Bet Me: A Romantic Comedy Standalone

by Lila Monroe

But I digress.

  “Great to meet you in person,” I say, adjusting my glasses on my nose and giving him a big smile, hoping I’m not gushing too much already.

  “You too,” he answers with a smile of his own. “When you talked about all that classic Hollywood stuff, I was picturing someone a lot older. And far less beautiful.”

  Wow. He even has a dimple, a deep one on his left cheek—right near his impossibly full lips. Sigh.

  “What’s it like growing up as Hollywood royalty?” I ask before I can stop myself. God, I’m so nosy sometimes. Not to mention gossipy. Still, Dylan doesn’t seem to mind.

  “Not everything it’s cracked up to be,” he says with a rueful grin. “Hollywood’s a pretty fake place, you know? It’s not unfiltered like New York. No one tells you what they really think. Take this conversation, for instance, the question you just asked me? It would never happen in LA. Not in a million years.”

  “Sorry,” I say, cringing a little.

  “Don’t be,” he smiles. “I can’t tell you how refreshing it is.”

  His eyes crinkle at the edges. Did I mention, wow?

  “I’m thinking of relocating, actually.” Dylan leans back in his seat. “Maybe directing some theater. The movie business can be so shallow. I’m all about telling authentic stories, you know what I mean?”

  “Mmmm.” I nod. Gorgeous and thoughtful, too. Be still my heart!

  “Plus, it’s hard to meet women out there,” he adds. “At least, a woman of substance.” He smiles, fixing me with a soulful stare that I feel all the way to my toes.

  Yup. It’s my toes I’m feeling. For sure.

  “I know you don’t have long to talk, so should we get started about the show?” I open my laptop, trying to get down to business when all I can really think about is throwing this guy across the desk and having my way with him—maybe more than once, actually. Stop it, I tell myself, crossing my legs and trying to appear normal. You’re on strike!

  “Sure,” he says. “But I’d really rather hear more about you.”

  “Me?” I say in surprise, looking at him over the tops of my glasses. “What about me?”

  “Well, I don’t know yet,” he laughs. “Why don’t we start at the beginning? Or, better, yet, why don’t I take you to dinner tonight so we can discuss you in detail?”

  He’s coming on a bit strong, but maybe that’s just how they do it in LA. Still, my Spidey-sense is tingling at his charming lines, and I’m about to quiz him a little more when the door swings open and Jake walks in.

  “Don’t you ever knock?” I ask.

  “The museum has an open-door policy.” He stares at Dylan curiously, like he’s a space ship that’s just landed in my office.

  “Well, as you can see, I’m kind of busy right now.” I blush. OK, so maybe drooling over one guy just days after making out with the other isn’t exactly normal Lizzie behavior, but what am I supposed to do? A handsome stranger just appeared in my office to flirt. You don’t look a gift hottie in the mouth!

  “Clearly. I wanted to talk with you about the World War II section of the show.” Jake finally looks over at me. “But I can come back later. I’m Jake Weston,” he says, holding out his hand to Dylan.

  Dylan gives him a wide smile, standing up and shaking Jake’s hand firmly.

  I really like a man with a firm grip. Have I mentioned that already? Probably.

  “Dylan Mandeville. And you’re not interrupting at all—I’m just trying to convince Lizzie here to have dinner with me tonight.”

  “Dinner?” Jake raises an eyebrow. “I would think Lizzie’s far too busy with planning the show.”

  “What are you, anyway? My social director?” I turn back to Dylan with an exasperated smile. “I’d love to have dinner with you, Dylan,” I say sweetly, mentally warning Jake to not even think of screwing this up for me.

  “Great!” Dylan says warmly. We’re practically beaming at one another and Jake is shifting his weight from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable. “I’ll let you get back to work. I’ll call you later,” he says before walking to the door and closing it behind him.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I hiss at Jake, the moment he’s gone.

  “Just looking out for you,” he answers with a weird look.

  “I don’t need you to look out for me!”

  “Fine,” he says, walking to the door. “But it’s a mistake.”

  “What? You leaving? I don’t think so.”

  “No,” he says, his hand on the doorknob. “Your date with Mr. Hollywood. Those LA guys are bigger players than I am. He just wants to get in your pants. Did he mention the strike?”

  “Nope,” I say, relishing the word on my tongue. “He’s been travelling for work. He probably hasn’t even heard of it.”

  “Bullshit, he’s just playing it cool. No way he doesn’t know. Surprised he hasn’t tried to buy the film rights to your story yet,” he adds. My heart sinks. What if he’s right? I thought Dylan might be a blank slate when it comes to my viral humiliation.

