Asking For a Friend Page 19

  James is leaning a shoulder against the doorframe, and he arches a brow. “Is that a serious question?”

  “Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “Because you literally just turned away from the mirror.” It would be undignified to pout. And maybe ungrateful, considering how much this man brings to my life. “I want to know how I look to you . . . I’m vain like that.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” But he grins as he pushes off the doorframe and saunters closer. “Like the fact that I’m sure you want to look good not only for me, but for our double date with your friends. And trust me, you do. I wouldn’t have picked out that shirt if I didn’t think you’d look hot enough to make an ice cream truck melt.”

  I grin too, a little wickedly, and smooth my hand down my shirtfront again. “I do love ice cream trucks.”

  “Among other things,” James says, doing the eyebrow thing again. Then he shifts, like he remembered something. “Oh, before we go out tonight, I have something for you.”

  I park my hands on my hips. “Seriously? How many gifts are you going to give me?”

  “As many as I want.”

  I smile. “Fine. I’ll just have to deal with that.”

  James grins at me over his shoulder as I follow him to our living room—ours because James lives with me—and he grabs a gift bag from the coffee table.

  When he holds it out to me, I take it and reach inside, giving an appreciative murmur when I feel the ceramic. “Please tell me it’s the skull creeper mug I saw at that cute shop in the Village.”

  And it is. God, I love creeper mugs, and he knows it. And I love this man too—Flynn Rider, aka James Hardaman. I hope he knows how much.

  “I am going to give you an epic thank you tonight for this little prezzie,” I tell him. “And because I love you.”

  “Baby, I love you too. And I love your thank yous.”

  He’s more than just my boyfriend, and it’s not because we live together or because I get thoughtful gifts out of it.

  It’s because he gets me, and I get him. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.

  I just took a number of trains to reach this destination. But I’m staying at this stop.

  We leave, and I hold my boyfriend’s hand as we head to meet Amy and Linc for dinner.

  And Another Epilogue

  Amy

  * * *

  I march across the squeaky hardwood floors at the gym. Pop music blasts through the sound system, and I talk over it into my headset.

  “Are you ready, ladies?”

  The ladies shout back, “We’re ready!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “We’re sure!”

  “Because today we’re going to learn how to hula-hoop up and down your whole body. This is one helluva party trick.”

  I shimmy my hips back and forth, the hoop swaying effortlessly around my waist as I talk to the class.

  I proceed to demonstrate how to send the hoop down to your ankles and back up to your armpits.

  Lisa rocks it. So does Paige.

  Well, not at first.

  They are newbies after all.

  But they’re making progress in my class, and I’m proud of them. They’ve been taking it for a few months now, and one of my favorite parts of them being here comes next.

  When class ends, the three of us meet up with Linc, because my fantastic, sweet, sarcastic, smart, swoony boyfriend volunteers to babysit every time Lisa and Paige take my Hula-Hoop class. It’s seriously ovary-melting to see Linc playing with his baby niece.

  Today when the three of us meet him at Dr. Insomnia’s, he’s drinking a cup of coffee, bouncing Katherine on his knee and reading to her.

  Okay, that does it.

  I’m definitely going to have to grab him, take him home, and do bad things to him, because that is tamale-level hot right there.

  I don’t even want to have kids yet (though I do love babysitting Quinn’s little girl), but I’m overheating like a fried egg on a summer sidewalk.

  Then I see his phone and what he’s reading to her.

  It’s the political thriller he edited.

  I shoot him a no you didn’t look. “You’re reading the baby a thriller?”

  “She’s a toddler. Also, I read it like it’s a kid’s story.” He clears his throat and, in a singsong voice, croons, “John Cross never intended to be an assassin, but he turned out to be a damn good one.”

  Lisa huffs then bonks Linc on the head. “You’re dangerous.”

  He laughs, rolls his eyes, then says, “Don’t get your panties in a twist, ladies. I was just putting you on.” He clicks to the home screen of his app, then shows us an illustration of a boy wizard. “I was reading Harry Potter to her because everyone should read Harry Potter.”

  “That is true,” I say, and decide I still plan to do bad things to him.

  I tell him as much after his sister and her wife leave with Katherine. “You were pretty foxy reading to a little kid. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have baby fever. I’m not trying to follow in Quinn’s footsteps yet. But the point is—you’re smoking hot when you read to kids.”

  “I’m smoking hot when I read to you. Want a little story time with the thesaurus later?”

  I say yes, of course, since it’s my favorite book, especially the way he reads it to me.

  One More Epilogue

  Amy

  * * *

  A few months later

  * * *

  The cinnamon candy melts on my tongue.

  My taste buds break into a jitterbug.

  “C’est magnifique.” That’s the only word to describe the candy at a sweet shop in Paris.

  “Told you it was incredible. Do I ever lie about sweets?” my sister Tabitha asks.

  “Not about sweets,” I say with a wink.

  She nudges my elbow. “Or anything. For instance, this guy you brought to Paris is a total keeper.”

