She glances up from the phone, the corner of her lips quirking. “‘Ringmaster,’” she says, like she’s testing the word on her tongue. “That works. Though personally I like to call him ‘The Happy-Go-Lucky Sadist.’”

  I scrub a hand across my chin, considering this nickname. It’s not bad. Not bad at all. But I can’t give an inch to this woman. She is a ferocious tiger, and she’ll pounce. Like she did when I ran into her at an industry conference a year ago. Checking out the paperback jacket on display at one of the booths, she’d said my design for the memoir If Found, Please Return was a top candidate for the new award category Imitation Is the Sincerest Form of Flattery, since she claimed it was the spitting image of a cover from another publishing house.

  My cover had released first, I pointed out. Then I told her that her cover for Fashion Roadkill looked like it was drawn by a pigeon on speed.

  That was a red-hot lie. That cover was earth-shatteringly good.

  “I’ll stick to ‘Ringmaster,’” I say, furrowing my brow as I laser in on the mission. Trouble is, I’ve been noodling on the first item all day, but I’m not positive where my brother and his girlfriend met. Hell, does Rowan even know? Doubtful. But I bet Lola knows, since that’s the type of stuff girls gab about. “So, do you know where Luna and Rowan met?”

  “Of course I do.” She parks a hand on her hip, like the answer is so obvious. “The Cute As A store.”

  I lift a doubtful brow. “What are you talking about? What store?”

  She huffs, flapping her arms, pointing down the tree-lined street. “It’s ten blocks away. The button shop,” she says, taking a beat like she’s waiting for me to connect the dots. But the dots remain disconnected. “As in, ‘cute as a button.’ Luna was hunting for a new plaid dot button to go with her good-luck plaid skirt, and Rowan needed one for his Anakin Skywalker costume for a party he was going to. A Halloween party.”

  I blink, shaking my head like I can clear the ridiculous from it, though it’s hard to know where to begin sorting out that infodump. I start at square one. “Is there actually a store called Cute As A instead of Cute As A Button?”

  She laughs lightly, the gold flecks in her eyes twinkling as she does. “It’s a pretty bad one as far as names go.”

  I gesture to the sidewalk in the direction of the store. “I’d say it’s officially trying too hard.”

  “Right? No one knows what it is when you first say it. You always have to fill in the gap,” she says as we walk past the brownstones then a gourmet mustard shop tucked between two buildings. “Just call it what it is, right?”

  “There is definitely way too much let’s-try-to-be-clever going on in this world. Like specialty mustard shops.”

  “And toe-ring stores,” she adds.

  I swivel around, scanning for such an offensive jewelry boutique. “Please tell me there is no such thing.”

  She snaps her gaze to me and lifts a hand like she’s taking an oath. “I swear on a stack of Anne Rice novels. I actually passed a store in Soho the other day called This Little Piggy, and it sells all sorts of toe rings. Coral, platinum, and rose gold. They size your toes, measure them, and custom-make toe rings too.”

  I cringe. “I feel like I might need to unlearn everything you just said.”

  “Oh, trust me. I’d like to go back to the days when I was more innocent too. Alas, I’ve had to accept we live in a world with This Little Piggy. And Mightier Than.”

  My mental wheels turn, trying to place that name, then it clicks. “The designer pencil shop? The one in Queens? With carpenter pencils? Vintage pencils? And pencil sets with all colors of the palette?”

  “Don’t forget you can buy an old-fashioned schoolhouse pencil sharpener there too,” she says.

  “How could I forget that? Especially since I’m always in the market for something that reminds me of elementary school,” I deadpan.

  “Next thing we know, there will be Play-Doh shops for adults.”

  I shudder. “Stop. Make it stop.”

  We reach a walk sign at the crosswalk, scanning left and right to make sure it’s safe. “We can’t make it stop. The world only spins forward, and next thing you know, the Play-Doh shops will have wine and spaghetti-hair-making classes too,” she says as she steps into the street. Out of nowhere, a motorcycle whizzes toward her, hell-bent on running the light. Pulse spiking, I grab her arm, yanking her hard out of the street and smack back onto the sidewalk.

