How to Get Lucky Read online

  Her grin grows wider. “Yes. Good memory.”

  I give myself a virtual pat on the back.

  “He insisted on sharing the pint and listening to why I was in a funk. I did both, and he said something wise and pithy like ‘You’re an asshole if you don’t take chances.’”

  I laugh. “Yes, that is wise and pithy. Also, true.”

  She shrugs happily. “I took a chance. Gave it a try. And it was life,” she says, drawing out the last word, clearly enjoying the memory.

  “I love basically everything about that story, except for one tiny detail.” I hold up my thumb and forefinger to show a sliver of space.

  “What’s that?”

  “The food choice. I prefer to do my deep thinking with a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.”

  She gives a playfully stern shake of her head. “I have to disagree. Nothing beats B & Js.”

  I can’t help myself. “That’s true. Everyone loves good BJs. I know I do.”

  A laugh bursts from her as she quirks one eyebrow—that damn sexy one again. Though, in all fairness, both are sexy. All of her is sexy. “Do you now? How much do you love them?”

  I can’t answer right away, because I’m pretty much on fire from those words on her pretty lips. “More than I love Prince’s ‘Purple Rain.’”

  “The song or the movie?”

  “Both.”

  “High praise.” It comes out flirty, borderline dirty.

  It takes everything in my power not to jump across this table and cover her mouth with mine. This woman is hot. And clever. And easy to talk to. Plus, she gives such good flirt.

  I take a sip of my Asahi to cool down and return to her story so she doesn’t think I’m a sex-crazed maniac with a one-track mind. “So, you put your ego aside, took your friend’s advice, and it worked out,” I prompt.

  “Everything clicked—all of a sudden, my work had no physical limits. With choreography, the only ceiling is my imagination.” She picks up another edamame, pops it from the pod, then into her mouth, and when she finishes chewing, says, “But enough about me. I want to hear about you. I truly enjoyed your ‘emceeing’ last night,” she says, sketching air quotes. “But especially your song picks. They were spot on. Then I learned you weren’t a fourth-grade DJ prodigy, and I was shocked.”

  “Yes, it remains shocking to me as well.” I shift to a more earnest tone. “But honestly, I’ve had a similar experience with deejaying. I could never master an instrument the way I wanted, but I was cool with that because I love putting music together even more. Devouring it, experiencing it, sharing it. All genres, all eras, which is why I love doing any kind of event—corporate, weddings, what have you. I’ve done a few, but nothing serious. It’s what I want to do under my own banner, with my own business. It’s what I do, too, with a weekly radio show I have. Playing other people’s music, at the right time, in the right order, can be its own form of expression.” I laugh lightly. “That probably sounds corny, right?”

  Or maybe not. Because the way she’s locked onto me while I’m talking makes me feel like I’m the only guy in the room—hell, the only guy in the world.

  And this date is nothing like the ones I went on with Tracy. London is nothing like my ex. Maybe, just maybe, my luck is changing. Hell, what are the chances the first woman I’ve asked out since my ex skewered me would be so fucking dope?

  I could never have imagined my Sunday night going this well. But hey, synchronicity. It’s my turn. I’m going to enjoy this great date, and maybe soon it’ll lead to all that great sex.

  She jumps in, answering my question. “It does not sound corny. It sounds awesome. You know what else sounds awesome?”

  I lean in, eager to hear. “What’s that?”

  “That yellowtail you were hyping earlier. And it looks like it is heading this way.” Her eyes drift past my shoulder, and I follow her gaze to the sashimi, sushi, and rolls on a porcelain boat that a server carries toward us. He sets the tray down, we thank him, then London and I both go straight for the wasabi to add to our soy sauce. Nice to see I’m not the only one here who likes it hot.

  “You like sushi with your wasabi, I see,” I say dryly as she drowns the fish and rice in the good green stuff.

  “I like it hot, and I’m not afraid to admit it,” she says, then leans to the right, rooting around in her little purple purse, fishing for something. She dangles her keys, and I grin like a fool.

