, glance around, and head straight for Reid and me.

  “Hey, can you just watch my—”

  “No,” I bite out. I don’t even look her way.

  She holds up her hands in surrender. “Oh, okay, sorry.”

  “Forgive him,” Reid says. “He knows not what he’s done. He’s having a bad week. We’d be happy to watch it. Especially for a pregnant woman.”

  I snap my gaze back to the blonde. Whoa. She has a basketball in her belly.

  “Are you sure?” she asks Reid.

  “Positive. My mate simply has his pants in a twist because he’s in love with a woman and can’t man up and tell her.”

  The pregnant woman laughs. “You should just tell her, sweetie.”

  I stare at Reid, my eyes narrowed to slits. “Seriously?”

  “Yes, I’m serious.”

  The woman holds up a finger. “I’ll be right back, and then I want to hear all about this.” She dashes off to the restroom.

  I huff. “No, I meant did you seriously need to tell her?”

  “Yes, I did. Because someone needs to tell you. Oh, wait, let me do it.” He squares his shoulders, clears his throat, and forms a megaphone with his hands around his mouth. “Get your head out of your arse.”

  I stare at him, unblinking. We’re two cats, facing off. I cast about for a snarky reply. Search for a smart-aleck remark. But I’ve got nothing.

  I just shrug.

  “So it is that bad,” Reid remarks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You have it so bad that you have no fight left in you.” He heaves a sigh. “You’re a mess.”

  “Yes. I am definitely a mess,” I concede.

  A mess of sadness. A mess of frustration. A mess of missing and longing and wanting.

  Seconds later, the woman waddles back, pulls up a chair, and says, “I’m Meg. I’m eight months pregnant. Tell me everything.”

  Reid smiles and extends a hand. “I’m Reid. Pleasure to meet you. This is Lucas. See his face? It’s a sad face. Why is Lucas sad? Because poor Lucas suffers from a pathetic condition known as pigheadedness. It’s preventing him from telling the woman he spent last weekend with that he doesn’t want to be just friends. That he wants to be with her literally all the time. And do you know the side effect of this condition?”

  “What is it?” Meg asks, enrapt.

  Reid taps his chest. “He’s infecting me with his negative mood. I’m an hour away from binge-watching tearjerkers and drowning my sorrows in Ben and Jerry’s.”

  Meg turns to me, frowning. “You shouldn’t infect your friend. You should talk to this woman you met.”

  “I didn’t just meet her. I knew her ten years ago,” I correct her. Facts are facts, and they need to be laid out. “We were great friends. The best of friends back then. And I was falling hard for her. But I said some stupid things, and we never made up, and we became enemies over the years. And then this weekend . . .”

  I take a beat as the memories of the weekend, still so damn potent, flood my mind and spread through all the molecules in my body. “We spent an amazing weekend together. Well, it was twenty-four hours, but I just knew . . . I knew,” I say, my heart crawling up into my throat again.

  Meg’s eyes widen. “You knew that you wanted another chance?”

  I nod. “Yes,” I say, laying it all out there for a perfect stranger and my best friend.

  “A second chance at love? And you’re sitting here sad instead of telling her the truth of your heart?” Her question is simple.

  And maybe that’s why it jars me.

  It knocks me out of my funk.

  My horrible mood caused by a terrible case of falling in love and burying that feeling like an ostrich shoving its head in the sand.

  I’ve been denying everything, ignoring everything, and forcing my feelings into a box, closing the lid and hiding it in a corner of the attic where it’ll be buried for years again if I don’t open it.

  Wait. That’s wrong.

  More like a lifetime.

  And that’s not a way to live.

  I stand. “No. I’m not sitting here.” I stab my finger against the table. “I’m not sitting here another damn minute. You know why?” I ask, suddenly emboldened. Because in the grand scheme of things, the last few days without her is the blink of an eye. It’s nothing. But we’ve veered down this road before. And no way am I taking ten more years to find my way back to her.

  Fuck adulting.

  Because this? This is adulting.

  Deciding.

  Right here, right now, I’m deciding to do love differently.

  Love might be dangerous, but not loving is deadly.

  I’ll take my chances. Because Lola is worth it.

  “Why?” Meg asks, returning to my question.

  “Because I fell in love with Lola ten years ago, and I never told her. And I lost her. I’m not losing her again.” I hold out my arms wide. “It’s that simple.” And when I say it, something loosens in me. Not a weight, but a knot. A knot of frustration at the world, at people, at the way things don’t work out. I turn to Meg. “I’m sorry I was rude about not watching your laptop. I get it. You had to pee. It’s all good.” I turn to Reid. “And I’m sorry I’m a dick sometimes.”

  “Sometimes?” he asks with a laugh.

  “A lot,” I correct.

  He waves it off. “You’re a good one, mate.”

  I turn to the pregnant woman again. “I think it’s great that your husband gets you coconut whipped cream. I have someone I want to do that for, and I can’t wait to tell her.”