  “So what if he does?” I rally. “If he knows he’s not getting laid, then maybe it makes his dinner invitation even more promising. He said it himself, he’s looking for authenticity, a woman of substance. Not everyone is looking to fall into bed at the drop of a hat.”

  Jake smirks. “I never said that. Some of us like it up against the wall.” He winks and closes the door behind him, before I can throw a pen at his head.

  My phone vibrates with a text. Dylan.

  “Meet me at the top of the Empire State Building. 8 PM.”

  I beam . . . Now here’s a guy who understands romance! And what could be more romantic than meeting at the Empire State Building, the setting for classic films like Sleepless in Seattle and An Affair to Remember, not to mention the location of countless first kisses and romantic proposals of all kinds?

  I’m finally about to find out. Hell, I don’t need a grand gesture—just as long as Dylan doesn’t show up in sweatpants with a 40 of beer in a brown paper bag, he’ll have most of my dating prospects beat.

  Bring it on.

  16

  Lizzie

  When I get off the subway, the Empire State Building is glittering in the darkness. I know it’s a cliché, but every time I see it, lit up in the night sky, I remember exactly why I moved to New York in the first place. My stomach is full of butterflies as I walk through the revolving glass door to the elevator that races up, up, and up without stopping, so fast that my head spins.

  When I step out onto the observation deck, it’s crowded with people, and I look around, craning my neck past the throngs of tourists looking out over the city lights. Then I see Dylan, stepping out of the crowd with a bouquet of roses in his hands. Sure, it’s a little cliché, but the classics last for a reason. I smile and greet him there right in the middle of the deck.

  “You know how to sweep a girl off her feet,” I tease, clutching the bouquet to my chest and breathing in the sweet scent.

  “I try.” He smiles, and I notice that he’s dressed as nicely as he was this afternoon, if not more so, since he’s pulled a dark grey sweater over his dress shirt and switched the loafers for shiny black shoes.

  “You’re an absolute vision,” he says, and grabs my hand. Then he twirls me around like we’re on a dance floor, so fast I almost stumble. When the world stops spinning, I see people are watching; one couple even starts clapping loudly. I flush.

  “People are looking,” I whisper, feeling self-conscious.

  “Probably staring at how beautiful you are.”

  OK, that line is just . . . cheesy. Mega-cheese. Stinky brie levels of cheesiness, and any other time I would be rolling my eyes, but somehow, Dylan is looking at me so sincerely, he almost pulls it off.

  “Let’s check out the view.” He takes me by the arm and leads me over to the railing. “It’s the only thing that’s maybe more stunning than you right now.”

  This guy is like a walking Hallmark
card. But before I can protest, he directs me to the corner edge of the platform where the city is spread out before us like a twinkling diamond necklace.

  I sigh happily. “I love this view.”

  “Me too.” When I look up, he’s ignoring everything except me, staring so deeply into my eyes that I’m wondering if I smeared red lipstick on my face or something. I reach up and rub my cheek just in case.

  “So, tell me more about Hollywood,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “Making movies sounds so exciting! I’ve always wondered what it’s like.”

  He waves away my question with one hand as if it’s a fly buzzing around his face.

  “Let’s not talk business tonight.” He moves in closer, resting one hand on my arm. “I meant what I said this afternoon—I want to hear more about you: your hopes, your dreams, your thoughts about the future. Who is Lizzie Ryan? What does she feel?”

  I cough lightly, trying to stifle a giggle. Oh my god. Is he for real? Sure, I wanted a guy who was into me, who would pay me more attention than the nearest sports game, but this is all way too much. It’s so . . . scripted.

  “I don’t know where to start . . .” I say slowly. “I mean, I grew up in Toledo. Go Buckeyes! I have one sister, and my parents divorced when I was a kid . . .” I pause, looking around. “It’s kind of cold up here. Do we have reservations we need to get to . . . ?”

  “What do you say we skip dinner and just take this night to the next level?” Dylan leans closer, so he’s practically purring in my ear. “I can think of better way to satisfy our . . . appetites.”

  His hand suddenly slides down to cup my ass, and squeeze it, too, for good measure. My eyes widen so much that I’m surprised they don’t pop out of my head.

  So much for romance.

  I’m tempted to deliver a swift knee to his groin to show him just how my appetite is working, but at the last second, I remember: I need this guy for the exhibition. Dammit! I’m going to have to wriggle out of this one without getting arrested for assault.

  “Umm, thanks,” I say, backing out of his vise-like grip. “But I’m suddenly . . . not feeling so well. I think I better take a rain check.”

  “Then maybe I should take you home,” he says, his face full of faux concern. “Tuck you into bed?” He winks suggestively, and it’s still so damn cheesy I can’t help it this time: a laugh escapes my lips and I have to fake a coughing fit to cover it up, slapping one hand over my mouth.

