Page 20 of How to Get Lucky
I take in her loosely braided hair and the way those jeans were made for her curves.
As I make my way to her, I smile and offer her a one-armed hug, because this thing between us needs to stay aboveboard. I value my job, I respect her brother, and I don’t want a repeat of what happened with Tracy’s dad. I have to keep my personal life and my professional life in their own lanes, double yellow line between them.
Better yet, a retaining wall.
But the scent of orange peel takes over and derails my train of thought.
I linger in the hug for longer than I should.
When we break apart, I try to clear my head and control my pulse. Work meetings should not get my heart rate up to wind-sprints level. “Great to see you again. But ice cream before dinner? You are trying to make me enjoy Monday, aren’t you?”
“That’s the goal. I intend to change your mind about Mondays.” Her smile curves slightly higher on one side of her mouth, and I’ll be damned if it’s not the cutest thing ever. “I hope this place works for you.”
“Absolutely. I love the market. I even took the train down from my place. Super easy.”
She shoots me an I’m impressed look. “I didn’t think anybody took public transportation in LA.”
“I’m not sure anybody does, but hey, they built it—may as well give it a shot. Plus, let’s be honest—driving is the worst.”
“Driving is almost as painful as finding out the adorable guy you want to date is off-limits,” she says.
I laugh. “Still not as painful as finding out the adorable woman you want to date is off-limits. That’s the worst of the worst.”
I’m glad we’ve got that out in the open.
That we’re acknowledging the score.
And that we’re going to stick to the plan.
If she can be up-front about this, I can too.
Hell, we’ve got this.
Cutting through the din of the open-air market, Ben Folds’s “The Luckiest” blares from a boom box on a nearby deli counter. London points toward the music. “But hearing this song? Definitely not the worst. This song rocks.”
“Best of the best. Ben Folds is a stellar songwriter.”
I have a theory about certain songs. Sometimes something happens in your life and a song you’ve heard a thousand times becomes new again. You hear it as though for the first time, because in many ways it is.
This could be one of those moments—an old song becoming new.
But that seems like an observation you might share with someone on a date—not at a business meeting between two like-minded professionals who are putting their careers first. Maybe there’ll be another time for it.
For now, it’s time for ice cream. “Want to grab those cones?” I ask.
“It’s like you can read my mind. Shall we walk and talk? I do my best thinking on my feet, especially when powered by my favorite food group.”
“Walk and talk and eat is a great idea. McConnell’s has the best mint chip in the city, so I’m an easy date. Plus, I’ve been told that counts as a veggie.”
“You’re learning my ice cream ways,” she teases.
“I find ice cream logic quite convincing.”
We step up to the refrigerated countertop to order. While my heart may be set on mint chip, the swirls of strawberries and cream and gooey chunks of white-chocolate raspberry are too tempting to resist.
I avail myself of the generous sampling policy, trying both.
London rolls her eyes. “You are powerless to resist the sample.”
“No one can resist. Plus, it’s fruit and veggie and dairy and everything my body needs.” I could say the same about London—my body needs this gorgeous woman, and God, I’d like to sample more of her.
She holds up her hands, shaking her head. “No need to justify the science of ice cream to me, nor the philosophy of free samples.”
I opt for mint chip in a waffle cone, and London picks a cup of salted caramel with graham crackers, claiming it meets the daily quota for grains. My wallet is out and ready to go, but she sets a hand on my arm, and my brain melts faster than this double scoop. “My invite, my treat,” she says as she swipes her card.
I like to treat a woman when we go out, but this isn’t a date and it’s not my place to push. Plus, I’m not gonna lie—it’s pretty sexy to see her being both considerate and assertive at the same time.
Not that her sexiness matters. This isn’t our second date, or our third date, and we already outlined the off-limits rules mere minutes ago.
Once we’re a safe distance away from the shop, London shoots me a playful look. “You said at the get-go that you wanted mint chip.”
I take a slow lick from my cone. “I did say that. But I can think I know what I want and not be sure until I’ve done some taste-testing. Experimentation is the key to self-awareness.”