  “I have one too,” I say, grabbing my key ring to show her the mini bottle of sriracha on it.

  She drops her voice. “Is yours real though?”

  I laugh, like that’s the craziest thing I’ve heard. “Yes, London, it’s real.” I add in a whisper, “Want a hit? Also, why are you asking if it’s real when you have one too?”

  “Mine’s purely decorative,” she says, setting the keys back in her purse as I put mine in my pocket.

  I wiggle my fingers for her to fess up. “You’re going to need to explain the nonfunctional sriracha bottle. Because . . . why? Sriracha is better than almost any hot sauce anywhere.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. But there are risks in life you take—like choreographing a new show—and risks in life you don’t take—like the chance of sticky red goop spilling all over your purse.”

  “Sure, I get that. But I could argue—lip balm, lipstick, mascara. Those all go in purses too. They could also spill.”

  Her mouth falls open. She shakes her head, whip fast. “First, the risk of lipstick spillage is smaller than the risk of hot sauce spillage. Second, those are necessities and worth the risk.”

  “I could argue sriracha is a necessity. Much like wasabi,” I say casually, popping a piece of yellowtail into my mouth. “Also, why do you have a decorative bottle? Is it to pledge allegiance to the alliance of sriracha love?”

  “Obviously. Also, it’s a good luck charm. My brother gave it to me for fun, and the day he did, I snagged the job in Vegas.”

  “I suspect it was talent that nabbed you the job, but I wholly support homages to the gods and goddesses of luck.”

  “Gods and goddesses. I like that inclusive spirit, Teddy.” Her eyes lock with mine, and holy hell. The spark in them is doing things to me. As in, all the things.

  “Also, you get me,” she says, still holding my gaze. “You clearly get me.”

  Oh, do I ever want to get her.

  In pretty much every way.

  Is this what it’s like to feel instant attraction? Perfect chemistry?

  If it is, I am all in for both.

  Throughout the meal, we talk a little more about luck, then dive into all things nerd, from Star Wars to Adult Swim.

  As she plucks at pieces of tuna, snapper, and eel, I notice her chopsticks game is on point, and I can’t help thinking of how good her nimble fingers might be at holding something else, much thicker than a chopstick.

  Obviously.

  I snag another piece of fish off the plate and take stock of this moment. I don’t want to forget any of it—the cool beach breeze, the way her face dances in the candlelight on this patio, the one freckle under her right eye that I want to trace with my tongue.

  Note to self: find my passport when I get home because I want to spend some time in London.

  An unexpectedly wet noise breaks my reverie. It’s coming from a couple at a nearby table. London and I snap our gazes to them at the same time.

  Because . . . holy loudest lip-smacking ever.

  We’re talking full-on face-suck.

  I lean closer and whisper, “Is it just me, or is he trying to Hoover her whole face?”

  She cringes but laughs too. “I hope we’d try a soft butterfly kiss first. That’d be my suggestion.”

  And I like that suggestion.

  In principle.

  Not for them though. For her and me.

  A few tables away from us, the man’s hands slide to the back of the woman’s neck and he tilts his head a bit, angling for more. He twists his tattooed hand in her lon
g, straight dark hair, tugging on her locks. If he’s not careful, he’ll get them caught in his bracelets. Guy must think he’s Johnny Depp.

  They show no sign of letting up. “Should I let them know?” I ask. “Offer them a tip or something?”

  “No. I kind of like to observe,” she says, like it’s a naughty confession.

  And it’s one that interests me very much. “You like to observe strangers kissing?”

  She shrugs with a smile. “Why not? If they’re going to kiss in public, I’m going to exercise my right to observe. Ooh. Look. He’s going for a lizard kiss.”

  I steal a glance. My eyes pop. The guy’s tongue is flicking snakelike into his date’s mouth. But they don’t seem to care. “Mmm, that seems a little animalistic for dinner. Personally, I’d have to recommend the earlobe kiss. Great starter kiss at a restaurant. Sophisticated without being too over-the-top.”

