One Night Stand-In Page 3

  “A day you don’t entirely have to spare.”

  “Then I’ll make a deal with the landlord and buy him off.”

  He arches a dubious brow. “Do you hear what you’re saying?”

  “I do.”

  “And you realize you’re thinking of paying off a landlord to help your twenty-five-year-old brother?”

  I wave a hand dismissively. Reid doesn’t know the half of it. Helping Rowan is what I do. It’s what I’ve always done. Because somebody has to. “It’s not a big deal,” I insist.

  “Maybe not this time. But perhaps next time he asks you for a favor, consider saying no. You do it so well with strangers. Try it with family.” He demonstrates, nodding at an imaginary person. “Thanks, but no thanks.” Then another. “Appreciate the offer, but I have to decline.” Then one more. “No fucking way. I will not pick up your stuff all over Brooklyn, and if you’d have asked me to watch your laptop, that would have been a ‘hell no’ too, complete with a spank for being stupid.”

  I roll my eyes. “And on that note, I’m going back to work, since tonight I’ll have to collect his things.”

  But before I can wake up my laptop, the redhead exits the restroom and marches straight over to me.

  “You’re not only an asshole—you’re an arrogant asshole.” Then she leans in close to Reid, getting in his face. “And for the record, I was going to give you my number.”

  Reid blinks, called on his bullshit.

  Then she adds, “Fake digits. I was going to give you fake digits. I heard you singing along to Taylor Swift, so I figured you were harmless.”

  He scoffs. “There is nothing wrong with Taylor Swift. Also, I didn’t want your digits,” he shouts as she storms out the door, laptop tucked under her arm.

  I hold my hands up in surrender. “See? It all worked out for the best.”

  We return to work. But a few seconds later, my phone bleats loudly.

  My brother. What does he want now?

  I hit mute so it doesn’t ring again, then tell Reid I’ll take the call outside.

  “Who’s going to watch your laptop?” Reid asks innocently. “Taylor Swift?”

  “You are, because I saved you from that woman,” I say, then dart outside and answer the call. “What’s going on?”

  “Not much,” Rowan says, with a laugh that sounds forced. “Everything is great.”

  My hackles go up. “Let me ask again. What’s going on now?”

  Rowan clears his throat. “Listen, it’s no biggie. Everything is cool. I mean, it will be when we get our stuff back, plus the security deposit, which we’re totally going to need. Anyway, I just sent you the email with the details. But there’s one little thing I forgot to tell you, and I need to let you know now before we board this cruise.”

  I groan. “Your stuff isn’t in Brooklyn?”

  “No. It probably is. I mean, that’d make sense. I’d have to look at the email more closely to know for sure, and I didn’t read it yet because it was super long and annoying and messing with my mojo. But that’s not the point.”

  A ship’s horn cuts through his voice, and I can’t hear a word he’s saying. When the horn ends, he says, “So, you don’t mind, do you?”

  “Mind what?” I ask, my jaw ticking as the May sunshine dares to peek out from behind a cloud. It should be raining. It should be fucking pouring right now.

  “You don’t mind that Luna asked for help too?”

  I let out a sigh of relief. “No, that’s fine, of course. It’ll be done faster then,” I say before I connect the dots. But when I do, all the life leaks out of me. I brace myself for an answer I don’t want. But I have to ask the question. “Who’s helping Luna? Is it her sister?”

  Please say no. Please say no.

  I can hear Rowan smile as he answers, “Yes. Lola will help.”

  Lola Dumont.

  Lola fucking Dumont.

  I lean against the coffee shop’s brick wall, picturing the last time I saw the dark-haired beauty at an industry event. She’d looked like she wanted to toss her champagne at me. Then deliver a scathing rebuttal listing all my mistakes.

  Hell, there were things I wanted to say to her too.

  When her name pops up in my texts a few minutes later, my brain plays a cruel joke by reminding me of three things.

  How much fun we had together for that one year when we were nearly inseparable.

  How good her lips tasted the night I kissed her.

  And how shitty I felt the weekend after.

  3

  Lola

  Isn’t a morning workout supposed to de-stress you?

  That’s why I started my new regimen—begin the day right, and all that jazz. Though, credit where credit’s due, the early-bird fitness strategy was Amy’s idea. She twisted my arm a month ago. “If I’m going to enter the endurance sport of wedding cake testing, I need to adopt a new workout ritual. And pretty please, will you be my fitness partner at the crack of dawn?”

  I’d said yes instantly, because my two shrinks—aka my good friends Peyton and Amy—keep telling me I need less stress in my life.

  Sure, the stress is technically self-induced because I just branched out on my own. Starting a business is both a wonderful and terrifying adventure.

  I used to be a staff designer at the Bailey & Brooks publishing house, but I’ve always wanted to run my own design firm. In the last year, I took the first few steps, finagling a contractor position here at the publishing house, cutting down my time to three days a week. The other two days are for me to develop my own clients, and I’ve nabbed a handful so far—clients I need to tend to both tonight and this weekend, because that’s how you build a business.

  Round the freaking clock.

  But now, I have unexpected plans. The giant flat tire of picking up my sister’s stuff from all over Brooklyn.

