How to Choose a Guy in 10 Days: Chick Flick Club #1
Page 22
“Good to know,” I murmur, dropping a couple of dollars into the tip jar and sneaking one more look at Luke. I have to say, he doesn’t exactly seem like the car-stealing, prostitute-ordering type. You always hear about actors being shorter or balder in person, but if anything Luke is sexier off-screen. He’s dressed a simple pair of shorts and a soft-looking t-shirt, tawny hair curling down over his ears and a few days’ worth of vacation scruff on his chin and jaw.
I lick a drip from my cone and sigh. It’s not fair for men that handsome to exist – to parade them around in front of sex-starved single women like some tempting, delicious treat, always out of reach.
I mean, how are we supposed to throw ourselves enthusiastically into the depths of Tindr or Bumble or Perfect Match, or whatever the hot new dating app is, when none of the photos on screen look anything like that? There’s a reason why movie stars are kept in LA or New York, so that normal women like me don’t run into them on the street and get the idea we might actually touch a body like that one day.
Sure enough, Dr. Casanova is already causing a stir. Every teenage girl in East Hampton is suddenly surrounding him like a pack of perfumed piranhas.
“Can we take a selfie?”
“Can you Facetime my friend at camp in Minnesota?”
“Can you sign my boobs?”
“Um…”
You’d think he’d be used to that kind of attention, but Luke actually looks a little rattled by the chaos, abandoning the line and attempting to edge through the crowd toward the door. “I’d love to, honestly, but I don’t want to interfere with—” He motions toward the counter. “I should probably get out of everyone’s hair.” He’s nearly to the exit when his toned, tanned elbow whacks into roughly into mine…
And knocks my entire ice cream cone smack down the front of my shirt.
“Oh! Sorry,” I say dumbly, even though the collision blatantly wasn’t my fault—and I’m the one currently wearing a scoop of Dark Chocolate Explosion right across my chest. But Dr. Casanova doesn’t seem to notice, hardly sparing me a glance before dashing out the door and off into the sunset.
“Celebrity crush: dead on arrival,” I mutter, and toss my empty cone into the trash.
* * *
My friend Katie is in town for the week from the city, so I change my clothes and pick up a bottle of wine before heading over to her place for dinner. Katie and her husband Seb own a restaurant in Manhattan that wins awards every other week—which, I think as I watch her throw together an effortlessly beautiful cheese board garnished with tomatoes and basil she grew herself, is more than deserved.
“So he was a dick?” she asks, reaching into the fridge for a bottle of white and topping off my wine glass. “Dr. Casanova, I mean?”
“I didn’t exactly talk to him,” I admit, reaching across the counter and popping a marinated olive into my mouth. Katie and Seb’s summer place is a classic beach cottage, all simple white shiplap and overstuffed sofas. Souvenirs from their various travels are tucked into every corner: handmade pottery from Marrakech and woven baskets from the south of France, making the place homey. And expensive. Expensively homey. “But yes, he definitely gave off a whiff of douche.”
“Floral,” Katie jokes, handing me the cheese board and leading me outside to the patio. “A hint of lavender for that shower-fresh feeling.”
“He bought the place on Sandy Lane, you know,” Seb calls from his post by the grill, where he’s putting an expert sear on some lamb chops.
“Dr. Casanova did?” My eyes widen at the mention. “Seriously?”
“What’s the Sandy Lane house?” Katie’s friend Olivia asks, looking at us with interest. She and her fiancé Ryan are here for a few days while Ryan scouts sites for the newest location of PowerBar, the fast casual health food chain he owns.
“It’s a massive place, right by the beach. And it’s just foul.” Katie laughs. “Gilt plating and fake cherubs everywhere. Seriously, Liv, you’d walk into it and literally just lay down on the floor and die from the glaring bad taste.”
“Rude,” Olivia says, but she’s smiling. When I first met her I thought she was kind of an ice queen, but Katie always swore she had a softer side, and watching her with Ryan, I see that’s true.
“He’s obviously going to gut it, right?” Seb asks, then points at me with his beer bottle. “You should bid for the job.”
I feel a sharp twist of longing at the idea. I’d love to get my hands on a property that size—with a budget to match. Still, I pause.
“I don’t even know how I’d get a meeting with someone at that level,” I admit, taking a seat at the table. “Although Lord knows I could use the work.”
Olivia looks over. “If you’re ever looking for a little extra cash…” She trails off, raising her eyebrows meaningfully.
