Bet Me: A Romantic Comedy Standalone Read online

  Chill out, sex maniac, I tell myself, trying to ignore the warmth of Jake’s body next to mine. But it’s no use. As hard as I try and as badly as I need to, I can’t seem to disappear into the world on screen the way I usually do. Everything about his presence is a massive distraction . . . and I already know what a massive distraction he’s got in store.

  Thin cotton pants don’t hide a thing.

  After the lights come up, I’m pretty sure I’m still blushing from all the fantasies I’ve been entertaining, but Jake seems relaxed and totally nonchalant. We head outside and pause on the sidewalk. “We could get a drink,” Jake suggests casually. “Unless you need to get back.”

  “Sure,” I agree.

  “I know a place nearby.” Jake nods south, and we start walking. One of the things I love about this city is traipsing around it at night when it’s all quiet, staring into the shop windows and ducking into all-night diners for pie and coffee when I get hungry. The early spring air smells like blossoms, and I close my eyes for a second and take a deep breath.

  “I love spring,” I say. “I love that moment where it seems like the whole city bursts into bloom and everything smells so clean.”

  “Right.” Jake grins. “And you probably love kitties and puppies and rainbows, and look! There’s a unicorn!” He points off to a dark alleyway, and I roll my eyes at him, even though he isn’t looking at me.

  “I forgot, Mr. Cynicism. At least you have to admit that was a great movie, though,” I say. “I watch it every year. Nothing gets me in the Christmas spirit like watching Bruce Willis get subjected to immense amounts of pain. I mean, the man walks on broken glass and barely flinches!”

  “Kind of reminds me of Christmas at my mom’s house,” he snorts. “Minus the explosions.”

  “That bad?” I ask. “It’s not like my house was a Normal Rockwell painting either—before they finally split, my parents fought 24/7,” I sigh. “And when they weren’t fighting, they basically just ignored each other. They would actually spend meals sending messages to each other through my sister and I. Like ‘Lizzie, please tell your father to pass the butter.’ It was totally bizarre, now that I think about it.” I shrug, even though the memory stings a little. “I guess that’s when I got into classic movies, it was kind of reassuring to see that people actually loved each other and not all marriages were doomed to fail.”

  “I guess I grew up mistrusting everything about that kind of stuff,” Jake says thoughtfully. “My mom was so insecure, even though she was a knockout—as gorgeous as any film star. But my dad was a real ladies’ man—always out on the town or stuck in ‘business meetings’ that lasted until dawn. Anyway, she always thought she was one step away from losing him, so to pacify her, he bought her gifts—huge bouquets of flowers, jewelry, cars, designer clothing and furs—you name it. But none of it helped. I mean, a diamond necklace wasn’t enough to make up for what she wasn’t getting from him—his time, his attention. How could it? It was an expensive substitute that felt cheap because she expected so much more.”

  “So what happened with them?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Eventually, she got sick of his running around, and they split. He remarried a bunch of times, but nothing stuck. I got my stepsister, Ruby, from his second wife—we get along great—and a half brother from his third, who’s Satan’s devil spawn.”

  “Which one—the wife or the brother?” I laugh.

  “Both.” Jake grins. “Now he’s engaged to some Polish model he met last year. It’s a disaster in waiting, but what can you do?”

  I turn to look at him, his profile chiseled against the night sky. For the first time, I realize that all his anti-romance, no-commitment bullshit actually comes from somewhere real. It makes perfect sense—anyone who grew up the way he did would be the same way—thinking they were a series of meaningless gestures, a trap.

  Which means he’s a total train wreck for women—not that it’s his fault or anything. But still. He’s the hottest train wreck I’ve ever seen, and now on top of it, he’s probably not the jerk he makes himself out to be . . .

  I feel a pang of sympathy for him, closely followed by a wave of desire.

  “Listen to me.” He shrugs self-consciously. “This is the kind of shit I should be telling a therapist, not you.”

  “It’s OK.” I shrug. “I mean, you’ve heard most of my deepest romantic secrets by now. You and fourteen million people.”

  He laughs. “Guess so.”