  Stumbling, she slams against me, her spine to my chest as the motorcycle screeches to a stop. In a split second, my arm ropes around her waist, her body tight against mine.

  Like it was that night.

  The memories flood back in a rush—her scent, her sounds, her moans. How she said my name.

  As I tell myself to focus, her breath catches, and she gasps. “Holy . . .”

  My heart stutters, adrenaline pumping through me. “Yeah.”

  “Wow,” she says under her breath, shuddering.

  “You okay?” I ask softly, trying not to breathe in the luscious smell of her hair. She smells like a tropical sea breeze, and that is not fucking helpful. Nor is the snug way she fits against me, her curves lined up just so.

  “Yes. I’m fine.” She takes another deep inhale, then brushes her hands over her shirt, gently tugging away. “I didn’t see him coming.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t at first either,” I say, wishing for a second that she were still sealed to me.

  But that’s a stupid wish, so I focus on the dickhead on the Vespa. A DoorDash bag hangs on the back of his bike, and he’s tapping away on his phone. Seriously?

  I cup my hands around my mouth and call out to the asshole, “Put your phone away! You could have killed someone.”

  But my helpful suggestions fall on deaf ears. The light’s changed again, and he’s cranked the throttle on the bike, revving away.

  Lola, seeming less shaken now, stares at me like I’m a dog doing a handstand.

  “What?”

  She points, drawing a circle to encompass me. “You’re one of those people now?”

  My brow creases. “One of what people?”

  “Those people who yell at strangers,” she says, smirking.

  “For texting and driving and nearly killing someone? Yes. Yes, I am.” I own it as we wait for the walk sign again.

  “Lucas Xavier from São Paulo.” She gives a satisfied sigh, saying my name the same way she did the first time we met in a graphic design studio class at art school, like it tastes good in her mouth.

  I’m Lola Dumont from Miami, but I was raised in New York, and I want to be a great designer, she’d said.

  Lucas Xavier from São Paulo, and I grew up in Connecticut, and I want to be an even better designer.

  Then I guess we’ll see who wins, Lucas Xavier from São Paulo.

  “You always did want to save the world,” she continues. “I just never thought you’d do it this way.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  “You know what I mean. You were the king of causes in college. You were always taking up rallying cries. Free speech. Recycle more. Save the forests.”

  “Those are all good causes.” To make my point, I grab an empty water bottle from the sidewalk and drop it with panache into a recycling bin at the corner. I wait for the satisfying thwap of plastic against plastic. “There. The world is a tiny bit better now.”

  “I’m not arguing with you over the value of those causes. They are definitely worth speaking up about. But do you think shouting at an asshole biker is going to do anything? If he heard you, it would probably only inflame him.”

  The light changes and we cross, hitting the next block. “I disagree. I bet it’d make him think twice next time,” I say, holding my ground.

  Her eyebrow climbs, then she laughs and pats my shoulder. “Such an idealist.”

  My eyes drift to her hand. To those long fingers curled over me momentarily. To the casual everydayness of her touch. We were like this before—playful touches, friendly hugs, the kind of tangled up in each other that you can only be in college with a big group of friends spread out across futons, listening to music, eating takeout, and debating the future of art, business, and the world itself.

  And then, for one brief night, she and I were more.

  Now, her eyes lock with mine, and heat flashes in her irises, a look I remember far too well. It pairs perfectly with that scorching memory of her calling out my name. She yanks her hand away, stuffing both into her jeans pockets.

  “Anyway, thank you for saving me from the biker,” she says. She’s suddenly cool Lola again, in-charge Lola, marching forward to the stupidly named button shop.

  That’s the Lola I know.

  Not the one who gabs about silly names and remembers my passions from college.

  And definitely not the one whose heart seemed to race too, when she fell into my arms.

  Though to be fair, she was nearly run over.