  Reid cuts in, raising a hand. “But don’t you have to go make that presentation at the awards ceremony?”

  I smile. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  29

  Lola

  The thing about being the responsible one is just that—responsibility weighs on you.

  It nags you.

  It tells you to head downtown to the hotel where the Design-Off event is held, bring your laptop, and have your pitch ready.

  I’m wearing a blue pencil skirt, a white short-sleeve blouse, and polka-dot heels.

  I’m professional but artsy.

  It’s perfect for the presentation I have to give, right before Lucas’s slot.

  It’s perfect to wear as I share my vision with experts in my field.

  It’s perfect for being the responsible one.

  I have a plan. Present, wait, and then grab that man and tell him how I feel.

  But here’s the other thing.

  Hearts have a mind of their own.

  Because when I arrive at the Luxe Hotel, I don’t listen to my head. I listen to my heart.

  And my heart says he’s here.

  He’s waiting for me outside the building, looking cool and gorgeous in a charcoal suit with a crisp white shirt and no tie. His hair is messy, like it usually is, and the most delicious amount of stubble lines his jaw.

  Slamming the door of the cab, I hoist my purse with my laptop in it higher on my shoulder, and I walk.

  To him.

  To possibility.

  To a chance.

  Not just a second chance, but a terrifying and thrilling chance at love. The very thing that has taunted me my whole life.

  The demon I’ve hidden from.

  The monster I’ve avoided.

  But love can be so much more than that.

  It can fill your heart and mind with so much incomparable joy. And joy is what I feel. Not a shred of responsibility. Not an ounce of doubt.

  As I walk to him, he walks to me. A knowing grin is on his face. There’s a gleam in his chocolate eyes. A passion. An intensity that’s all his, and all mine, and all ours.

  We reach each other at the same time.

  “Lola,” he says, speaking first. “Do you want to know the whole truth of ten years ago?”

  I stop, startled. I wasn’t expecting that twist. “Yes, I do.”

  He takes a breath, steps closer, and cups my cheek. His hand is so warm, so right.

  “The reason it hurt? The reason it all went to hell so quickly?”

  “Yes?” I ask, my voice pitched with worry but also hope.

  His eyes lock with mine like he never wants to look away from me. “I was falling in love with you.”

  I gasp, bringing my hand to my mouth as tears fill my eyes. I’m not a crier, but for the second time today, a lump fills my throat. “You were?”

  He nods, his expression so earnest, so true. “I was falling so damn hard for you, and then everything combusted. And I was petrified. I’d been falling in love with you, and then I just lost you. I can blame my family for my fear of love. But I have myself to blame too. I hated losing you, but I didn’t know how to fight for you. And the end result was that, in my mind, love equaled pain.”

  My lips quiver, and I nod, understanding him even more now. I lift a hand and touch his arm, needing contact. “I was falling in love with you too,” I say, and that admission feels like a new kind of freedom as all the secrets of the past tumble free.

  His lips crook into a grin. “Is that so?”

  “That’s why I couldn’t bear to just be friends with you. I wanted more. I wanted it all with you. I didn’t know how to have it. But Lucas,” I say, taking a breath, drawing more strength, “that’s the reason I’ve never fallen for anyone else.”

  “It is?”

  “I gave my heart to you a long time ago. No one else could ever come close.”

  He groans his appreciation, a warm, sexy sound. Then his fingers thread into my hair. “Know what I think?”

  “What do you think?” I ask, unable to mask a grin.

  “That no one should come between us again. You’re the one, Lola. You’re the one who got away. You’re the one I want back. You’re the one I love.”

  My heart soars, flying free, taking off into the sky, rising to the stars. A wish that has come true. This moment is almost too much, but I want to savor every second of the recklessness, the risk.

  I rise up, press my lips to his, and whisper my deepest fear and my greatest joy: “I’m in love with you too.”

  He doesn’t let me go. He kisses me tenderly.

  He kisses me like we have years to make up for. Like I’m the one he wants to kiss tonight and tomorrow and for all time.

  As his lips explore mine, my head goes hazy, my body floods with endorphins. Tingles spread down my arms, across my skin, everywhere.

  We kiss like there’s nothing else in the world but us, our lips, our touch. Like the city’s millions can walk on by, the night can carry on, and we’ll do the same. We’ll carry on with each other.

  When we break the kiss, he looks woozy and ridiculously happy.

  Like how I feel.

  And I feel something else too.

  Something wild and daring.

  Something reckless.

  There’s a crazy beating in my heart as an idea takes hold. An idea that won’t let go. This is something my sister would do.

  And maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Maybe I can learn from the reckless one.

  I dance my fingers up the buttons on his shirt. “What would you say about screwing the awards?” I whisper, like we’re scofflaws, breaking all the rules. “Let’s be the irresponsible ones.”

  His grin says yes. “How about sex, bowling, and French fries?”

  “I’d sell my soul for that.”