  “He can hear you, you know,” I say, since Linc is busy devouring a chocolate truffle a few feet away.

  “Yes, I am a keeper,” he says around the candy in his mouth.

  “And what about you, Tab? Have you met any keepers?” I ask my sister as we thank the shopkeeper and make our way onto the streets of Montmartre.

  “Maybe I’ve met a handsome Frenchman who keeps me busy late into the night,” she says coyly.

  “Maybe you better tell me everything.”

  “I will. Next time I see you,” she says, then gives Linc and me both cheek kisses. “I must return to work. Au revoir.”

  She heads off into the curving cobbled streets, and I imagine my sister is having her very own fantastic romance too. “I’m going to extract that story from her tomorrow,” I say to Linc.

  “I’ve no doubt you will. For now, want to go to An Open Book?”

  “Yes. You’ve been keeping it from me,” I tease.

  He laughs. “Exactly. I’ve been hiding the fact that your favorite bookstore just opened a Paris shop.”

  He whisks me away to the sixth arrondissement, where we arrive at the emerald-green storefront of a bookshop.

  I hum with happiness. I’ve been dying to see this place since I heard the city of love was snagging its very own version of this American bookstore.

  We go inside, wandering the aisles, running fingers along spines, inhaling the smell of new books.

  I pick up paperbacks and hardcovers, indulging in a few pages of each. I remember the time I went with my brother to this shop in New York, feeling a pang of envy.

  Today I feel pangs of hope and possibility. Soon, these shelves will carry the books Linc has worked on in the last year, and mine too.

  “Look at this!” I whisper excitedly when I come across a romance I’ve been wanting to read.

  “Or look at this,” he says.

  And when I turn around, my eyes pop out on springs.

  The pang in my chest? It turns from hope to glee.

  Linc is on one knee, with a velvet box flipped
open and a hopeful expression in his gorgeous blue eyes.

  I gasp, and I want to say yes, yes, yes right now.

  But I wait for him to speak first.

  He clears his throat and looks at me with passion and honesty in his blue eyes. “Amy Summers, I started falling for you the day I met you, and every day that I discover new things about you, I fall further and harder. I love you ridiculously, and you’re an incredibly good idea. I want us to keep falling together for the rest of our lives. Will you marry me?”

  “Yes! Because you’re the best idea I’ve ever had.”

  He slides a stunning ring on my finger, stands, and wraps me in his arms, kissing me deeply in a bookstore an ocean away from where we live.

  All the thesauruses in the world couldn’t give me six more perfect words to describe how I feel right now: And they lived happily ever after.

  * * *

  THE END

  * * *

  Eager to know about Peyton and Tristan’s lingering looks and burgeoning romance? Then be sure to grab SEX AND OTHER SHINY OBJECTS now! It’s a sexy, emotional, friends to lovers romance kicking off when Peyton enlists Tristan’s help in trying out popular sexy times scenes from romance novels! Find out if buttons fly!

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  Before I open, I weigh these choices, toying with Tinder and Match and even Boyfriend Material when I’m in the office paying bills.

  But I can’t quite pull the trigger. Something feels off about asking for help testing romance novel tropes via an app.

  These type of scenarios involve trust.

  And there’s someone I trust completely.

  How did I miss the obvious? He’s not plan B. He’s plan A, and I should have asked him all along.

  I open my texts.

  * * *

  Peyton: Remember that time last night when you said you’d help me with my blog?

  * * *

  Tristan: Why do I feel like you’re about to cash in on that right now?

  * * *

  Peyton: Because I am.

  * * *

  ***

  * * *

  My phone buzzes fifteen minutes later.

  The text from Tristan says knock, knock.

  The store doesn’t open for another hour, so I rush from the office, unlock the door, and let him in.

  He smells like the fall breeze, and looks like he’s auditioning for a role on Hardy Men from Alaska thanks to his jeans and work boots, and the pullover shirt that hugs his chest.

  He drags a hand through his dark hair. “Let me guess. This is when you tell me you want to do the lingerie videos.”

  I smack his shoulder. “No. But I’ll call you when I do.”

  “I’m going to hold you to that.” He surveys the store, his eyes widening as he takes in the sea of pretty goodies. He points in the direction of a red bra. “Maybe write about that one next? That gets my vote.”

  “You love red, don’t you?”

  “I’m like a bull.”

  I can’t resist. I head to the rack, grab the red bra and wave it like a matador.

  He snorts, and kicks his foot.

  Laughing, I shake my head. “I swear you must have driven Samantha insane with your lingerie obsession,” I say offhand as I hang the bra back on the rack.

  He flinches. “Samantha?”

  “Yes, your last girlfriend? Pretty blonde. Ice-blue eyes. Dry sense of humor. Ring a bell? She was the workaholic attorney who drove you crazy because she expected you to be available at midnight to service her?”

  “Did I say that bothered me?” he asks wryly.