  Yes, I am an idealist, but I’m also a realist. That’s the part of me that knows better than to entertain any dangerous thoughts about Lola.

  When we arrive at the button shop a few minutes later, a memory clambers up inside me—the image of my brother dressed as Anakin Skywalker. But it wasn’t a button Rowan needed for his costume. He was hunting for an Anakin Skywalker comic book. I shake my head adamantly when I scan the shelves from the window. “This is wrong. This isn’t where they met. They met at a comic book shop. I’m sure of it.”

  She rolls her eyes as she reaches for the handle, jerking her head toward the inside of the store. “No, they didn’t. They met here. Luna told me all about it. How their eyes locked over a jar of plaid buttons. How he asked what it was for and listened intently as she detailed her beliefs in good-luck outfits. Something he wholeheartedly agreed with.”

  I shake my head, digging in my heels. “Nope, it was a comic book store. The one three blocks away. He was doing research for his costume. The Skywalker costume.”

  “He researches his costumes?”

  That’s my brother and his passions. “He’s extremely committed to costume accuracy and always has been. Halloween isn’t just a holiday for him. It’s a reason to wake up each morning, because every day is one day closer to the next Halloween.”

  “And I thought I was a Halloween fangirl because I like those Costco mini peanut butter cups you only see in October,” she says offhand.

  I scoff. “Great. Tempt me with peanut butter cups.”

  She lifts a brow. “I didn’t realize that was your temptation.”

  “You said it yourself, woman. They’re the best peanut butter cups under the sun, and now I’m starving. So, thanks for that.”

  She pouts sympathetically. “Aww, poor Lucas. Want me to get you some for your craving?”

  “Yes. It can be my reward for being right. Because I’m positive they met at the comic shop.”

  Her eyes are fiery as she stares at me—a hard, you’re-so-wrong stare. “And I’m positive they met here. So, I say winner gets treated to dinner and peanut butter cups, because this girl is ready for food.” With that, she jerks open the door and advances into the store like she’s leading an army.

  “I ate already,” I call out. It’s a lie though. I’m famished.

  But she doesn’t care about my appetite, because she’s a woman on a mission.

  So am I—on a mission, that is.

  A quest to avoid the temptation of her again.

  Trouble is, she looks insanely hot as she strides over to the counter, acoustic guitar acquisition in her crosshairs.

  Damn. There is just something about her confidence that turns me on when it shouldn’t.

  It shouldn’t at all.

  Except it always fucking did. Her boldness was my Achilles’ heel when I first met her, and it’s doing a number on me now too.

  6

  Lola

  The pink-haired woman with the pierced lip raises one finger. “I’ll be right with you, sweetie. Let me just finish with Sabrina.” She scurries to the corner of the shop, joining a customer who’s surveying brass buttons.

  “Thanks,” I say, a little strained because I want to get this show on the road.

  But I have to wait till she’s free.

  Maybe this will be a chance to scope out the competition for the award. Dig into his approach for his presentation. Except how the hell do I butter him up to tell me a damn thing?

  By chatting more.

  A simple conversation.

  Yes, that’d be the best way.

  As the two women talk, I wander past the pink pastel shelves, checking out jars of buttons. “So, here we are,” I say, with an impatient sigh. “Exactly where I thought I’d be spending my Friday night.”

  “Where did you think you’d spend it? Did you have a hot date you had to cancel?” Lucas ends the question with a saucy little sound, like he’s toying with me.

  Time for me to toy with him.

  I tap my chin, staring at the ceiling. “Not tonight. Pretty sure the hot date was slated for tomorrow. I wonder what I should wear . . .”

  He scoffs. “Is he taking you to the mall? Or a fast-food restaurant?”

  I shoot him a withering look. “No. A club. Dancing. I think I’ll wear something sexy. Maybe that shows a little midriff,” I say, teasing him too, because I know his weakness. His eyes always went a bit glossy when I wore short shirts. I don’t even think he was aware of his addiction.

  Or . . . that he still has it. Because he licks his lips when I describe the possible outfit. Oh my. Lucas still loves a hint of skin. “How does that sound?” I ask innocently.