  We stop on the next corner, waiting to cross, and he places his hand lightly on the small of my back. It’s the smallest gesture, barely anything at all, but I have to fight the urge to lean in. To reach up and pull him to me, kiss him right here on this deserted street corner until I can’t think anymore, then fall in a cab to his apartment and pick up right where we left off the other night: with his cock hard in my hands and his fingers sliding towards the bullseye of my damp pussy—

  I shake my head, as if waking from a bad dream. There’s no fucking way I can have a drink with him now—which will lead to two, and maybe even three, and before you know it, I’ll be in his bed.

  Would that really be so bad, that annoying little voice inside me asks as I look at him nervously.

  Yes, I answer back, as firmly as I can muster considering that my thighs are practically on fire. Yes it would.

  “You know what? It’s late, and I have to be up early,” I say, stepping out onto the street and raising my hand for a cab. Miraculously, one turns the corner and stops right in front of me, just like I’ve planned it. “Raincheck on the drink?”

  “Sure,” he says briskly, all business now as I open the door and climb in.

  “This was fun,” I say before closing the door. He opens his mouth to answer, but the car pulls away from the curb. All the same, and even if he doesn’t agree, I know it’s the truth. It was fun. And that’s the problem. I can’t be having fun with Jake Weston.

  Of any sort.

  When I get home, I’m still restless, still thinking about his hand brushing against mine in the darkness of the theater, the lemon-and-salt scent of his cologne. I go into my room and pull out my Hitachi Magic Wand. I’ve always been a little gun-shy of toys that plug directly into a wall—somehow electricity + my vagina has never seemed like the best equation, but I’m so turned on that I throw caution to the wind and sprawl out on the bed, the wand between my legs.

  I hike my skirt up over my hips and switch on the toy, pushing the head against my pussy, a low moan escaping my throat. God, it feels so fucking good I can barely stand it. I haven’t come in weeks, and I’m soaking wet, my panties sticking to my pussy, my breath coming ragged and fast.

  I pause for a minute to get my underwear out of the way before closing my thighs around the wand, my head rolling back and forth on the pillow as I think about Jake, his long fingers and strong hands. The way his mouth felt on mine as he reached down and found my clit, his fingers making slow, deliberate circles in my wetness, his breath hot on my neck . . . I’m panting now, and I turn the toy up to its highest setting. I reach up into my bra to squeeze my nipple, the sensation sending me right over the edge.

  I come with my head hanging off the bed, moaning uncontrollably, spasms wracking my body. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—who really needs men when there’s such a thing as a Magic Wand?

  When I come back down, I’m still breathing hard. I pull off my dress and crawl under the covers, drifting off into the first relaxed sleep in months. For the first time in forever, I’m not thinking about Jake or the strike—I just drift into the land of dreamless oblivion, my body like Jello, hugging a pillow to my chest.

  18

  Jake

  I shouldn’t be so happy that Dylan struck out with Lizzie, but for some reason, I am. My life would be a whole lot easier if she would just break this damn strike, but still, I don’t want her doing it with a Hollywood fake douchenozzle like that. I stop by the Dapper offices to make use of Miles’ rolodex, but
surprise surprise, there’s only one thing he wants to talk about.

  “It shouldn’t be this hard!” Miles exclaims, slumping into his desk chair, which is made of chrome and leather and probably costs as much as a small, imported car. “She’s hot enough to get a guy. I mean, it’s not like we’re talking Loch Ness Monster here.”

  I feel myself tense. Hot enough? Fuck, Lizzie is practically smoking even in those librarian outfits she insists on wearing. But I’m not about to admit I get a raging hard-on even thinking about those curves. “She’s stubborn,” I say instead. “This is what happens when you build something up. I bet she can’t bring herself to admit she’s wrong now, with everyone making such a big deal.”

  “You’d think fifty Gs would convince someone to play along,” Miles sighs, and I wince. I can’t believe he went through with it, but apparently, Miles’ dick is in the driving seat these days. It’s right there in a secret forum on the Dapper website: fifty thousand dollars to whoever can get Lizzie to break the strike. It’s no wonder her office is like a fucking Hallmark factory these days. I only hope she doesn’t figure it out, since I’m guessing she won’t be flattered by the attention so much as furious spitting mad.