I almost snort my wine. “What, come work for you?” Olivia runs a high-end dating service, matching billionaires and CEOs with the fake dates of their dreams. “With my romantic record? I’m a liability, Liv.”
Olivia tilts her elegant head to the side and looks at me appraisingly, like I’m a piece of property she’s preparing to renovate. “They’re not real relationships,” she says. “Besides, I think you’ve got potential.”
“Knock down a few walls, rip out the carpet?” Katie teases.
“Excuse you!” I laugh, tossing a cherry tomato in her direction. “My carpet is already ripped out, thanks. And I appreciate the vote of confidence,” I tell Olivia. “But I think it’s probably better for everybody if I stick to the rougher trades.”
“Suit yourself.” Olivia smiles, “but the offer stands.”
The guys bring the lamb over, and the conversation wanders as pass big bowls of pasta salad, everyone’s faces glowing in the candlelight with the smell of the ocean hanging in the air. This place is paradise, I think, slathering a piece of homemade focaccia with extra butter. And if I’ve got to fifth wheel it—again—there isn’t a better crowd to do it with than these guys.
Still, as I look around the table, I can’t help but wish I had somebody of my own to bring home at the end of the night. I’ve spent the last year totally focused on getting my construction business off the ground, working such long, grueling hours that by the time I collapsed into bed at night, I was too exhausted to even realize I was alone. I don’t regret it. After everything that happened with Rob, I’ve been in no position to even think about dating again. But lately, I’ve been wondering if maybe it isn’t time to get back out there. I miss the long, winding walks after dinner, talking about nothing and everything. I miss the inside jokes, and lazy Sundays together running errands.
And, OK, I really miss having sex with someone besides myself.
Not that sex would solve all my problems. I mean, even if Dr. Casanova himself appeared on my doorstep and proposed a sweaty, all-night romp, I would still wake up to pending invoices, overdue bills, and a pile of dirty laundry.
But wouldn’t I feel better about them?
I think of the Sandy Lane house again. Three thousand feet of bad construction just crying out for some TLC. What the hell. Even if Luke Rafferty is the arrogant asshole the tabloids all claim, he has one very important thing going for him.
A Hollywood-sized budget.
“You know what, I think I am going to bid on the project,” I announce. “Rob will probably find a way to snake me out of it, but I need to at least try. Right?”
Katie cheers, and lifts her glass in a toast. “To Stella, and her future hammering with Dr. Casanova.”
“Drilling those bore holes,” Seb agrees.
“Laying some pipe.” Ryan kicks in.
“You guys!” I groan at their bad puns, but I’m laughing all the same. “I promise you, I’m the last person in the world Dr. Casanova will want to shake the foundations with. He dates movie stars and supermodels. My last blind date was with an unemployed insurance agent. Who lived with his mom.”
“Chemistry works in mysterious ways,” Olivia
says with a twinkle. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
* * *
TO BE CONTINUED…
Stella and Luke’s story is just getting started! Find out what happens in my next hot and hilarious rom-com, MR CASANOVA - available to order now!
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What happens when you wake up in a hotel suite next to a gorgeous naked man with absolutely no memory of the past twelve hours?
I guess it's true what they say. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.
Or at least I hope it stays here. The Romantic Style convention was meant to be a weekend of raucous fun with friends, sun, and enough poolside margaritas to forget about my ex. But now, instead of meeting my fans and signing books, I'm stuck with cocky divorce lawyer Nate Wexler. He's arrogant, infuriating, and I can't keep my hands off of him. Judging by the state of our hotel room, last night was wild. I just wish I could remember it.
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Also by Lila:
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1. Very Irresistible Playboy
2. Hot Daddy
3. Wild Card
4. Man Candy
5. Mr Casanova
6. Best Man
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The Chick Flick Club Series:
1. How to Choose a Guy in 10 Days
2. You’ve Got Male
3. Frisky Business
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The Billionaire Bargain series
The Billionaire Game series
Billionaire with a Twist series
Rugged Billionaire
Snowed in with the Billionaire (holiday novella)
* * *
The Lucky in Love Series:
1. Get Lucky
2. Bet Me
3. Lovestruck
4. Mr Right Now
5. Perfect Match
6. Christmas with the Billionaire
About the Author
Combining her love of writing, sex and well-fitted suits, Lila Monroe wrote her first serial, The Billionaire Bargain, in 2015. She weaves sex, humor and romance into tales about hard-headed men and the strong and sassy women who try to tame... love... tame them.
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