  He draws me close. “But you don’t have to. All you have to do is let me love you as so much more than a friend.”

  “Consider it done.”

  30

  Lucas

  It’s safe to say neither one of us is going to win.

  It’s also safe to say neither one of us cares.

  Later that night, after round two, I grab my buzzing phone and check my email.

  It’s from the competition organizers.

  “Oops,” I say when I read it. “Turns out we were disqualified on account of not showing up.”

  She laughs as she shrugs. “Win some. Lose some. Win some more,” she says, then drops a kiss on my lips.

  Yep. I won.

  I won big.

  And later that night, she wins when I take her bowling at Pin-Up Lanes.

  She crushes me.

  But in my defense, I can’t stop touching her, kissing her, wrapping my arms around her. I have years to make up for. And I plan on doing just that.

  After the game, we indulge in fries.

  “It was one week ago when we were here,” she says, glancing around.

  “Who would have thought twenty-four hours would change everything?” I muse.

  She takes a bite of another fry, and when she’s done, she lifts her chin, a quizzical look in her eyes. “Do you think you can fall in love in twenty-four hours?”

  I shake my head.

  Her brow furrows. “You don’t think so?”

  I lean across the table and press a kiss to her lush lips. “I don’t think so. I know so.”

  When we leave, we pass the counter, and the guy in the vest snaps his gaze to us. “Hey! How did it all work out?”

  “We gathered all their things,” I say. “Got it all sorted out.”

  “That’s great,” he says, but then he makes a rolling gesture. “I mean the other thing. The thing Harrison was working on?”

  Lola’s brow creases. “That was it. The scavenger hunt thing?”

  The man’s expression falls, and he waves a hand. “Never mind.”

  But something else is going on. “What should we ‘never mind’?” I ask.

  The guy shakes his hand. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Just a crazy idea.”

  Lola tilts her head and smiles. “Maybe tell us.”

  The man exhales sharply. “It’s not my story to tell.” He takes a beat. “It’s sort of yours.”

  31

  Lola

  I whip out my phone at lightning speed.

  With guns blazing, I click open an email, ready to fire off a note to my sister’s landlord.

  But as Gmail auto-fills his address, a name blasts across my screen.

  Amy.

  I answer right away. Bowling pins clang on the hardwood from a nearby game.

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Remember that exclusive submission? The one I was meeting the agent about on Sunday night?”

  “Sure,” I say, recalling what she’d told me. “The comedy, right?”

  “It arrived this morning. I read most of it this afternoon. It’s spectacular. Sarcastic, clever, original, and full of more heart than I ever expected. I want it badly, and if we get it, I want you to do the cover.”

  “That’s great.” Only, I doubt that’s why she’s calling on a Friday night. “But . . .?”

  “There’s no real ‘but.’ Well, except the ending. It needs a better one. I’m going to talk to the writer about fixing the ending,” she says, excitement in her voice. “And a title change for sure. Talk about rambling. But the story felt somewhat familiar.”

  The hair on my arms stands on end, and Lucas shoots me a what the hell is going on look. “What do you mean, Amy? Is this bad?”

  She laughs. “No, it’s not bad. It’s . . . interesting.”

  I pull Lucas aside, around the corner, down the hall, sharing the phone as Amy tells us about the novel she received.

  It’s not The Happy-Go-Lucky Sadist.

  But it is written by him. He’s not a TV writer anymore. He’s writing books, and this one is called That Time I Kicked Out the Love Birds, Bowled a Perfect Game, and Hung Out with the Llamas.

  32

  Harrison

  What a difference quiet makes.

  I stretch my arms and sigh contentedly, pleased with the last week of my life.

  Is there anything better than conquering writer’s block?

  I think not.

  Well, fine. Maybe one thing is better—conquering it like a motherfucking badass, because that’s what I am. Judging from this late-night email from my agent telling me there’s interest in my manuscript, that’s exactly what I pulled off in a mere week.

  I settle down into my couch, crack open a new can of orange soda, and set my feet on the coffee table.

  Then I do my new favorite thing.

  I listen.

  To the sound of nothing.

  Nada.

  Zip.

  It’s heaven. A balm for the creative soul, and it’s unleashed a torrent of ideas during the last seven days. A caper of sorts. A comedy. One man’s journey to restore his faith in, well, himself.

  Through cheese and bowling, pancakes and alpacas, and dance lessons.

  That was unexpected. I never planned to take tango lessons. But I can’t seem to stop taking them.

  Or to stop seeing—

  Buzz.

  What is that godforsaken infernal noise?

  Oh, right.

  The buzzer.

  I heave myself up, head to the intercom, and ask who’s there.

  “Lola and Lucas.”

  Not gonna lie. That delights me. Those two are fascinating. Inspiring too. “As they say on The Price is Right, come on up. Well, it’s ‘come on down,’ but you get the gist.”

  I open the door to wait for them, and a minute later, the pair of riddlers strides toward me down the hall, curious looks on their faces.