P.I.T.A. (L.A. Liaisons Book 3)

by Brooke Blaine

  Great. Just great. I didn’t see the guy for days, and bam—he showed up on girls’ night. Maybe he’d hidden some kind of tracking program on my damn phone, some way of knowing where I was at all times so he could pop in whenever he wanted to.

  But…I couldn’t deny he looked good tonight. I mean, good for him, anyway. His hair was pulled back at the nape of his neck, and he’d dressed down his black collared shirt with distressed jeans. The top buttons of the shirt had been left undone, like he’d been pulled away before he could bother with them, and the sleeves were casually rolled up, showcasing his strong forearms. It always surprised me that he wasn’t covered in tattoos, given his “look,” but as long as I’d known him, he’d never shown an interest. Could be hot, though.

  “You’re staring,” Ryleigh said in my ear, jolting me out of my thoughts. I glanced at her over my shoulder, and she had a secretive smile on her face. “Just thought I’d call you out on it so you can’t deny it later.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “I was merely wondering where his strings of necklaces were this fine evening.”

  “Sure you were.”

  God, what was wrong with me? One sappy memory and I was mooning over the guy? I mentally slapped myself to get it together.

  “Go say hi,” Quinn said, pushing me toward the bar.

  “Yeah, I should say something, right? Before it gets awkward.”

  Ryleigh was biting her lip. “You should.”

  “Yep, I’m going,” I said, running my hands over my low-cut top to make sure all was still in place. It certainly wasn’t to open the fabric a bit more. Not at all.

  “Fancy seeing you here,” I said, sidling up alongside him where he stood waiting for his drink at the bar. “Not stalking me, are you?”

  “Paige,” he said, surprise lighting up his face. “Hey… What are you doing here?”

  Well, shit. He seemed genuinely taken aback, soooo I guessed the tracker theory was out.

  “So this is where you’ve been hiding,” I said.

  “Just tonight.” He inclined his head back at a trio of guy friends. “Justin’s birthday.”

  “You know you don’t need an excuse, right?”

  “For…?”

  “Being out. Drinking. Dancing. Dating. Whatever.”

  Dawson’s lips twisted like he was trying not to smile. “Dating, huh?”

  “I mean, yeah. It’s not like I’ve got you on a leash or something, so you’re free to do whatever you want.”

  “So, you’re giving me permission now, is that it?”

  “I’m just saying don’t let a little thing like being married slow your roll.”

  Dawson’s forehead crinkled as he studied my face, and then he began to slowly shake his head. “You’re an interesting woman, Pita.”

  “I’ve been called worse.”

  A jolt came from behind, someone knocking into me to get through the crowd, and Dawson’s hands came out to steady my waist. It was then that he seemed to notice what I was wearing, because his eyes grew large.

  “Wow,” he said.

  An unfamiliar warmth spread through my chest at his admiration. “Thank you.”

  “That’s… Damn. You should wear that more often.” His gaze continued to travel up my body, and when his eyes landed back on mine, he cleared his throat. “I mean, uh, maybe you should put on pants next time.”

  I couldn’t help the laugh that escaped my mouth. “Right. I’ll take that into consideration.”

  “You here with the girls?”

  “Yep.” I nodded over to where they stood, watching our exchange, and when he looked their way, their attention whirled back to the stage.

  “They do know they’re about as subtle as a blow job, right?” he said, as one of the dancers came over to let Quinn stick another dollar in her bikini bottoms.

  “Guess that’s why I fit right in.” I ran my finger down the length of my shirt, and Dawson’s eyes followed. When his gaze lifted, I winked. “See you around, Dick.”

  * * *

  AN HOUR LATER, I was coming out of the bathroom when Dawson rounded the corner and came to a halt in front of me.

  “You looked bored out there,” I remarked.

  “Did I?” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Nah, I’m not bored. Just not really feelin’ it tonight.”

  “Because I’m here?”

  His brow furrowed. “No.”

