Bet Me: A Romantic Comedy Standalone

by Lila Monroe

  Bet Me

  A Romantic Comedy

  Lila Monroe

  Lila Monroe Books

  Contents

  Copyright

  Bet Me

  From Lila

  1. Lizzie

  2. Lizzie

  3. New Year’s Eve: 3 Years Ago

  4. Still New Year’s Eve

  5. Jake

  6. Lizzie

  7. Lizzie

  8. Lizzie

  9. Lizzie

  10. Lizzie

  11. Lizzie

  12. Lizzie

  13. Jake

  14. Lizzie

  15. Lizzie

  16. Lizzie

  17. Lizzie

  18. Jake

  19. Lizzie

  20. Lizzie

  21. Jake

  22. Lizzie

  23. Lizzie

  24. Lizzie

  25. Lizzie

  26. Lizzie

  27. Jake

  28. Lizzie

  29. Lizzie

  30. Lizzie

  31. Lizzie

  32. Jake

  33. Lizzie

  34. Three Months Later

  Get Lucky

  1. Julia

  2. Nate

  The Billionaire Bargain

  The Billionaire Game

  Billionaire With a Twist

  Rugged Billionaire

  About the Author

  Copyright 2017 by Lila Monroe

  Cover Design: Mayhem Designs

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including emailing, photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Bet Me

  What happens when your sex strike goes viral -- and suddenly every man in town has their eye on your prize?

  All I wanted was little old-fashioned romance. After a parade of Tinder disasters who think chivalry is giving me a pearl necklace on the first date, I made a pledge: until guys step up their game, my goods are off the market.

  But one bottle of chardonnay later, and my drunken rant has gone viral. I’m the most famous person NOT having sex since the Jonas Brothers put on their purity rings. A men’s magazine has even put a bounty on my (ahem) maidenhead: fifty Gs to whoever makes me break the drought.

  Be careful what you wish for...

  Now my office looks like an explosion in a Hallmark factory, I’ve got guys lining up to sweep me off my feet - and the one man I want is most definitely off-limits. Jake Weston is a player through and through. He’s also the only one who sees through the mayhem to the real me, but how can I trust he’s not just out to claim the glory?

  And how will I make it through the strike without scratching the itch - especially when that itch looks so damn good out of his suit?

  The thrill of the chaste has never been so sexy in Lila Monroe’s hilarious, hot new romantic read!

  From Lila

  Want more sexy romantic comedy reads?

  Sign up for my mailing list and receive a FREE copy of one of my bestselling books!

  CLICK HERE to claim your book.

  For all the hopeless romantics - and the hopeful ones, too.

  1

  Lizzie

  You know what they say about a guy’s hands. No, not that myth about dick size. I mean, that’s what they might say, but I can confirm with an almost scientific certainty that hands don’t lie. Guys with great hands—hands with fingers that can tease concertos out of a piano, or that have the light, sure touch necessary to make life-saving incisions with a scalpel—it’s hands like that that will make you come your brains out. I mean, some girls are into arms, or abs, or the way a guy’s happy trail leads down his stomach, but me? I’m all about the hands.

  So there’s a part of me that’s both impressed and horrifyingly turned on as I watch Colin’s near-surgical approach to tearing the chicken meat off one Super Sizzling Sweet Sauce-slathered chicken wing after another.

  Be careful what you wish for.

  “Sure you don’t want any? It’s two-for-one,” Colin grins through a mouthful of chicken. “I’ve got a coupon and everything.”

  “Thanks, I’m good,” I say weakly, watching those gorgeous, elegant hands smear barbecue sauce across his chin. So this is where a Sunday afternoon spent swiping right on cute dudes without bothering to read their profiles can land you come Monday evening.

  I pick up my glass of warm chardonnay and try not to grimace. Not that he’d notice. I’m fighting to be heard in a packed sports bar just off of Times Square, where “the game” plays at an ear-splitting volume on an endless series of flat-screens, and the beer is served at such frigid temperatures that you almost forget that you’re drinking something that would taste like piss if it happened to be warm.