  “Dude. I’ve said as much from the beginning—a bounty is a stupid idea. I know you’re getting blue balls over here, but this girl’s a person, not a piece of meat.”

  “Since when do you have such high moral standards?” Miles glares.

  It’s a fair question, but I don’t think I want to answer it. Not yet, anyway. I keep thinking about walking around with her the other night after the movie, the way she looked up at me just before she hightailed it into that cab, her eyes so big and blue behind her glasses, almost like she wanted me to kiss her again. Fuck, I wanted to. It took everything I had not to bend down and pull her into my arms, show her exactly what a real man can do, strike be damned.

  But fuck that. I need to stay away from her, and for good this time. She’s business—not pleasure. And there’s no way I’m mixing the two up more than I already have. I’ve already gotten way too involved in this entire mess as it is.

  “Jesus, Tat just emailed and says she’s getting a bikini wax today!” Miles whines, slamming his laptop shut. “A bikini wax, Jake!” He puts his head into his hands. “Why keep living?” he moans, his voice muffled.

  “She can’t keep this up forever,” I tell him, feeling more unsure of my own words by the minute. I have to hand it to Tatiana—she’s got serious game. I think I may have underestimated her, actually. Forget about the cold shoulder, this is the cold war.

  “Wanna bet?” he asks, raising his head. “Ask me how many times I’ve beat off this week? Just ask me.”

  “I don’t want to know, Miles,” I laugh, walking toward the door. “But I have to get to work—the show’s coming up soon and we’re behind. Take the bounty down—it’s stupid. Tat will lose interest soon—just hang in there and try and be patient. Why don’t you cut off her credit cards until she ponies it up? That should teach her a lesson. No pussy, no Gucci.”

  I’m not really serious, but it is pretty funny to imagine Tat getting denied at Barney’s with an armful of lingerie. She’d get indignant, lose her fucking mind, and the salesgirl wouldn’t know what hit her.

  “Yeah, that’s a great idea, Jake. She’d probably cut my balls off, much less throw me a bone. You’re full of terrible ideas, you know that?”

  “So I’ve been told,” I smile, “but look who’s talking?” I open the door and get the hell out of there before he starts humping his very expensive Italian leather sofa.

  I head over to the museum, stopping to pick up a couple of coffees from Starbucks on my way. If I know Lizzie—and I do by now—then she’s hitting her mid-afternoon crash right now, and it won’t be pretty unless I can smooth the troubled waters with a venti vanilla latte. I’m just heading down to her office when Morgan comes barreling down the hall towards me, her hair pulled back extra-tight today, a determined look on her face.

  “Jake Weston!” she exclaims, taking me by the arm and pulling me into the conference room. “Just the man I wanted to see.” She closes the door and walks over to the conference table, perching on top of it like she’s some kind of nervous, exotic bird about to fly away.

  “What can I do for you, Morgan?” I ask, hoping she doesn’t want me to attend some godawful cocktail party like I did last week, to try to convince donors to be more generous in their gifts to the museum. I hate schmoozing.

  “I just got off the phone with Max Danforth’s lawyers, and they’ve agreed for you to visit this Saturday! You’ll meet with him that afternoon, and you’ll have access to the house, the grounds, all the memorabilia—everything!”

  Holy shit. Lizzie and I have been playing phone tag with Danforth’s people for weeks now, and I, for one, had just about given up on making a trip happen. Which would’ve been a shame, considering that Danforth is currently in possession of one of the biggest collections of old Hollywood memorabilia in the country. But, then again, this guy could afford to collect on a grand scale, seeing that he was one of the most successful producers in Hollywood history—with a humungous estate in Bel Air to match.

  “Has he agreed to loan out the pieces we need for the show?” I ask, already thinking of the treasures that could be back at the estate. Never mind Lizzie’s movie stuff, I have clients that would kill for some original mid-century furniture.