  An idea began to form, and my lips curved into a smile. “Well, what do you say we liven things up a bit?”

  “You make me nervous when you say things like that.”

  “Up for a night of dares?”

  Dawson shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh, come on, it’ll be fun. We can even make a bet out of it, if you like.”

  “A bet?” That got his attention. “What kind of a bet?”

  “Hmm. We don’t really have a big enough space to do much…and no dancing…what about whoever can get the most numbers wins?”

  His hand went to the back of his neck and he groaned. “Bad idea, Pita.”

  “It’s a great idea, thank you very much. Don’t be a pussy.”

  “What the fuck do I need numbers for?”

  “To continue filling up your black book, or to give to your friends, or to simply prove me wrong. It doesn’t matter why; it’s a game.”

  He sighed, seeming to think it over. “What’s the prize?”

  “Winner’s choice.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep.”

  “Anything I want?”

  “As long as it’s legal,” I said, remembering the time he dared me to steal a sign from In-N-Out.

  Sorry, In-N-Out.

  I grabbed his wrist to read the time on his Piguet. “Let’s say two hours.”

  “Two hours. Check.”

  “And no cheating. No numbers from my friends or your friends.”

  “I know how to play this silly game, love.” His eyes glimmered beneath the ruby lights of the cramped hallway, and something in his stare had my pulse racing. “Don’t start things you’re not okay with losing.”

  Standing my ground, I said, “You’re not going to win, so I’m not worried.”

  “And you’re sure? Anything I want?”

  “If you were to win, which you won’t. But, yes, humor yourself.”

  “You know,” he said, fingering the thread of hair that fell over my shoulder, “I admire your confidence. It’s always been one of my favorite things about you, but…” He dropped his hand. “You’re going down, love.”

  “You wish.”

  “That I do, Pita. That I do.”

  * * *

  “YOU’RE AN IDIOT,” Ryleigh said, as I sifted through the slips of napkins in my hands two hours later. She and the girls had watched with amused expressions as I’d made my way through the room, flirting and chatting it up with women and guys alike, and that included the dancers. Out of the corner of my eye I’d seen Dawson doing the same, though he steered clear of the males. And that was why I was feeling confident—with the crowd split clearly in half, male and female, that gave me double the winning odds. Once I won this bet, that would give me the leverage I needed to kick him out. Poor guy.

  “Oh, live a little.” I waved her off and finished counting, then smiled triumphantly. “An even ten, baby.”

  “What happens if you lose?” Shayne asked.

  “I don’t lose.”

  “I said what if.”

  “In the 0.0001 percent chance I lose, he’d get to name his terms.”

  Ryleigh went bug-eyed. “Okay, I take back what I said. You’ve clearly had a lobotomy at some point.”

  “I’m offended you think I’ve lost my touch.”

  “No, we don’t think that,” Quinn said, her eyes on the dancer slamming her platform shoe down on the stage to get the attention of a guy sitting in front of her. Feisty broads. I loved it.

  “All right, well, you guys can apologize for doubting me la
ter,” I said, as I saw Dawson heading my way. I met him halfway, a shit-eating grin on my face.

  “You look pretty proud of yourself,” he said.

  “I am,” I said, fanning myself with the napkins.

  Dawson eyed them and whistled. “Looks like you’ve been busy. I guess walking around half-naked worked wonders for you.”

  “You know these are strictly based on my glittering personality.” When his lips twitched, I handed him the numbers. “Ten, baby. I’m ready to name my reward now.”

  “Not so fast…” Dawson said, reaching into his pocket.

  “Why? You want to count? Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

  He pulled out a folded pile of napkins. “Eleven.”

  I blinked. “What? You’re lying.”

  “Not lying.” He handed me the stack and then crossed his arms. “Count ’em and weep.”

  “But…this is impossible,” I said, my heart sinking as I counted each one. I never lost this game, not to anyone, and I wasn’t about to lose an anything-goes stakes round to Dawson. I held up the last napkin. “That one looks like your handwriting.”

