Page 53 of How to Get Lucky
“My job is fun. But it’s also not my endgame. So it’s time to start my endgame sooner. And you’re part of that reason.”
“I can’t argue with that. And of course I want to be with you. I’m so into you. I can’t believe it’s been less than two weeks, but I just am.”
There she goes again.
Making me feel like I’m on top of the world.
“You’re doing everything to me, London.” I lean across the table to drop a kiss onto her lips. She kisses me back, soft and slow, and it goes to my head.
To my heart.
Makes me feel like all these plans are possible.
That luck is real.
When I break the kiss, she’s still smiling. “Before I met you, I wanted to just focus on my career,” she says. “Find some great opportunities. But then you showed up at the dog park and . . . well, I like you a lot, Teddy. I want to see where this can go.”
Ah, hell.
I might be swooning right now—melting here at the table.
I like this woman so much.
Although it’s so much more than like.
“Good. Because I’m thinking we should now take on the dating challenge, the sixty-nine challenge, and the getting-to-know-you-even-more challenge,” I say, and we both break out in stupid grins.
“I’m up for all of those.”
Our eggs arrive, and as we eat, we geek out over the recent science podcast episode about why microwaves cook from the outside in, as London feeds bits of melon to Mr. Darcy.
It’s a perfect morning to cap off a perfect few days.
And I feel like the luckiest guy in Los Angeles.
Nothing and no one can change my luck.
Of that I’m sure.
So sure that we don’t even order dessert. If I play these cards right, I should be able to have my career and London too.
And that’s a hell of a lot tastier than pie.
30
On Tuesday evening, London and Mr. Darcy make a welcome return to my place. The dogs enjoy a rawhide on Bowie’s spot on the floor, which he’s graciously sharing with the little dude, while London and I dine on grilled chicken salads that I ordered from a great café down the street.
What? Cooking is hard.
London edges me out, three games to two, in a Jeopardy! marathon, and we end the night with some marathon sex. We both win at that.
After I meet with my new clients on Wednesday to prep for their events, London and I spend the afternoon at her place fine-tuning the set list for her video shoot while I admire her moves, her curves, and her sexy-as-sin work ethic.
“I can’t wait to show off this routine to Edge ownership,” she says, breathing hard, but smiling harder. “And then to see the dancers put it in motion.”
“The crowds are going to love it. The partners will love it. And so will Archer,” I say, but I nearly choke on the name.
I’ll give him notice in two more days, and then I’ll be on my way to everything I want—the career, the woman, and the life.
* * *
That evening, we play mini-golf then go to her place. The dogs are officially besties now, and there’s nothing cuter than my fifty-pound bruiser cuddling with his teacup companion. I’m quite partial to snuggling up to Mr. Darcy’s owner too, which we do that night.
Then we practice some new choreography. But these moves are just for the two of us.
* * *
On Thursday, I wake with a knot coiling in my chest, mixed emotions swirling through my head.
Sure, my side hustle is firing on all cylinders, and so is this thing with London. But that only amps up my need to move on from Edge, which has to wait till Archer returns from his oxymoronic corporate camping excursion. That should be a relief—having to wait just twenty-four more hours—but I feel like I’m living on borrowed time, waiting to be called into the principal’s office.
But that’s silly. I can’t be called in, since he’s out of town. I’ll get the jump on him and talk to him the second he returns.
I try to narrow my thoughts on that plan.
I spend the morning hiking with Bowie, but the clear blue skies do nothing to get me out of this haze.
After, I work on my playlists for my upcoming events, send out another round of inquiries, email my new clients, then make my way to Edge.
Once there, I help with the prep work for London’s performance. The playlist is cued up on the club speakers that are set to auto-fade while I stand in front of the stage, phone camera ready to film her work.
She moves through Nirvana, Taylor Swift, Imagine Dragons, Duran Duran, and Survivor with grace, power, and sex appeal.
I hope the camera captures her raw magnetism and electric sensuality as palpably as I can feel it live.
