Page 19 of How to Get Lucky
I furrow my brow. “It’s not a euphemism for sex. We are legit meeting for work stuff.”
He shakes his head. “No, man. Sounds like a euphemism for how painful your lack of a love life is about to become.”
“Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
“Don’t shoot the messenger. You’re the guy who just signed up to help a babe you like with”—he stops to chuckle—“choreography.”
And he’s right. Helping her with dance moves sounds like a recipe for disaster. Too bad I left my earthquake kit at home.
I load the rackets into the trunk of my car.
“You have time to swing by Ricky’s? Grab some fish tacos?” Sam asks.
I look him dead in the eye and tell him a universal truth. “I always have time for fish tacos.”
Tacos for lunch, ice cream for a snack, and my radio show tonight? Plus, some London time? Mondays might be looking up after all.
9
Monday afternoon
From the Woman Power Trio, aka the text messages of London and her two besties, Olive and Emery
London: LADIES.
Olive: Uh-oh. She’s breaking out the all caps.
Emery: That means shit just got serious. London is about to take a pledge.
London: THE ALL CAPS PLEDGE.
Olive: I am listening.
London: I CAN PULL OFF THIS WHOLE WORK-AND-FRIENDSHIP THING WITH TEDDY. WATCH ME. I DID MY YOGA. I SET MY INTENTION FOR THE DAY.
Olive: And that intention is to refrain from jumping on the guy you’re hot for?
London: Yes. My intention is work-related. Not spark-related.
Olive: Or three-dick-related. You’re not touching any of his three alien dicks?
London: THERE WILL BE NO DICKING, ALIEN OR OTHERWISE.
Emery: Impressive restraint. Yoga is indeed good to you.
London: When I see him, I’m going to discuss my routine and ask questions. Like what kind of music works with this routine? What genres play well in the club? What inspires you creatively?
Olive: “Seeing your ankles over my shoulders inspires me.” (BTW, I totes said that in a deep, sexy, manly voice.)
Emery: We know!
London: Your man-voice is so sexy, Liv. Also, ankles-over-shoulders-related-questions are off-limits. Along with another question I won’t ask: if I wasn’t your boss’s little sister, would you press your body against mine and kiss me until my lips were bruised, my knees wobbled, and my stomach flipped?
Olive: Pro tip? Also don’t ask, “Do you want to go home with me so I can show you how flexible I am?”
Emery: She is super flexible. It’s pretty impressive.
London: *sends selfie of touching my elbow with my tongue*
Olive: Stahp, stahp. You’re turning me on, and I need to go make drinks.
Emery: I need to get back to work. I have pitch meetings, and now all I can think about is London’s elbow tongue twisters, you pervert!
London: Are you impressed with how I got all my pervy tendencies out with you two clowns?
Emery: Yes, but if he’s into elbow licking, we have other issues.
Olive: Issues I want to hear about! I love kinks. Any kinks, even elbow-licking ones.
London: There will be no elbow licking or other displays of flexibility.
Emery: But if you do cave, send a full report.
London: I WILL NOT CAVE. YOU HAVE MY WORD.
10
I pop out of the Pershing Square subway station shortly before two with my most comfortable Chucks on my feet and one gorgeous brunette on my mind. I’m not entirely sure what London has planned for this brainstorming session, but the fact that I’m going to see her again works for me.
Except that is the kind of dangerous thinking I need to avoid. London is off-limits. Period. It’s a damn good thing she set this meetup at one of LA’s busiest locations. A public spot to talk over some ice cream guarantees we won’t make out like teenagers an hour before curfew.
As I enter the bustling market, the smells of barbecue, pupusas, and fresh-baked bread assault my senses in the best way. Some parts of LA can make you feel like you’re traveling the world without leaving the city, and Grand Central Market is like that, with its eclectic mix of international cuisine. From homemade pastas to grandma’s tamales, this place has whatever I’m craving.
As I turn down an aisle, the McConnell’s Ice Cream sign beckons, as does the woman standing under it. My gaze locks onto a pair of red glasses framing deep brown eyes that I swear, even with yards of space and dozens of people between us, are looking at me like she’s as psyched for our second date as I am.
Nope. Stop. This is not a date.
This is definitely not our second date.
It’s our third.
The dog park was kind of the first. Sushi was the second. So, if it were a date, which it is not, this would be number three.
I need to slam the brakes on that kind of thinking. Trouble is, slowing this car keeps getting harder because none of my thoughts about London are friendly.
Very few are professional.