  “I can assure you, I have no reason to cheat.”

  “You do if the prize is something you want.”

  He stared me down, and I relented.

  “Fine,” I mumbled, still disbelieving I’d lost. I’d lost. At something I was utterly sure of. Apparently the only person who could turn on the charm more than me was…ugh. The man in front of me.

  “I told you not to bet me.”

  “You got lucky this time. Another round,” I said, and he shook his head, chuckling.

  “Rules are rules.”

  “Fuck the rules—isn’t that what you’ve always said? Make our own damn rules.”

  “I’m good with the ones we laid out.”

  I shifted, crossing my arms over my chest. “Well…what is it you want?”

  “I think I’d like to see you sweat about it first.”

  “I’ll do no such thing.”

  “You will. But don’t you worry.” He tapped me on the nose. “I’ll be collecting soon enough.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Here, Fishy, Fishy

  TWO NIGHTS LATER, he did just that.

  After I parked my SUV in the garage, I looked again at the text message he’d sent me hours earlier:

  Be home by six. I’m ready to collect.

  Sweet Jesus, there was no telling what he had up his sleeve. And, holding up my end of the bargain, I’d waited to come home until right at six. The last thing I wanted him to think was that I was eager—I definitely was not.

  “You’re late,” Dawson said from behind me when I’d walked inside, making me jump. He tapped his watch. “I said by six. Not at six.”

  “Oh, one measly minute, what does it matter?”

  “It matters because I’m hungry.”

  “So? There’s a stocked kitchen. Go make something,” I said, walking past him to hang my coat up. “Or maybe if you can manage to ask nicely, my chef, Gabrielle, will fix whatever it is you wish.”

  “Actually, she can’t.”

  When I turned back around, I asked, “Is she sick?”

  “I sent her home.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  A sly smile spread across Dawson’s face, one that told me I wasn’t going to like the answer to that question. He held out his hand toward me. “Come.”

  When I crossed my arms instead, he shrugged and headed toward the kitchen. Suspicious, I followed.

  I should’ve stayed in the foyer.

  Laid out across the long marble island were pots and pans, packages of food, and jars of all shapes and sizes.

  “What is this?” I asked, slowly walking alongside the island, glancing at the spread.

  “I told you it was time to collect my prize. This is what I want.”

  “A counter full of fish and asparagus?”

  “You’re going to make us dinner.”

  My mouth fell open as I looked from Dawson to the ingredients in front of me. “You’ve got to be fucking joking me.”

  “Not at all. See, and you thought I’d give you something worse.”

  “But I don’t cook. Like…ever. I don’t even know how to turn the oven on.” I picked up the fresh package of fish, two long ones with their heads still fully intact, eyeballs and all. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”

  “That’s for me to watch and you to figure out.”

  I clicked my tongue, getting it now. “So you want to watch me suffer and look ridiculous. Got it.”

  “No. I said I was hungry. I expect to eat something.”

  “When you said you were ready to collect on the bet, I never would’ve guessed you wanted…this,” I said, picking up a jar called “parsley” and wrinkling my nose at the smell.

  “Aw. Disappointed? Want me to choose something a bit juicier?”

  “No,” I said, too quickly. “It’s just…unexpected, is all.”

  Dawson pushed off the counter and came over to wrap an arm around my shoulders. “I remember you telling me that ‘a good wife puts food on the table.’ I know details of that night are sketchy for you, but surely you remember those bold claims you made about wifely duties.”

  Oh, I remembered, all right. I’d also said something about several orgasms a day, but thankfully he didn’t mention that part. “I said there’d be food on the table. I didn’t say I’d be the one making it.”

  “There’s a first time for everything.”

  Okay, so in the grand scheme of things, he could’ve chosen something much worse than throwing together a bunch of food and calling it a meal. I mean, he could’ve brought up the aforementioned sexual favors, so, yeah, I could be down with food.

