Page 36 of How to Get Lucky
“Insomnia, you are a certified rock star and an official lifesaver. I’ve had more compliments on the music than I can count. I’m leaving you the best five-star review in the history of the internet.”
“What more can a guy ask for?” Not much. Five-star reviews are up there with blow jobs and tacos. Not always in that order, of course. I’ve had some pretty righteous tacos.
“Can I pass out a few of these?” Bloom asks, motioning toward a small stack of business cards on the table.
“A few, a lot, all of them—whatever works for you. And thank you. I appreciate it.” I shoot her a huge grin, then throw on my headphones to fade to the next track. As a Michael Jackson number shifts into Tina Turner, I sneak a peek and find the other reason why I like this wedding.
Fine, fine.
I’ve been checking her out all night.
But there’s nothing wrong with enjoying the view.
Especially when the brunette beauty heads in my direction.
She walks over to my deejay setup in perfect rhythm to Tina’s smoky wailing. God bless tight tops—London’s decked out in a light-blue dress with a scoop-neck thing that makes it impossible to look away from her tits, which are bouncing slightly with each step. The dress hits her knees, proper enough for a wedding, but sexy enough to absolutely drive me crazy wondering what she’s wearing underneath. Shaking away those thoughts of blue lingerie, white lingerie, red lingerie that matches her glasses—hell, any color lingerie—I shoot her a cocky glare. “You just can’t stay away from me,” I say, heat and challenge in my tone.
“I know. It’s impossible. I tried.”
“How hard? How hard did you try to stay away?”
“So hard,” she teases. “I tried to go on ignoring you for the whole wedding, but I caved just now.”
I laugh. “Glad you did. You having fun?”
“I’m having a blast. But I had to duck out for the last hour. Nate and I both forgot to bring the wedding gift, so I just ran back to their place to grab it.”
“That must’ve been a really important gift,” I say.
She leans in closer and stage-whispers, “It’s an Instant Pot.” She sets the wrapped cube down on the edge of my table.
“That is important. Some people think the rings make a marriage official . . .”
“But it’s actually the Instant Pot,” London finishes my joke, and we share a flirty look.
One that spurs me on. “London, why don’t you just admit you came to the wedding to see me?”
She narrows her eyes, pointing at my chest. “You crashed the wedding,” she teases. “Nate asked me to be his date a week ago.”
“If you say so,” I toss back.
She crosses her arms. “Just admit you took the job so you could see me.”
I laugh. “Fine, fine. I wanted to watch you dance. You caught me.”
“Knew it,” she says. I shouldn’t like flirting with her, because of work, because of my past, because of her brother. But when I’m around London, she has a way of derailing all rational and irrational thought.
I have a way of forgetting everything else.
Like promises I made to myself.
And if I stay in the flirting zone too long, I may lose higher brain function entirely, and I need that for work.
Maybe she’s wary of the fine line between flirty and fun too, since she changes the topic to an innocuous one. “So, what’s your favorite wedding song ever?”
I go with it, since I’m still on the clock.
“‘Uptown Funk’ by Bruno Mars has to be a pretty strong contender. That always gets the people moving. But it’s also not a wedding without a little ‘Unchained Melody.’”
“Mmm, the Righteous Brothers’ second-best song.”
“True. What would Top Gun be, after all, without ‘You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’? But that’s probably not the best title for a wedding song.”
“Maybe the worst title ever for a wedding song,” she says with a laugh. Music is great, but her laughter is quickly becoming my favorite sound. “How about if you had to dance to one song at a wedding? What would it be?”
“What are we talking here? Slow dance? Fast dance? Group dance?”
“Deejay’s choice,” she says.
“Slow dance definitely goes to ‘At Last.’ Etta James classic.”
“Mmm. And what if you wanted to speed it up a bit?”
“Well, I have a confession to make. I’m an awful fast dancer,” I admit sheepishly.
“That’s a shame.”
“Why’s that?”
“I love the fast tunes. If you throw on any Usher or Queen Bey, you can’t keep me off the dance floor,” she says, tossing her gaze toward the sway of bodies.
But I barely notice the guests, because my head swims with memories of London dancing downtown the other day, and on my phone this morning. I can’t stop my eyes from traveling the length of her curvaceous body.
I don’t want to stop them on their voyeuristic journey up her legs, around her hips, to the dangerous dip of her dress that exposes just a hint of freckles scattered across the top of her breasts.