  “What in the fuck was that?” Colin yells suddenly, his hands flying up in tandem with every other dude in the bar—solo dudes who clearly didn’t have the balls or the enterprising nature to combine Monday Night Football with a Tinder date.

  “Sorry, sorry—I just can’t believe this ref,” he says, finally turning away from the screens. He shoots me a bashful smile, exposing a set of blindingly white teeth. “So what’s your name again?” He downs his beer in one gulp and lets out an almighty belch.

  Guys these days are so charming that I can hardly stand it.

  Colin grabs another chicken wing like his life depends on it before pulling the meat from the bone and shoving it in his mouth. Before I can answer, he keeps talking, his mouth full of dead bird.

  “So tell me more about this . . . what? Art shit, you said?”

  His brow crinkles, as though the task of recalling the few details I’ve ponied up about my life so far is about to give him a stroke.

  “You’re really into that stuff, huh? Old movies? My mom can’t get enough of them. I don’t know what she sees in those old dudes, though. Cary Grant? I mean, that stuff’s from the dark ages. TV is where it’s at. Have you seen Ballers? Now that’s a great fucking show . . . Oh shit!” he yells out, jumping to his feet like he’s been electrocuted, and his hip knocks into the table upending his entire glass of beer . . . in my lap.

  Talk about a cold shower. I grab a pile of napkins off the table and start dabbing at my dress. This is definitely my cue to hightail it the hell out of here before something even worse happens. And let’s be brutally honest: I’m pretty much lonely and horny enough that three more chardonnays might wind up with me being poked and prodded like another juicy wing by the end of the night.

  “Great to meet you, Colin,” I say sweetly, my cheeks hurting from the fake smile plastered across my face. I push my chair back from the table, the peanut shells littering the bar floor crunching beneath my heels. Colin may not have a romantic bone in his impressively-toned body, but there is no way in hell that I’m even going to consider hooking up with a guy who dares to blaspheme Cary Grant in my presence.

  After all, a girl has to have standards.

  A look of confusion flits across his face. “Wait . . . you’re leaving? But the game’s not over yet!”

  Oh, it’s definitely over. “Yeah, I’m sorry,” I say, “but I have to get up early for work tomorrow. Let me know how it ends?”

  “Sure,” he says slowly. “And maybe we can do this again sometime?” He cocks his head to the side and gives me an earnest smile, as if he has no idea that I can’t wait to get the hell out of there. “I mean, this was fun, right?”

  Oh sure. Like g
oing to the dentist is fun. Like being trapped in a Turkish prison is fun . . .

  I don’t answer, turn around, and keep walking until I’m out the door. Miraculously, my Uber arrives almost right away and soon I’m slumped in the backseat, watching the twinkling lights of the Brooklyn Bridge flash by outside the window as we cross over the water from Manhattan.

  The worst part is, I’d give that date a six. I mean, compared to the disasters I’ve been on, he’s practically a knight in shining armor. Remembered my name? Check. All his own hair? Check. Didn’t paw me in the coat-check line? Give this guy a medal and call it true love.

  God, I’ve been dating in this town way too long.

  At least New York will always make me feel better, even after the worst of bad dates—and I’ve definitely had my share lately. I try not to think about my track record until I’m home and can pour myself another glass of wine from an open bottle in the fridge and sink down into the couch, pulling my red heels off and throwing them across the room. It’s not like they have far to go because my apartment is literally the size of a shoe box. A charming shoe box with exposed brick walls, windows overlooking Prospect Park, and a fire escape where I leave bowls of food for the neighbor’s white Persian kitty (that I am slowly in the process of catnapping).

  Everyone has to have a hobby, right?

  But hey, it could be a lot worse. At least I don’t have a roommate—or five.

