So what if I let myself momentarily enjoy a conversation with the man who was once a confidante and a very kindred spirit?
Especially since he seems to be enjoying himself too, judging by the hint of a smile on his lips. “That’s great, Lola. I always imagined you’d do your own thing.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, you never seemed like the kind of woman who’d want to take orders. You want to give the orders.”
I laugh at his assessment—the truthfulness of it, and the reality, too, of running a business. “Mostly I’m giving orders to myself.”
It’s his turn to laugh. “Yep. I know that well. Morning, noon, and night. It’s a never-ending list of things you need to do.”
“But you wouldn’t change it?” I ask, curious to know if he’s happy too. If the dreams of his twenty-one-year-old heart have come true nearly ten years later.
“Nah. I’m too opinionated to work effectively for someone else.”
I let my jaw hang open. “You? Opinionated? I had no idea.”
“Pretty shocking, isn’t it?” He drums his fingers along the shelf near a jar of silvery buttons. They seem to catch his gaze. “Speaking of opinions, the cover you did for Sex and Other Shiny Objects?”
I brace myself at the mention of a romantic comedy that Amy edited. It hit bookstores a month ago. And considering he told me my Fashion Roadkill cover looked like it was designed by a pigeon on meth, I’m betting he has nothing nice to say about the silvery buttons on the cover of the rom-com. “Yes, Lucas?”
His eyes meet mine again, and they’re softer this time, a little gentler. “Terrific cover. One of your best.”
My stupid heart glows. I shouldn’t like his praise so much. But I do, oh, how I do. Because he’s so damn talented, and because he rarely doles out praise. “Thank you. That one has a special place in my heart.”
“As it should,” he says.
“And while we’re at it, I should tell you that your If Found, Please Return cover was fantastic. It wasn’t derivative at all. It was great.”
“Thank you,” he says, a genuine smile playing on his lips.
“It’s going to be tough going up against you in the competition.” That admission hurts my professional soul the slightest bit, but it’s also freeing.
He takes a beat. “I can absolutely say the same about you.”
A voice cuts in. “Thank you so much for waiting. What can I do for you?”
The pink-haired woman flashes a happy-to-help grin, and I wish the other customer had taken all night. Because I was actually enjoying that moment of truth with Lucas. It felt like old times, when we spoke to each other from our hearts and souls.
But I have to set that moment aside, because I’m here for one reason, and it’s not to tease Lucas, or to glean intel. Nor is it to get to know him all over again.
“We’re here because we’re looking for a stash of acoustic guitars,” I begin, then dive into the story. When I finish, I add, “I know it sounds crazy, and I feel a little crazy asking. But I’m sure my sister and Rowan met here, so I figured this must be where the landlord left the guitars as part of his caper. Any chance you have a couple guitar cases from Harrison Bates?” I ask hopefully. Hell, I practically bat my lashes.
“I wish,” she says.
That response doesn’t compute. “You wish?”
She sighs in longing. “My God, that sounds like a fantastic way to spend a Friday night. To be enlisted in a scavenger hunt. That’s like an awesome Sunday Funday activity, only it’s Friday. It’s a sign that this is going to be a great weekend.”
Enlisted. That’s an interesting way of putting it. I imagine Harrison lining up his troops, prepping them for his grand payback adventure.
I try again, hoping to jog her memory, while my pseudo ex leans against the wall like he’s waiting, just waiting to say I told you so.
That’s the reminder I need of who he is. He’s not the man who doles out earnest praise. He’s the man who wants me to be wrong. The man who didn’t apologize.
I snap my gaze to the woman in pink. “And you’re positive, Eloise?” I ask, reading her name tag. “My sister has told me about your store. She’s obsessed with buttons.” I implore her because the guitars must be here. “And she bought the—”
“The red-and-gray plaid ones,” Eloise chirps. “She showed me her costume when she finished it. She was the most adorable—”
“Schoolgirl,” supplies Lucas in a sexy rumble. “She went as a schoolgirl. Like I said, they met at the comic book shop. He was working on his costume. The store is a few blocks away.”
My shoulders tighten, and I swear I’m clutching the edge of a windowsill of a tall brick building, clinging white-knuckled, rather than climbing in and admitting I’m wrong. “Fine. Let’s go to the comic shop.” I turn to Eloise. “Thank you though. You were so helpful.”
“Anytime! And if you ever need buttons, I’m your girl.” She waves as we head to the door. “And tell Baxter I said hi.”
I stop, swivel around. “Who’s Baxter?”
“He runs the comic book store. He’s a sweetie pie. Everyone loves him.”
“Thanks, Eloise,” Lucas says. “I’ll say hi to Baxter for you.”
After we leave, I brace myself for Lucas to slice, dice, and I-told-you-so me to ribbons. It’s coming, and it’s going to suck.
7
Lola
But as we hit the sidewalk, maintaining a rapid clip, he only smiles and waits.
“Fine,” I blurt out after two blocks like that, frustration bubbling over in me. “Fine, they met at the comic shop. You’re right. You’re so right. What do you want on your sandwich?”
“Everything.” Each syllable drips with sex and self-satisfaction.
This man has turned into such a cocky bastard.
Except, wait.
Wait a freaking minute.
Something doesn’t add up with his comic shop logic. “Hold on,” I say, slamming my arm against his chest—his solid-as-a-plank chest. Were his muscles this firm in college? Actually, they were. A college athlete, the man knew how to treat his body like a temple.
“Ouch,” he teases, adopting an over-the-top wince.
“Stop it. It didn’t hurt. You’re built of concrete.”
He wiggles a brow. “Thanks. Lacrosse helps.”
I grit my teeth. Like I want a reminder of that sport. “Of course you still play.”
“It wasn’t the sport’s fault, Lola.”
“I’m well aware of that,” I say coolly, then I draw a deep, calming breath. It doesn’t matter what happened that weekend in college. Doesn’t matter how he ditched me after kissing me passionately—and more—and asking me out.
Doesn’t matter that I’d waited in my dorm for our first date, all dressed up, ready to go with him to a department dinner, or that I’d gone alone instead.
When he didn’t show up that night or the next, I was so hurt, then so mad, then so certain he’d thought our night together had been a mistake.