Page 15 of How to Get Lucky
But here we are, cutting it off already. “Listen, tonight was great. I’m pretty sure it’s going to go down in a hall of records somewhere as the best first date ever.”
She smiles, soft and warm and so genuine. “It definitely is. There’s no way anybody anywhere ever had a better first date than us.”
I try not to grin like a fool. But it’s impossible when she says stuff like that. “Let’s just be honest. We set the bar tonight. This was the best first date in the history of time.”
“It absolutely was. People will be talking about it for ages,” she says, her smile making my heart flip.
Which isn’t helpful.
Not one bit.
“But, listen, my last relationship was all tangled up with work and family stuff. I need this job,” I say. “And I can’t. I just can’t.”
She holds up a hand, her voice so understanding. “You don’t have to justify anything to me. I totally get it. We’re on the same page. We are 100 percent on the same page, and I’m sorry I didn’t think about it before. I should have. I really should have.” She flicks me a flirty look, like she’s so damn good at. “But you’re kind of adorable.”
“Adorable?”
“Adorable is a good thing. Do not question the adorable compliment. It’s up there with hot, sexy, and smoking, but kind of better. In a class by itself.”
Here I thought adorable was reserved for puppies and grandmas. But nope, turns out adorable is hot. London thinks I’m hot.
I want to ride the high of that compliment.
Only, it doesn’t matter, since I need to stay focused on the reality of the situation.
I steer us toward safer waters. “Maybe we should just work together on this project of yours. I would love to help you. It would bring me a lot of pleasure,” I say, trying to tread carefully around that land mine of a word.
“So we’ll be friends,” she says in invitation, like it’s the most wonderful thing in the world, the idea of us becoming friends.
Maybe it is. Maybe becoming friends could be fantastic.
Except . . .
Even I’m not so much of an optimist or a fool that I believe that. You don’t kiss someone the way we kissed and then make each other friendship bracelets.
But you don’t kiss someone the way we kissed, learn she’s your boss’s sister, and keep moving forward either.
So, this is it.
We trade phone numbers.
For work, rather than for us.
When I open the door of her cherry-red VW bug, we lock eyes and hesitate. I don’t think either one of us is ready to say goodbye.
“I really did have an incredible time tonight,” she says as she slides into her seat. Somehow I find the will to resist bending down and kissing her one more time. Kissing her ear the way she likes it. Brushing my lips against hers, drawing out one or more of her sexy little sighs.
I’m not kidding when I say it’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.
* * *
I trudge up the steps to my condo, unlock the door, and am greeted by fifty pounds of I don’t care if you just had the worst best-date-ever, it’s time to show me all your affection.
David Bowie licks my face and gives that happy whine that says no matter how badly that sucker punch of a date hurts, he’s still happy to see me.
Which is reason number 10,522 why I love this dog.
I scratch his head. “Hey there, bud.”
I leash him up and pop next door to Mrs. Morales’s place.
It’s ten o’clock, but the lights are on. That’s my sign that it’s okay to knock.
Sherri opens the door, beaming up at me. “Mira. One of my favorite neighbors.”
I sigh in mock indignation. “I can’t believe I have to compete with Sam for that honor. Is Vin Scully listo?”
Her little beagle, named after the greatest sports broadcaster of all time, answers the question of whether he’s ready by jumping on my leg.
She clips on his blue leash, which matches his adorable Dodgers bandana. “Tú eres un ángel, oso de peluche.”
I smile at Sherri’s term of endearment. She has called me Teddy Bear ever since I moved across from her. Growing up in Los Angeles, I learned to speak Spanish from an early age, so Sherri and I switch back and forth between languages when we talk, like we’re playing verbal hopscotch. “Ah, now you’re pretending I am your favorite.”
“Absolutamente. Since you’re taking him for his late-night escapades.”
“Por nada.” That’s the truth. I walk her guy with mine nearly every night—if I’m home before midnight.
She gives me a curious once-over, eyeing my jeans and crisp white linen shirt, sleeves rolled halfway up my forearms. “You’re looking sharp.” She winks. “Did you swipe right on someone? I bet she swiped right back.” She taps her chin. “Wait. Is that how it works? It’s right when you like someone? Left when you just want a hookup?” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Did you have a hookup tonight?”