  Before I moved to Brooklyn from Toledo, Ohio, where I grew up, I pictured my first apartment as this charming, bohemian space where I’d store my Manolos in the oven a la Carrie Bradshaw and host glamorous parties like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

  But Manolos are hard to come by on an assistant curator’s salary, even at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. In fact, I’ve yet to have a single person over, much less an excuse to throw any kind of wild, Hepburn-esque soiree where people pass out face down on the floor while yelling “Timber!” Ever since the breakup with Todd, aka the man I thought was the love of my life, I’ve been too dejected and heartbroken to do much dating at all—until recently, that is.

  And just look how that’s turning out.

  I reach over and grab my laptop off the floor and pull up Facebook, feeling better as I click to video message and the image of my sister, Jess, appears on the screen, looking none of her thirty-five years, with what looks like oatmeal smeared across one cheek.

  Even though she still basically resembles a college student (Botox), she always seems completely stressed out, which is not exactly surprising considering the fact that she’s raising two toddlers, Amelia, fourteen months (light of my life), and Jackson, three (devil’s spawn), while trying to start her own internet business selling coffee mugs with the hashtags #Blessed and #Basic printed on them. When I asked her what she wanted for her birthday this year, she told me, “I want to check into a hotel for the night, order room service, and eat French fries while watching reality TV until I’m fucking comatose. Then I want to sleep for sixteen hours.”

  Motherhood is a joy.

  “Lizzie, babe, what’s up?” she asks.

  “Oh my god,” I say, reaching over and taking a sip of my wine, then pulling my legs beneath me so I can sit cross legged. “I just had the worst date ever.”

  Jess reaches one arm off screen, presumably to shove some goopy homemade concoction in Amelia’s mouth, a smile twitching at the corner of her lips. “Ooh. Details. Gimme.”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Please. I spent my day inventing elaborate fairytales to make my kids take their antibiotics. Remind me what adults even do, please.”

  “Watch a stranger devour hot wings in a crappy sports bar while completely ignoring their date?”

  “Ouch,” she winces, before her attention is yanked away. “Jackson! We don’t strangle the dog!”

  “Why are the kids still up?” I ask, fully aware that my sister hates to be off schedule. She runs her house like a military base—or a high-end prison.

  “Don’t ask,” she sighs as she holds out a spoon to my niece. “Richard’s working late and my night just went to shit. Amelia, open your mouth, sweetie,” Jess coos before turning back to the screen with an exasperated look. “Why does she hate pureed parsnips,” she mutters in exasperation, mostly to herself, “and why do you waste your time with these losers anyway?”

  “What else am I supposed to do?” I moan. “Tinder is the only way anyone meets up these days, and these guys all look normal enough in their profile. Well, most of them, anyway,” I say, backtracking quickly before she can call me out.

  “Besides, I wasted my hot twenties on Todd, living in a crappy studio apartment, working that stupid sales job to make his dreams come true, and then he leaves me for his assistant! Now I’m THIRTY and stuck in this Tinder wasteland. I mean, the last three guys I hooked up with all stopped in the middle of sex to come on my tits! Not one, not two, but all three!” I despair. “Is romance totally dead, Jess? And more importantly, does my chest have a target painted on it or something?”

  Jess bursts out laughing, still holding a goop-covered spoon in one hand. I can see Jackson running around behind her in their living room naked like some sort of crazed animal in need of a tranquilizer gun. “Lizzie! Not in front of the kids, okay?” she warns me, grinning. “And it’s not like thirty is even old! I’m thirty-five, you know!”

  “Yeah, but you’re thirty-five with a husband and two kids living in a gorgeous house in Austin, Texas! I’m thirty with nothing waiting at home for me in the Naked City but this half-bottle of Two Buck Chuck.” I gulp my wine like it’s oxygen, aware that I’m rapidly crossing the line between tipsy and flat out drunk.

  “I’m literally sobbing for you inside,” she drawls. “I mean, it’s Tinder! What were you expecting? That this guy was going to sweep you off your feet and you’d move into his penthouse in Tribeca and live happily ever after?”