  His expression is stone-hard. “Don’t wear that.”

  I crease my brow. “No? Are you sure? It sounds like good clubbing attire.”

  “A sweater is better.” His voice is rough now, like he’s having trouble getting the words out.

  I tap my chin, like I’m deep in thought. “A sweater? That doesn’t sound like I can shimmy my hips easily in it.” I give a little sway for demonstration. He’s like a dog watching a piece of steak. “I think something nice and snug would do the trick on a white . . . hot . . . date.”

  His jaw ticks. His lips are a ruler. “I hear overalls are hip.” It sounds like he drank battery acid.

  Oh, I could put him out of his silly jealousy-fueled misery, but I don’t want to. And playing the flirt is much more fun than the thought of playing Double-O-Seven.

  I smile widely. “Good idea. Overalls can be hot. Maybe I could get some overall shorts and just wear a teeny-tiny sports bra underneath.” I turn my attention to a jar of rhinestone-encrusted buttons, grinning privately.

  He steps closer, then clears his throat. “So, you do?”

  “Do what?”

  “Do you have a hot date tomorrow night?”

  I peer at him out of the corner of my eye as I dip a hand into the jar, fingering some buttons. “I don’t know. I’d have to check my calendar.”

  “Guess we better finish by tomorrow night, then,” he says, like the words are strangling him. “Don’t want you to miss a possible date.”

  Or maybe he’s strangling the words, because it sounds like he wants to throttle the idea of me having a date. I spin around, meeting his gaze.

  Holy shit.

  His eyes blaze at me, dark and shimmering with envy. It’s unexpectedly arousing. Tingles spread down my arms as gooseflesh rises over my skin. Lucas Xavier is jealous, and it turns me on.

  Just like it did years ago.

  “Exactly. I wouldn’t want to either.” I toy with him as I run my fingers over the buttons, like they’re on a man’s shirt.

  His eyes pin mine. He’s like a gunslinger in the Old West, refusing to back down. “I’m sure Mr. Fabulous will take you to a perfectly average club, engage in by-the-book dancing, mix in some standard getting-to-know-you conversation, then walk you home like a perfect gentleman and ask if he can call you the next day. That sounds terrific, doesn’t it?”

  Sounds like the battery acid is now mixed with arsenic.

  I tap my chin, considering such a date, toying with him more. “That doesn’t sound too bad. But what if I don’t want him to be a perfect gentleman?”

  Flames lick over his eyes. Plumes of jealousy rage around him. But he doesn’t say anything. He reaches into the jar, fishes around for a button, and brushes his fingers across mine.

  I gasp.

  A blatantly obvious gasp.

  Dammit. I gave myself away.

  He grins, the satisfied smirk of a man who knows what he’s doing. Right now, he’s doing me. Stroking one long finger across the top of my hand. “Then make sure to tell him you’d rather he toss you over his shoulder, carry you up the steps, and show you all the ways he can be ungentlemanly.”

  My knees go weak. My breath hitches. And my hand defies me, staying there, asking for more of his touch. More of these taunting little strokes, like he’s proving I don’t have a date just by touching me.

  His talented fingers feel so damn good on mine.

  But I have to get a handle on this latent lust. I can’t let it control me.

  Squaring my shoulders, I remove my hand from the jar. “I’ll be sure to give him that message,” I say in my best cool voice.

  I swivel around, suddenly fascinated with a jar of pink buttons.

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure he can figure that out on his own,” he whispers.

  Yes, I suspect Lucas has figured that out too. And his jealousy turns me on too much for my own good, so I choose another tactic.

  Honesty.

  “I don’t have a date,” I say, going for directness. “Not tonight, not tomorrow, not for the foreseeable future.”

  His expression shifts instantly. Gone is the caveman. In its place is a thinking man, asking questions. “You’re not seeing anyone?”

  I shake my head. “No. Work keeps me busy.”

  He swallows roughly, nods, then says, “Same here.”