  When she forwards the email, she sends along a series of text messages strewn with stars and comets. That tugs at my stupid heart—it’s our code. Our sister language. And it’s exactly why I’m doing this for her. This touring opportunity is her dream, and if picking up her crap helps her, I’ll do it.

  I reply with a moon, and she writes back with the sun. Then she says she’s about to lose cell service, but she loves me with all her heart and soul.

  And I love her too.

  * * *

  After I shower, tame my dark curls into an acceptable mane, and dress for work, Amy and I leave the gym. On the walk to Bailey & Brooks, where Amy is a full-time kick-ass editor, we dissect the world’s most ridiculous email.

  “It figures that my sister would have a dramatic landlord,” I say as we turn down Madison Avenue.

  “Like attracts like?” Amy offers.

  A flash of silver streaks by on the busy street. I jerk my head toward the spandexed rollerblader cruising the streets at the speed of an Italian race car. A former rollerblading champion, he’s hell-bent on restoring the sport to its 1990s glory days with his YouTube channel.

  “Hi, Peter,” I shout.

  The fortysomething man angles up his purple Rollerblade, slamming on the brake. Hopping onto the sidewalk, he wheels over to us, whipping off his gleaming black helmet with its GoPro camera mounted to the front. “Lola! Are we still on for coffee this evening? To review the graphics?”

  I wince, then give him my best professional smile. “Any chance we can switch to tomorrow morning? Coffee’s best in the morning anyway.”

  He pouts, like he’s so put out, then he shrugs happily. “If you insist. Gives me more twilight blading time anyway.”

  “And that’s what matters most. I’ll have everything ready to show you in the morning,” I say. He gives me a thumbs-up then Froggers his way across the avenue, attacking the street once more with his trademark ferocity.

  Amy nudges me. “For the record, I love that your first client is none other than Peter the Blade. Maybe he’ll even write a memoir someday of his wild rollerblading exploits and you can design an awesome
book cover for it, thus bringing your professional worlds full circle.”

  “Yes, and designing that, or anything for that matter, would be so much more fun than picking up my sister’s stuff,” I say as I return to the issue at hand, shaking my phone at the sky as we near our skyscraper. “What kind of landlord sends a message like this? A deranged one, clearly.”

  When we enter the revolving glass doors, Amy taps her chin thoughtfully. “Are we sure the landlord is a wackadoodle?”

  I roll my eyes. “What else could he be?”

  Amy scrunches up her brow, deep in thought. “Last time we went out with your sister, didn’t she say the landlord was an aspiring TV writer?”

  That sounds familiar. I swipe my ID card through the security turnstiles in the lobby, Amy following behind me. “Luna said she’d thought he was a kindred spirit. A fellow artist. But how does that explain this email?”

  Amy’s green eyes twinkle. “Because there’s something more to this breakup letter. He’s not simply peeved. He’s delightfully peeved. I bet he’s writing a TV pilot. Like, for a caper.” She rubs her palms together. “Maybe he’s testing out concepts.”

  I groan. “Great. So I could be a pawn in a wackadoodle’s writing experiment.”

  “Writers are weird. Basically, everything around them is fodder. Put yourself on a writer’s bad side, and you’re the next victim in a murder mystery.”

  I shudder. “Can he please be writing a children’s show instead in this scenario?”

  “You might be a giant purple dinosaur then, so be careful what you wish for.” She taps her chin as we wait for the elevator. They take forever in the mornings. “Read me the email again.”

  To: Luna Dumont, Rowan Xavier

  From: Harrison Bates

  Subject: Let’s Break Up Early!

  Dear Luna and Rowan,

  They say all good things come to an end.

  And they are right.

  Slices of pizza from Famous Ray’s don’t go on forever, nor do vacations, Sundays, or TV shows like The Office.

  My point is this.

  Your lease is up in exactly one month. (By the way, feel free to check the fine print—I did, many times, while you two were arguing over the indignity of Luna watching the new Aladdin before you saw it, Rowan. So what? So she went to the movies without you. You survived! Also, we all know how the story ends. Happily! Freaking happily ever after.

  Sheesh. It’s a fairy tale, for crying out loud.)

  (And Luna, while we’re splitting hairs, GIF is pronounced with a soft G. Like the brand of peanut butter. Like, you know, how the inventor of the format says it’s pronounced. I sided with Rowan on that argument you two had at three in the morning when I was trying to sleep before I had a very important meeting the next morning about a very important project that turned into a very big rejection because I’d had very little shut-eye. But enough about me.)

  You two angry lovebirds are in violation of a certain clause. In the event of ongoing excessive noise (aka earsplitting, sky-rending DRAMA!), this lease can be terminated at any point.

  There you go!

  It’s over.

  Finito.

  We’re done.

  We are never getting back together.

  But don’t worry, I didn’t break your things, like you broke my eardrums with your nightly arguments! (Also, Rowan, on behalf of all the men in the world, I commend you for holding your ground the other night on the dream-cheating. We need men to pave the path on this issue, but not necessarily at top volume.)