  Out of nowhere, a plume of jealousy twists through me. What the hell is that about? I know he slept with her. I know he dated her. Why would I be jealous that he liked it?

  I turn around so he can’t see my face. But that doesn’t change this odd sensation in my body—like my shirt is too tight, or my skirt is scratchy, only that’s not the case at all. But I’m strangely out of sorts from his question. Why the hell am I bothered that Tristan enjoyed sleeping with his ex-girlfriend? I squirm uncomfortably, needing to eject that idea from my brain stat.

  I adjust a pale pink bra, forcing myself to focus solely on the here and now.

  “Glad you enjoyed it,” I say coolly, like I’m a hostess at a fine restaurant, desperately sweeping away the images of him with someone else from my head.

  “What I didn’t enjoy was her expectation that I pay more attention to her than Barrett,” he adds.

  “Oh. I had no idea that she said that.” I spin away from the rack and look at him again.

  “She was oddly jealous of my little brother. Go figure.” He holds up his hands.

  I rein in the sliver of a grin, even though I’m more grateful than I expected. “And I guess that’s why she’s the ex.”

  “Indeed it is.” He parks his hands on his hips. “What’s the blog idea? And how can I help? If it involves me lifting heavy boxes, you’re going to owe me lunch, woman.”

  I smile, loving that he’s found a way to ease my nerves just by being himself. “No boxes. I promise.” I grab his wrist, and guide him through shelves of camisoles and undies, bustiers and stockings, marching him to the dressing room area since it’s a good place to chat.

  “Fashion show?” He stretches out his neck before he parks himself on the pink chair in the corner.

  “Not exactly . . . but . . .” I take a deep breath, hoping this time goes better than my request this morning. “I’m hoping we can test fashion.”

  One brow lifts in question. “Explain. Because you should know I’m not wearing any of that stuff.”

  A laugh bursts from my throat. “I know. Of course. Definitely not. The testing would be on . . .” I flutter my fingers toward myself.

  He blinks, like something is stuck in his eye. “You? You want to test lingerie with me?”

  “Sort of,” I say, my throat dry, because this is much harder than I’d thought it would be. Gage’s betrayal did a number on me, and my trust in love, romance, and men is at an all-time low.

  I repeat my mantras though, since I’m trying to move into my future, whatever that entails.

  Put yourself out there.

  Do the hard things.

  Go for it.

  “Let me start at the beginning,” I say.

  “That’d be helpful because I’m a little lost.”

  I park myself on the ottoman, facing him, and I cross my legs. His eyes drift briefly to the black boots that I’ve paired with a short purple skirt.

  “We will be testing various kinds of fashion. And their resilience under certain conditions”

  “We?”

  I adopt my best sales-y smile. “Well, you know how my good friend Tristan said I should blog again?”

  “Smart guy. Also I read the blog last night. It was . . . interesting.”

  Wait till he finds out what I’m about to hit him with next. Deep breath. “And I need to take it a step further,” I say, pushing out the next words. “Amy needs someone to test out a few tropes from romance novels to go along with a book she’s publishing, and I volunteered as tribute.”

  The look on his face is inscrutable. “What sort of things?” Each word comes out like it occupies its own latitude and longitude.

  “I’m starting with lingerie stuff, and I was going to ask this guy at yoga class—”

  “A guy at yoga class?” His tone could slice a statue.

  “There’s this nice guy at yoga. He always puts out a mat for me. And you know how Amy and Lola have been telling me to put myself back out there and try again?”

  Tristan nods crisply, his jaw set.

  “I decided to try, and I started to ask him out, thinking maybe it would be just what I needed. Oops. Turns out he’s involved with the instructor, and I need someone I
can practice ripping a shirt off of who’ll also rip off my panties.”

  And that came out like a five-car pileup.

  Tristan doesn’t break eye contact. He gazes at me, unflinching.

  His hazel eyes are darker than I’ve seen them in a decade. They remind me of that one night. The night I can still recall with perfect clarity.

  It was only a kiss. It lasted a mere twenty, maybe thirty seconds.

  But every second is indelibly etched in my memory.

  A shiver runs down my spine as I remember how he wrapped his hand around my waist. How he dipped his mouth to mine. How I felt his kiss radiate in my bones that whole night, and for weeks to come.

  But if something more were going to happen, it would have happened already.

  He scrubs a hand over his stubbled jaw, his words a command. “Don’t ask anyone else.”

  “Why?” I ask, my voice breathier than I’d expected.

  “Because I’ll do it.”

  * * *

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  Acknowledgments

  Big thanks to Lauren Clarke, Jen McCoy, Helen Williams, Kim Bias, Virginia, Lynn, Karen, Tiffany, Janice, Stephanie and more for their eyes. Much love to Helen for the beautiful cover. Thank you to Kelley and Candi and KP and Jenn. Massive smooches to Laurelin Paige for access to her brain and heart. As always, my readers make everything possible.

  Also by Lauren Blakely

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