  I sigh, taking another sip of wine. Not expected. Hoped was more like it. I mean, is it so bad that I still believe there’s a guy out there who might wine and dine me, and also fuck me like he’s straight out of Magic Mike XXL? Who will send me flowers unexpectedly, leave little love notes in my purse, and bring home a bottle of prosecco just because?

  The “told ya so” look on my sister’s face answers the question for me with a resounding no. Clearly I’m not going to get much (read: any) sympathy from my own flesh and blood, so the only thing to do is clear—change the subject.

  “So what’s that on your cheek?” I ask mischievously, one eyebrow raised—a move that took me months to perfect in front of endless Joan Crawford movies. “Did Richard come home early and give you a facial?”

  Richard’s classically handsome with these waspy, blond-haired, all-American good looks, and is the sweetest guy ever. He’s just . . . how can I put this? Not all that interesting? In fact, talking to him basically produces instant narcolepsy. I have no idea how Jess stays awake long enough to fuck him. She must recite the alphabet backwards or something.

  “Oh my god,” she says, literally recoiling in horror. “NO! That is so gross! We would . . . I would . . . never!” she stammers, her face the color of a summer tomato.

  “Never is a mighty long time, Sis,” I say with a wicked smile. “You should try it. What’s the worst that could happen—you might actually have a good time?”

  “You’re completely depraved,” she shoots back, practically sputtering now. “Richard and I have a normal sex life,” she insists. “Normal. We would never do . . . any of that!”

  See, what did I tell you? She’s definitely reciting the alphabet when he fucks her. Or counting ceiling tiles. Besides, I love making my sister squirm. It’s kind of like shooting fish in a barrel: a direct hit every time.

  “Relax,” I laugh. “You’re probably getting more action than me, even if it is on a schedule. Seven p.m. bath-time, seven-thirty p.m. bedtime stories,” I tease. “Eight to eight-fifteen, conjugal intimacy.”

&nbs
p; “I hate you.” Jess scowls, but she’s laughing. “And I’ll have you know, it’s more like eight to eight-thirty.”

  “Go Richard!” I cheer. “Who’d have thought the man had it in him?”

  After we hang up, I’m still not tired, even though I have to be up early, so I grab the remote and switch on the TV. When Jess and I were kids, before our parents finally split, I was dumped in front of the television practically every day after school while they had it out in the kitchen. As a result, TCM kind of became my best friend, and I still find it comforting to disappear into the fantasy land on screen: a world where the women are strong and sassy and well-dressed, and the men really know how to treat a lady.

  A little champagne with dinner? Yes, please.

  For once, I’m in luck—An Affair to Remember is on, lighting up the screen in glorious Technicolor. As I watch Cary Grant tenderly push back Deborah Kerr’s flame-colored hair from her celestial face, I settle back into the cushions, pulling my feet underneath me. Now this is more like it. Waiting at the top of the Empire State Building for hours in the freezing cold for the woman you love, AND pining for her for years after she didn’t show up? That was romance.

  Coming on a lady’s chest halfway through sex? Please.

  I roll my eyes at the thought, draining my glass of wine and setting it down on the floor before curling up with my grandmother’s purple knitted afghan.

  Cary Grant would never pull that shit.

  2

  Lizzie

  When I walk into the museum the next morning, the sound of my boots clattering against the marble floors tells me I’m definitely hungover. Ouch. But even through my pounding headache, I still get the same kick as always, passing through the main hall with its gilded ceiling and ornate details. The Met is one of the greatest museums in the world, home to amazing works of art and culture, right on the edge of Central Park. I would come here all the time when I first moved to the city, just wandering the halls and taking in a new exhibition every other weekend. Todd always scoffed at it, saying I was obsessed with the past, but he never understood it wasn’t about the artifacts, but the stories they told. A thousand different cultures over hundreds of years, all asking the same questions about life and love and our place in the world. The day I landed my assistant curator position, it felt like my life was finally back on track—I was doing something just for me, after spending so long following his plan.