  Anyway, because I’m thoughtful, I packed your things! And I even invented a neat game, since I know you like playing games! (And please, for the love of board games, Rowan, have a little class—don’t buy a property you don’t need in Monopoly. Everyone in the building heard you two quibbling over this with your megaphonic voices. Every single tenant. And we all know the gentleman’s rule of Monopoly—don’t be a property pig. And Luna, don’t skim so many hundreds from the bank. That’s just all kinds of wrong.)

  Without further ado, here’s where you’ll find your stuff:

  Let’s start with an easy one. Your guitars are where you first met!

  Or maybe it’s not so easy. Because your Star Wars T-shirts are where you argued over where you first met! Hint: there was cheese involved, you little hipsters.

  Remember that debate over who was better at leading and who was better at following? You had it the night you took a certain class. You’ll find your iPad there.

  Your songwriting notebooks are where you had the “Oh my God, wasn’t that the hottest makeup sex ever, babe?” and “The only thing that would have made it hotter would have been syrup.” Hint: you were making up following an epic nine rounds over whether or not Die Hard is a Christmas movie!

  Your clothes are evenly split among the places where you each dragged the other to prove who had a better plan for how to spend hypothetical lottery winnings.

  If you find everything within forty-eight hours, I’ll give you back your security deposit! You’ll need it, I suspect, based on all the times you argued over who was paying for the quinoa kale tofu burgers you’d just bought.

  Have fun! Oh, and while I didn’t break or damage anything, I can’t guarantee anybody else won’t find it first! Ticktock.

  My best,

  Harrison

  P.S. Die Hard is definitely a Christmas movie.

  I finish the note as the elevator reaches our floor and the doors slide open. Amy tucks a few strands of hair behind her ears, then declares, “Definitely a writer. He’s absolutely a quirky TV writer.”

  “He’s a sadist. A sick, twisted sadist,” I say as we pass the receptionist desk, waving hello to Zoe.

  Amy lifts a brow at me. “Is there any other kind of sadist?”

  “Like a gleeful sadist? A happy-go-lucky sadist?” I offer.

  Her green eyes sparkle. “The Happy-Go-Lucky Sadist. Perfect title for a new TV pilot.”

  “I’m sure Webflix will pick it up.” I pause and dramatically sweep my arm to an invisible spectacle, turning on my movie trailer voice. “Binge-watch The Happy-Go-Lucky Sadist, a new dark comedy about a landlord with a vengeance. Insert dramatic pause. A vengeance for hijinks.”

  Amy laughs, swiping strands of brunette hair from her cheek as we continue our pace. “I’m so there for it. I’ll make the popcorn.”

  “I’ll bring the wine.” I turn down the hall toward my office. “Except. Wait. I’m wrong. My sister and her boyfriend are the true sadists. For making me do this with Lucas, the ex who never apologized.”

  “That is definitely grounds for admission to the sadists club.” Amy pats my shoulder. “I can still hate Lucas for you if you want me to. Should I keep him in the permanent hate database?”

  I wave a hand airily. “He’s not worth it. He wasn’t worth it all those years ago when he ditched me for our first date, after a year of friendship, and he’s not worth it now.”

  Even though I’d have thought a year of friendship would’ve meant something to him. I bite back those words. I honestly don’t even care about what happened between us back then or his silly excuses. I’ve let it go. But Lucas still finds it necessary to needle me every time we run into each other. My jaw tightens as I picture the evening ahead. It used to be so easy to spend time with him. Hanging out with him—in museums, in dorm lounges, in New York City cafés—had been the recipe for a good day, and all our days were good. Now? Nothing’s the same.

  “Maybe I should reach out to the sadist and try to talk some sense into him?”

  Amy shoots me a doubtful look. “Sure, give it your best shot. But my money says someone who goes to this much trouble to write that note and plant all those belongings isn’t going to be deterred by sweet talk.”

  I consider this, and the truth is she’s probably right. “Then I’m going to focus on working efficiently and cordially with Lucas to power my way through this list and be done with it.”

  “That’s the sp
irit.” She winks. “Be cordial with the sexy ex. I’ve seen his picture. He’s definitely dangerously good-looking.”

  I stare at her like she’s in big trouble. “Thanks for reminding me he’s too hot for words. Maybe you’re the sadist.”

  She wiggles her brows before she heads to her office to, presumably, work on refining a pitch for The Happy-Go-Lucky Sadist concept.

  When I reach my three-days-a-week desk, I dive in.

  I google Harrison Bates.

  But all I find is bare bones info. He owns a building in Brooklyn. He has a brother. If I pay fifty-four dollars, some company will unlock his phone number for me.

  There isn’t much more on him, and kudos to the guy for living a life off social media.

  Still, it’s time to tackle this shit show.

  4

  Lola

  I give it my best college try, tapping out an email to the landlord and hitting send.

  To: Harrison Bates

  From: Lola Dumont

  Subject: FW: Let’s Break Up Early!

  Hi there, Harrison!

  How are you? I hope this email finds you well. I’m Luna’s sister, and I understand you’re frustrated with her and Rowan. Is there any chance we can talk about perhaps an easier way for me to retrieve their items? Since she’s out of town and all.