Page 32 of How to Get Lucky
But I’ve got too much riding on my career to get sidetracked now, especially with new opportunities like Bloom’s wedding in my future.
I’ll be friendly and businesslike if it’s London. But my mom’s name pops up on the screen.
Mom: Ready when you are.
Since I haven’t heard from her in a few days, this text must be for someone else, so I use this as an excuse to call.
“Hi, Teddy. Good to hear from you.”
“Question, Mom. Ready for what? Chess? Mah-jongg? Key party?”
“Oops, did I send that to you? I meant to text your father. We’re brunching. Day date.”
“You text him even though you live in the same house?”
“We’re a modern couple. Don’t be so surprised we know how to text.”
I shake my head. “That wasn’t the surprise. It was that you didn’t just yell up the stairs.”
“We like to text.” Do I hear a hint of coyness in her voice?
“Okay, then. Carry on.”
“We will. We like to text about a lot of things.”
I cringe, even though my parents have always been a touchy-feely couple. Which I truly don’t mind. I just don’t require details. “Mom, I don’t need to know that.”
“Hush. You weren’t made in a test tube.”
“Still don’t need to know that you and Dad like to text.”
“I didn’t say what we texted about,” she says, all faux demure.
“Yes, but I got the picture.”
She scoffs. “We don’t send pics. That’s too risqué. Please tell me you don’t send dirty pics to women.”
“Mom!”
“You’re still my son, and I’ll still look out for you.”
“I don’t send dirty pics. I’m not even seeing anyone.”
“That’s a shame. We can try to find a nice girl to bring to the cages on Monday for batting practice.”
I groan. The last thing I want is a blind double date with my parents. Sure, I love them, and I get a kick out of going to Dad’s softball games, where Mom brings him orange slices like she did for me when I was a kid.
But a blind date?
No, thanks.
“Call me crazy, but seeing the two of you is enough for me. And do me a favor, Mom?”
“Sure.”
“Double-check before you send me a text meant for Dad.”
She takes a beat, then says, “Think before texting. Those are some words to live by.”
Words to live by indeed.
And I do just that all day as I resist the urge to text London. I also keep my eye on the prize while working at Edge that night.
Bills fly across the stage. Women cheer. The music pounds.
And the tips are the best they’ve ever been.
It’s a great Friday night.
As I make my way out of the club, Archer’s behind the bar, working on his laptop, probably tallying up receipts.
He tips his chin in my direction. “I heard the news.”
I flinch, my skin prickling with nerves. Is he toying with me like he did with London? I toss out a curveball. “That the Dodgers are leading the division with one month to go?”
Please tell me he’s talking about baseball.
“That is indeed excellent news. But I meant about Bloom.”
Is he pissed I’m doing business with a customer? That’s not against the rules though. Plus, Archer knows about my side-hustle plans. He’s never had an issue with it before.
“You heard about her wedding?” I ask carefully, since I’m not sure what’s coming next.
“One of her friends forgot her phone, so they came back in last night, and Bloom was talking about having nabbed you last minute for her wedding. That’s great. Good to see you growing your business.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “I’m stoked. I met with her earlier today about the music she likes. Should be a good event.”
“Definitely. London says Bloom knows how to throw a party.”
My head spins in a complete 360. “London said that?” I croak. Why would London say that?
“She was telling me the other night that she’s going to the wedding. With Nate, since Eli has to go out of town for work.”
Right. Bloom was here at Edge in the first place because of Nate.
And now London is going to be at the wedding.
But there will be no rogue kissing.
Hell, how could there be? I’ll be at the DJ booth, and she’ll be with Nate.
So, I’ll behave. It’ll be easy.
So. Damn. Easy.
“Then I’m looking forward to the wedding even more.” I hastily add, “Since London said it’ll be a good gig. That’s why I’m looking forward to it.”
No other reason, of course.
Archer tilts his head, his expression serious. “But should I be looking for a new deejay?”
“What?” I jerk my head back. “No. Why?”
He drags his palm across his forehead in exaggerated relief. “Whew. Good. Because I don’t want to lose you when you become the city’s most sought-after wedding deejay. Finding a good deejay is harder than finding good dancers. A six-pack, some stage presence, and a few solid moves aren’t hard to come by in this town. But someone with encyclopedic knowledge of tunes, who’s quick on his feet with a quip and a comment? That’s hard to replace.”
