My smile widens. “Definitely. Maybe just for a few seconds. I invited Luna to go with me, but I didn’t think she ever showed up. Which is typical for her.” I bounce on my heels, ready to hitch a flying carpet to Manhattan to get the damn guitars.
“And I invited Rowan to go with me. But I didn’t think he showed up. Which is also typical for him.”
“Or maybe you were too busy checking out the cat,” Baxter says in a stage whisper. “Oops.”
I grin wickedly, like a sexy black cat, because that little nugget makes me purr. Maybe I’m vain, or maybe I’m simply human. But for the longest time, I’ve been sure that Lucas had never been into me the same way I was into him. That he’d rejected the possibility of more with me and his parting comment that weekend was his sole truth.
Perhaps it wasn’t.
“It was a good costume,” Lucas says, owning it.
“Glad you enjoyed my fierce feline look,” I say, a little flirty, and it feels like I’ve slipped back in time to that night we were tangled up together, kissing deeply, holding tightly.
“It was the fiercest.” His voice dips to an appreciative rumble.
Sparks shimmy over my skin, but I ignore them. “And what were you that night? If memory serves, there was shirtlessness involved.”
“A fireman,” he says, a little smoky.
An image flashes before my eyes. Lucas, in turnouts, suspenders, and no shirt. No wonder I don’t remember if my sister was at the party.
But today I’m operating with blinders on, because I’m here for a reason.
For Luna.
The person I love. The person I look out for. She’s my little bird, and she needs help, even if she made this mess.
I turn to Baxter, needing to make sure we’re following the right clues. “This means you don’t have the guitars? The ones the landlord left?”
Baxter shakes his head. “No guitars here.”
We thank Baxter and catch a cab to Pin-Up Lanes. As soon as I click my seat belt in, my phone dings with a text message. The Charlie’s Angels’ theme music tells me it’s my group chat with Amy and Peyton.
Amy: Dear Diary, it is nearly nine and we have not heard from Lola. We fear she is trapped in a sexy-ex vortex. We will continue to hold out hope for her.
Lola: There is no vortex, I assure you.
Peyton: She’s alive! But how do we know this is truly you? Prove it. What does Lola have tattooed on her ass?
Amy: Wait. Lucas might know that. Ask something else.
Peyton: You’re right. The confidentiality of ass tattoos is too easily compromised. How about this? What did Lola recommend I keep an open mind about when I was in the midst of the Project Sexy Scenes research last fall with Tristan?
Lola: Lube! Also, I do not have an ass tattoo. Or any tattoos for that matter!
Peyton: You passed!
Amy: It’s you! You’re safe! Hallelujah!
Lola: Yes, you devils. It’s me. I’m fine, and everything is fine, and we are making progress.
Amy: Define “progress.” Are you: A) Fighting with him? B) Rolling your eyes at him? C) Wondering what he looks like naked?
Lola: All of the above, but I’m not acting on C. We’re going to Pin-Up Lanes for guitars.
Peyton: Get the rosemary fries there. They are delish.
Lola: I know! I don’t ever resist rosemary fries from Pin-Up Lanes.
Amy: Words to live by. But before the great French fry consumption begins, what is the status of your efforts to tango horizontally with the one who got away?
Lola: I never said he was the one who got away.
Amy: You don’t have to. That’s what we call him on your behalf. When we aren’t hating him for you.
Peyton: Do you need a sexy new bra-and-panty set first? Because I can messenger one from my store to your place stat.
Lola: No bra-and-panty set is necessary for fry-eating because there will be no removal of clothes. We are on our way to a freaking bowling alley.
Amy: You’re going to get naked with him there? Like, at the ball return? In the restroom? Or will you do it on the scoring table? Also, does this mean the hating is over?
Peyton: Nudity at a bowling alley ought to make for an interesting Friday night.
Before I can tap out another response, we pass a cheese shop.
“Stop!” Lucas shouts.
The cab squeals to the curb.
“What the hell?” I ask.
“The Star Wars shirts,” he says, a smile lighting up his face. “The note said: Because your Star Wars T-shirts are where you argued over where you first met! Hint: there was cheese involved, you little hipsters.”
And my expression matches his. “Yes! She loves going there.”
The sign on The Grater Good says it closes at eight, so we rush in with three minutes to spare. This feels like how we were. This was us back in college before everything went belly-up—having fun, playing games, exploring the city together.
Lucas marches over to the bearded man in a leather apron who’s arranging handwritten signs in front of the cheese display. “Friday night cheese craving? I can solve that,” the man says with a smile.
“Excellent. I’ll take some Gouda and whatever the lady wants if you tell me you’ve got a bag of Star Wars T-shirts with our name on them?”
The man smiles. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
And we leave a minute later, with Star Wars T-shirts, a wedge of Gouda for him, and some Manchego for me.
And cheesy grins on our faces too.
Two down. Five to go.
The guy with the vest and horn-rimmed glasses lugs two guitars out from behind the counter at the bowling alley, and I clap my hands with excitement. Progress rocks.
“Thank you so much,” I tell him.
“No problem. But I’m not gonna lie. I didn’t think you’d make it tonight,” the guy says, shaking his head. “Even had a bet going with Harrison when he dropped these off.”
I furrow my brow. “You did?”
“Hell yeah. We played a round, he bowled three hundred, then asked me to store these things. And I said if you weren’t here by the end of tonight, he’d owe me a six-pack.” The man smiles ruefully. “Kinda wish you’d shown up later.”
Lucas laughs. “I’ll send you a six-pack myself as a thanks for keeping these safe”—Lucas scans the name tag on the man’s tweed vest—“Parker.”
Parker’s gray eyes light up. “Yeah? You would?”
“Sure. You kept these safe for my brother. What’s your poison and when does your shift end?”
Parker says midnight and names his favorite IPA while Lucas taps his phone. He swipes a few more times. “Done. Delivery for you coming at midnight. Thanks again.”