  London’s eyes turn heated, like she’s intrigued. Very intrigued. “That’s your recommendation for kissing choreography?”

  “Yes. It’s not too PDA-y, but definitely could leave her wanting more.” We both seem to have forgotten about the hipster couple and have locked firmly onto each other. At this moment, I’ve forgotten everything else in my life too. My business plans, the raise . . . all that melts away, and I only feel this burning desire to connect with this woman. Honestly, emotionally and physically.

  And right now, the physical is front and center in my mind. “But, of course, I’d welcome your opinion, as a professional choreographer,” I add.

  “Since you asked, I’d want to know . . . what exactly would that earlobe kiss feel like? I mean, if you had the chance to try it out on a date.” Her tone is soft, even more inviting than before. “Say, after sushi, on a dimly lit patio.”

  I move closer, my voice barely above a whisper. “It would probably feel something like this.”

  5

  I bring my face near hers, our cheeks grazing. Her breath catches as my lips make their way across her jaw. Gently, I kiss along the top of her ear, nuzzling my nose into her hair. I inhale her scent, like freshly peeled oranges, as I kiss delicately along the outside of her ear. I take the lobe into my mouth and suck gently as she exhales on a soft moan, letting me know she’s into this as much as I am. I file that intel away—how she murmurs when I kiss here right there.

  Let’s see if she likes this—I bury my nose in that perfect spot behind her ear where her hair meets her neck and give her a firm kiss and a soft bite. Not enough to leave a mark, but enough to let her know I want to leave one.

  I linger a second longer, cupping her face with my other hand, breathing with her. Her skin prickles, my heart races, and I lean back to take her in. Her eyes glimmer with the first sparks of lust. Her lips part the slightest bit.

  She looks blissed out. I feel the same.

  After another heady moment where the air between us is still charged, she takes a drink of water, pushing her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. “That’s pretty good. I suspect if you did that on a date, the woman would find it very . . . tasteful.”

  “Good to know. Also, maybe she’d find it . . . hot?” I ask, going fishing.

  She nibbles on the corner of her lips, her cheeks flushing. “She would.”

  My pulse spikes, and yes, yes, yes. My luck is all changing tonight. “Hopefully that opportunity will present itself one day.”

  “I hope so too . . .”

  But before I can even entertain the idea of trying another kiss on her, our server returns to clear our plates. We order a green tea ice cream to split, and I hope that dessert never arrives because I could sit here with her all night.

  She drums her fingers on the table, then draws a deep breath. “I wanted to tell you, Teddy, that I’m having a great time. But . . .”

  My stomach plummets like a weight, sinking me. Nothing good can follow but.

  “I hope this isn’t too presumptuous, and I feel like I’ve been kind of forward with the flirting, and . . .” She stops, an apology crossing her warm brown eyes, and that look sinks me a little further. “And the kissing.” She stops again, flapping her hand in front of her face like she’s waving away the awkward.

  I wish her success with that because I want it gone too. I have no clue where she’s going with this except no place good.

  “Which I really liked,” she adds in a rush, and her tone sounds legit.

  She doesn’t seem like she’s dealing me a line. An it’s not you, it’s me send-off.

  Everything about her vibe feels real.

  I want to convince myself that’s a good sign, but liked, as in past tense, isn’t what I want with London. I don’t want there to be anything past tense about our kissing. Or any kind of tense.

  But . . .

  “And that’s my worry,” she says, a little more professional maybe. Distant, even. “Because I got ahead of myself, focusing just on the date part. Which I completely want and wanted. I’m having so much fun with you, and I think you’re so great, but I also did want to talk to you about a project. And I don’t want to forget in the midst of all that kissing.”

  That should make me feel better.

  But it doesn’t.

  “Right. The project,” I say evenly. I don’t want to let on that I’d hoped it would be a sex project. It’s probably something miserable involving PowerPoints or spreadsheets or other shit I hate. Like maybe she wants me to make a spreadsheet of all her favorite music.