  “Well . . .” Morgan’s voice trails off. “He hasn’t agreed exactly, but I know that with your charm, Jake, you’ll have no problem convincing him!”

  Which means he’s said no flat out, and Morgan’s sending me anyway.

  “Normally, I would represent the museum in these matters, but I’m just so busy here planning for the big gala.”

  That’s right, I almost forgot. Once Morgan got wind that Lizzie’s exhibit might actually be a success, she decided to swoop in and upgrade the big opening to a massive fancy gala event. Goodbye, two lines in the NYT arts section, hello society event with catering, black-tie dress code, and sixteen-piece swing band. I’m pleased for Lizzie, it’s a big deal, but it means the pressure’s really on us now to pull this off.

  “You and Lizzie will go this weekend,” Morgan continues. “I’m relying on you to make this happen,” she adds with a steely glare. “Don’t let me down.”

  “Of course,” I mutter, with a sinking feeling in my gut. I wander back out into the hallway and take a sip of now-cold coffee. A weekend. In a hotel. With Lizzie. This isn’t exactly in line with my resolve to stay away from her. In fact, this fucks things up royally. But whatever. I’m a professional, right? I can make this work.

  She’s a colleague—nothing more. A fucking hot colleague that infuriates you on a daily basis, yes, but she’s a colleague nonetheless. If you can do that, this trip should be a piece of cake, right?

  And it’s only a weekend—two days, three, tops. I can do anything for a weekend—and that includes staying as far away from Lizzie Ryan as humanly possible.

  I mean, what could possibly go wrong?

  Just then Lizzie walks past wearing one of those tight little sundresses she favors that flares out at the hips and somehow simultaneously manages to hug every one of her curves. Fucking hell. When she sees me, her face breaks into a tentative smile before she realizes what she’s done and completely erases it. She stomps over to the espresso machine and begins noisily grinding some beans.

  “Heard the news yet about LA?” I ask, yelling so she can hear me over the cacophony.

  “Yep,” she says, not even turning around to look at me. “Morgan told me this morning.”

  “Pretty exciting,” I say, wondering why she’s not bouncing off the walls with glee.

  “I’m sure it’ll be a great opportunity for the show, yes,” she says in a robotic tone of voice.

  “Wow, I thought you’d be going apeshit over the chance to plunder this guy’s estate.”

  “Danforth’s a legend,” she says.
“So of course I’m excited. And it’s not plundering, it’s borrowing!”

  Was it something I said? Just for that, I don’t tell her about the latte sitting on the counter with her name on it. “I’ll meet you at the airport then,” I say, walking towards the door. I don’t know what happened between the movie and today, but she’s acting like I’m invisible. She doesn’t even say a word as I exit, just focuses on that coffee maker like it holds the secrets of the known universe.

  Jesus, she runs hot and cold so often, you’d think we were dating.

  I stop. Fuck. That’s not the way to think . . . because if we were dating, I wouldn’t let her off so easy. No, I’d push her up against the table and show her exactly why she can’t ignore me for long. Shove that skirt up, and find out if her panties were already wet for me—

  Professional. Sure, Jake.

  I storm down the hallway, needing some air, but I bump right into Liam, some tool from the HR department. As soon as he sees me, his face lights up like it’s Christmas. “Dude,” he says, leaning in closer, “did I see Lizzie heading back there?”

  “Last time I checked,” I growl.

  “You take a crack at that yet?” he asks. “I mean, fifty K is a lot of spare change, you know?”

  Him too? Fuck, I’m going to need to hire Lizzie bodyguards at this rate, to chase off all the assholes looking to make a quick buck at her expense. “Why don’t you just leave her alone?” I snap. “I mean she’s not a fucking cashiers check, she’s a human being.”

  Liam gives me a knowing look. “Fuck you, man, you just want it all for yourself.”

  “No.” I’m seriously close to doing this kid damage but he just gives me a conspiratorial look, like we’re in this together.

  “Hey, all’s fair in love and war.” He smooths down his thinning blond hair. “She smiled at me in the elevator yesterday so I think she’s into it. Wish me luck.”