Death By Chick Lit (26 page)

“Preeps?”

“Pre-parents. It’s a whole psychographic. Never mind. Are you with me?”

Dixie was practically breathless. This was the most excited Lola had ever heard her sound.

And this was the most excited Lola had felt in a long time. Her earlier reservations about branding herself professionally as one-half of a husband-and-wife team had dissolved, and not just because an agent was finally freaking calling her with an idea.

I am so tired of trying so hard to prove myself, Lola thought, to friends, to editors, to the goddamn
New York Day
books section. Who on earth would think less of me if I let someone, someone who happens to be my beloved full partner in everything except possibly scented candles, share the driving? I am officially ready to stop with the clenched-hands, gritted-teeth efforts to control everything and instead take on what the universe seems to be offering me, even a universe that requires a fifteen percent commission.

“Well, I guess I wouldn’t be a good husband-wife team player if I didn’t discuss this proposition with my husband first, would I?”

“Oh please, go ahead. But get back to me fast. This is a hot one,” said Dixie. “And Lola?”

“Mmmhmm?” Lola was practically hopping on one foot at this point. Doug was smiling back at her, still having no idea why.

“Just don’t use the term
team player
in the proposal.”

 
“She wants us to write what?” asked Doug.

“We can totally do it,” said Lola. “Between my experience, your ‘fresh new voice’-ness, and the weirdness about communication and trust we just went through, we’re all over it. The rest, we research.” She was on a roll. “You can fit it in after work and stuff, can’t you?”

Doug pondered for a second, but he was nodding already.

“Sure, monkey, yeah.
Yeah,
” he said. “I actually think we can do it. It’ll probably be fun, huh? Plus, we’re basically talking about getting paid to spend time together, so.”

Lola flung her arms around his neck, kicking one leg back and up for old-fashioned emphasis.

Her cell phone beeped.

“See? Not my favorite,” she said, not budging.

“You should get it,” said Doug. “Could be Scorsese.”

“All right,” Lola said, disengaging herself. It was a text message. From Wilma Vouch.

 
“Oh my God.” Lola thrust the phone toward Doug. Before he could react, it rang.

“I’m so sorry, that was just me,” Annabel admitted, laughing.

Lola joined her, cracking up. “You suck-slash-rule!”

“Couldn’t resist. Checked with Doug, he said you were running out to do a couple things, so . . .” said Annabel. “Point is, I know it’s, like, trivial, but you totally deserve someone to post that to Celebuphone. I know
I
don’t count, but . . .”

“Actually, Bella?” said Lola. “You do.”

Outside their favorite doorknob store, Lola stopped Doug and looked him in the eye. “And sweetie? I’m all about the breeding. Just . . . soon. Very soon. Really,” she said. “I was getting there even before the book idea thing. I just need . . . a few more good nights of sleep. Then we can start having some not so good nights of sleep.” She kissed his cheek. “Right now, just for today, let’s say the book can be our baby.”

“Deal,” Doug said with a grin, kissing her right back. “Long as I get to pick the name.”