  I like London, and I’ll do a lot for a woman I’m into, but I draw the line at spreadsheets.

  She smiles widely, going for the close. “See, I thought we could pair up, because I’m working for the club too.”

  I flinch.

  What did she just say?

  “You work for the club?” Each word comes out occupying its own real estate.

  Because this is Road Runner dropping the anvil and then painting the tunnel on the brick wall. And I just ran smack into it.

  She works for the club, and that means hands off.

  Hands all the way off.

  Because of the Do Not Do List.

  It’s a code that matters to me. It’s one I want to abide by and honor.

  “Just on a contract basis, but yes.” Excitement trips through her tone, the same enthusiasm I heard when she first spoke about her professor, the sign that she loves what she does. “I’m going to be working on a new female dance show for Edge to start out on Wednesday nights. The partners that own the club have had so much success with the male revue, they want to see if they can bring the same fun and energy with female dancers, but not in a revue style. No stripping—sort of like background dancing. Think more Cirque du Soleil than Spearmint Rhino, but still a little sexy,” she adds with heat in her eyes.

  This is all news to me. I’m surprised Archer hasn’t mentioned it. “Sounds interesting,” I say.

  “I have some ideas I’m so excited about, and you’re great with music. I always like to make sure I’ve got the perfect music, and it’s good to work with experts. And you seem to know just the right songs for the right moment. I have some epic moves planned and some super-sexy numbers, and the whole thing is going to be fire.”

  “Sure, sounds great,” I say, doing my best to stay enthused.

  Because, hey, this is good. It has to be good. The better the club does, the better I can do. Besides, working with London could be . . . fun.

  Challenging too, since I’d probably be turned on the entire fucking time. But sure, fun.

  “Would you be willing to help me out? I can pay you,” she says, her voice pitching up, maybe with nerves.

  I shake my head, dismissing that notion. “I’m happy to help.” I’m not going to take money from her, especially since she’s an employee too. I need to help. I should help.

  The smile that lights her face almost makes my disappointment worthwhile. She looks gorgeous like this. Happy, animated, pursuing her passion.

  Maybe we can simply hit pause on the kis
sing.

  Pick it up where we left off once her contract is up.

  “Thank you,” she says. “I’ve been looking for the right person, and you’re perfect. So perfect I could kiss you.”

  Well . . . maybe one more for the road.

  “If you insist,” I say offhand, like she won’t really take me up on it.

  “Do you want me to insist on it?” The question comes out both flirty and shy.

  Like she wants the kissing and the work project.

  All I want right now is another kiss.

  And it seems we’re on the same page, since she sets her glasses on the table and leans across it. And I’m leaning right back, and in the next hot second, our lips press together.

  This is no butterfly kiss.

  No earlobe nibble.

  It’s full-on. No holds barred.

  The waves lap lazily on the shore as our lips crash together, a hungry, needy kiss.

  I should stop. Really, I should.

  But fuck stopping.

  This will have to be our last kiss, so I'm making the best of it.

  I take charge, caressing her cheek, sliding my thumb along her jaw.

  Deepening the kiss even more.

  My tongue slides between her lips, and she parts for me, and this is all there is. The waiters, the couples, the beach itself all slip out of focus as my world narrows to only her.

  The taste of her lips.

  The feel of her kiss.

  The soft little sigh she makes as we slow things down.

  Then a sweet, almost shy murmur.

  Which is funny because London doesn’t seem shy.

  Except sometimes she does.

  This woman is full of contradictions and complexities, and I want to explore them.

  I want to uncover them with her, be the one to learn everything she likes, and then give that to her, do that to her, for her.

  Except I can’t.

  I have to remember that.

  That was one last kiss.

  She sinks back in her chair, and I do the same, and we look at each other like What’s next?

  But what’s next is work.

  I need to stay the course. I’m about to tell her there are rules, since she might not know, but she speaks first, exhaling deeply, like she’s both relieved and delighted.