  “So…it looks like I’ll be making…um…some kind of fish with asparagus and uh…” I scanned the table, looking for something remotely resembling a side dish. “Risotto?”

  “Escarole-stuffed seared trout and lemon asparagus risotto.”

  “Holy shit. That sounds like gibberish.”

  “That’s what Gabrielle tossed out, so who am I to complain?”

  “Whatever happened to cheeseburgers and fries?” I mumbled.

  “You know how to make those?”

  “Well, no, but at least the protein wouldn’t be staring me in the face. That fish is creeping me out. Can you at least cut the head off for me?”

  “It’s supposed to be cooked with the head.”

  “Ew, why?”

  Dawson’s hand came up to cover his mouth—or, rather, to cover the cheesetastic grin on his face.

  I held up a green bunch that looked kind of like lettuce. “I don’t even know what this is.”

  “That’s the escarole part of the dish.”

  “The what? Is that the fancy name for it?”

  “It’s also called an endive.”

  “Oh. Endive. Right.” I had no clue what that was either, but I wasn’t showing that card. No need to make him realize I was as blond as I looked when it came to matters of food. He’d find out soon enough.

  “Okay…well…I guess I’d better get to it.” I picked up the sheet of paper Gabrielle had been kind enough—yes, that was sarcastic—to leave behind, and quickly skimmed it. “Mix together the escarole with lemon juice, olive oil, and shallots.” Oh fuck, what the hell were those?

  The confusion must’ve showed on my face, because Dawson pushed what looked like an onion toward me. I looked at the list again. Okay, no onions, so maybe that thing was a shallot.

  “Right,” I said. “Easy enough.” I placed the large mixing bowl in front of me, and was about to rip the escarole into pieces when Dawson coughed. Glancing up, I saw him inclining his head toward the sink.

  Ohh. Yeah, these should probably be washed first, huh? It would’ve been nice if all the instructions had been written on here, but I did remember seeing Gabrielle do it to vegetables before chopping them for a salad, so I carried the escarole to the sink and
rinsed it off. Once I was satisfied it was good and clean, I patted the bunch dry and then grabbed one of the big, sharp knives I’d seen Gabrielle use on carrots.

  Dawson’s eyes grew large. “Uh, what are you gonna do with that?”

  “Relax, Dick. I don’t plan on using this on any body parts tonight, though after this I might be tempted to.”

  “Can we not go to the hospital tonight? That might put a damper on things.”

  I pointed at him with the knife. “You wanted dinner, I’m fucking making dinner. So zip your pie hole and let me concentrate.”

  Then I moved the bunch of escarole to the cutting board and lifted my knife, but stopped short when I realized I didn’t know which part I was supposed to cut. Did you chop the whole thing? Just the leafy green things? Not the leafy green things? Oh, shitdammit.

  Pulling my phone from my pocket, I quickly searched “what part of the escarole do you use.” A quick YouTube video later, and I was ready to cut the whole thing apart. It took me a lot longer than the one-minute video I’d watched—try about ten minutes—but that was only because I’d been trying not to cut off any fingers while I was at it. Then I did the same search on my phone but with shallots, and that took even longer because they had to go into tiny little pieces. Oh, and it didn’t help that those tiny assholes were making me cry like an onion would. On second thought, shallots were probably the fancy name for onion, because nothing could ever be simple today, could it?

  I sniffed and wiped my wet cheeks with the back of my hand. My mascara wasn’t waterproof today, so there was no telling what I looked like. Besides a sniveling mess, of course.

  “Aw, Pita. I had no idea you’d get so emotional—” Dawson started, until I squinted and pointed the knife in his direction again.

  Once I measured out the shallots and escarole into the mixing bowl, I added squeezes of lemon and some olive oil and tossed it around a bit. Well, damn. I felt pretty proud of myself already.

  “‘Step two,’” I read to myself. “‘Stuff the cavities of the fish with the escarole mix and close with skewers.’” I picked up the package of fish and took the shrink wrapping off. Stuff the cavity? Did it mean—