Page 61 of How to Get Lucky
But at the same time, what can he say that’ll change things? I already pulled the rip cord.
And survived.
I made my choice.
The other choice I want to make is her.
London.
I’m dying to see her again, touch her, kiss her.
Talk to her.
Figure out if we can take this thing off ice.
Heat it all the way up again.
Do I need to wait for Archer’s nod of approval?
As soon as that thought lands, I dismiss it. This is my choice. Her choice. Our choice.
And I only want to choose her.
She’s been on my mind all day long, and as the guys launch into a new routine Carlos choreographed to Sam Smith and Demi Lovato’s “I’m Ready,” I weigh my options.
Call London tomorrow? Text her? See her? Go to her place with a salted caramel ice cream cone and say, Be mine?
I lean back in my chair, contemplating, as the song echoes through the club.
As it does, I listen.
And I know.
The title can only be a message.
A command.
One I need to follow right this damn second.
I am ready.
Fuck waiting.
When you know you want to be with someone, when you know she’s the one, you don’t wait.
You do.
As the chorus blasts through the club, I open the message app on my phone and tap out a text to her.
Teddy: I can’t stop thinking about you. I don’t want to take a break from you any longer. I want to see you again. I want to talk to you. Tell you everything I figured out. Because I’m crazy for you, London. Text may not be the best way to tell you everything, but let me know if you’re around.
I read it one more time, my finger hovering over the send button.
I am ready, no doubt.
But I’ve been learning that being ready means doing things right.
I’m not an expert on love, or women, or even great sex. But I’ve discovered this much from being with London and working out what I want.
A text isn’t enough.
When you want to tell a woman you’re in love with her, you need to show up in person.
Bring her a gift.
Do things the right way.
I hit delete.
* * *
The moment the last song of the night fades out, I grab my gear, tap the doorframe twice, then stop by Archer’s office to finish our conversation.
But his door is shut.
I shrug. So it goes. He’s not the priority any longer. London is. I’ll catch up with him another day.
Sam waits by the front of the club, and I tell him I need to swing by Target before I head home.
“Sweet. I’ve been jonesing for some Cinnamon Life cereal, and Target has those big-ass boxes.”
“Are you so hungry you’re going to eat a whole box tonight?”
He frowns. “You’re right. Six-packs don’t grow on trees. I’ll get some yogurt instead. Thanks for looking out for my abiliciousness.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I was doing.”
A little later, Sam is digging into his yogurt, I have a bag of home-baked dog treats in the center console, and we’re cruising along the streets of Los Angeles after midnight on the way to London’s house.
Sam hums thoughtfully. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t it almost two in the morning?”
The green display on the car’s dashboard confirms he can tell time. “It is.”
“Does she want you to show up at two in the morning?”
I smile as I turn onto her street. “That’s where this gift comes in.”
“Oh. She’s one of those women who likes you to leave gifts at two in the morning? I’ve heard of the existence of such ladies, but I haven’t met any.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m going to leave a gift on her doorstep. It feels like something a Jane Austen hero would do.”
“Leave dog biscuits?”
“Yes. Captain Wentworth would, and he’s the bomb,” I say as I pull over, parking at the curb.
He seems to consider this, then nods. “Sure. I’m down with that. You’re a regular Mr. Knightley.”
I jerk my head back. “From Emma? Who are you?”
He scoffs. “Dude. How far do you think abs like these can take me? Only so far. Gotta back up the sixer with what’s up here.” He taps his temple. “I worship at the altar of Jane Austen. And for the record, Mr. Knightley wins. He was no bullshit with Emma. You should go the Knightley route.” Sam adopts an aristocratic Victorian tone. “‘I cannot make speeches, Emma . . . If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. But you know what I am. You hear nothing but truth from me . . . Yes, you see, you understand my feelings.’”
“Is that what I should say to London?” I ask.
“No way.” He smacks my sternum. “Don’t recycle another dude’s words. Speak from your heart.”
That should be easy enough.
My heart is full for London.