  “Uh, I don’t think so,” I say when I manage to straighten up, wiping the tears from my eyes and hoping that my mascara isn’t smeared all over my face. “I’m really not feeling well and I think I just need to go home and . . . rest.”

  “This strike of yours can’t last forever, you know,” he says, an edge of irritation creeping into his voice.

  I freeze. So he does know about the strike—along with everyone else on the planet, it seems. So that’s all this was? Finally a guy sweeps me off my feet, but for entirely the wrong reason. God forbid I should actually have a date with someone that wants to go out with me, oh, I don’t know . . . because he actually likes me or something!

  “We’ll see about that,” I say calmly, putting distance between us before I really do some damage. “But right now, going home alone seems like a great plan to me!”

  Once I’m back out on the street, I toss the flowers in the nearest trashcan. I know Dylan’s an ass, and I should have seen through him from the start, but I was so dazzled by all his talk about finding something real I didn’t stop to ask myself why he was coming on so strong.

  Sure, romantic gestures and pretty flowers are nice, but they’re not the point of all of this. It’s no good going on amazing dates if the guy at the other side of the table STILL only wants one thing. Fuck, it looks like this strike is having the exact opposite effect of the one I wanted: instead of clearing the decks of guys just looking to get laid, I’m attracting the ones who see me as some kind of conquest now.

  Like Jake?

  I try not to think about him, but boy, is it hard. Somehow all our animosity is producing the craziest sexual tension. The more cocky and irritating he gets, the more I want him back down between my thighs, finishing what he started on New Year’s Eve. Because as far as I can recall, that shit was amazing . . .

  . . . Up until the minute he passed out.

  Right. That.

  I sigh and shake it off. It’s a gorgeous night, the warm wind blowing gently through the streets, with people out enjoying drinks and dinner. I realize I’m just a few blocks from my favorite classic movie theater, so instead of writing off the night entirely, I stroll over to it to see if there’s anything that can distract me from the mess of my love life. My heart leaps in my chest when I see a Die Hard marathon advertised on the marquee! I mean, there’s really nothing that two hours immersed in intense action scenes with a shirtless, sweaty Bruce Willis can’t cure, as far as I’m concerned. What I need is a big tub of popcorn and an even bigger dose of fantasy to take me out of this mood.

  I walk determinedly into the brightly lit lobby, the delicious buttery scent of popcorn filling my nose, and I buy a ticket, walking toward the concession stand. Usually I bring brownies for Brad, the projectionist, but I’m empty-handed tonight, so I get in line for snacks.

  There’s a guy in a suit in front of me, buying a tub of popcorn bigger than my skull, and there’s something about the way he stands that looks so familiar . . . When he turns around, I find myself looking into the eyes of Jake Weston, who, against all odds, is smiling like he’s actually glad to see me.

  Smiling, and smoking hot, and bearing popcorn.

  Oh. Fuck.

  Forget Bruce Willis—I may just get a lot more action tonight then I bargained for.

  17

  Lizzie

  “Of all the theaters in all of the world, she walks into mine,” he deadpans, holding the gigantic tub of popcorn close to his chest. The aroma of butter and salt is so intoxicating that I can barely restrain myself from reaching out and taking a handful.

  That’s what I get for skipping dinner.

  “It’s not your theater, though,” I point out, and then curse myself for snapping. Something about this man makes my hackles rise—and my heart rate, too.

  “Your date extra hungry tonight?” I ask, gesturing to his snacks. “I mean, I’m surprised to see you’re dating a woman who actually eats. It’s so revolutionary of you, Jake.”

  “I’m full of surprises,” he says, smiling. “And I actually don’t have a date tonight. For once.”

  “I’m in shock,” I say, deadpan. “I guess the women of New York have more sense than I gave them credit for.”

  “Not as far as I’m concerned.” Jake gives me a look. “I made it halfway through my little black book before giving up. Someone’s been giving them ideas about romance and courtship.”

  “Ha!” I laugh. “Serves you right. Don’t worry,” I add, grinning. “You’ll get used to it. Who knows, you might even learn a thing or two.”

  “Believe me, I know everything I need to about women,” he says, sounding way too confident. “Give it another couple of weeks, and you’ll all be begging for us again. A little something called hormones,” he adds.

  I smirk and reach over to steal a handful of popcorn. “I prefer a little something called Lelo,” I reply, naming my trusted vibrator brand. “It charges for eight hours and doesn’t fart in the middle of the night.”

  Jake leans closer, still with that irresistible smirk on his face.

  Irritating. I mean irritating.

  “Sure, a vibrator can try to replace a dick,” he says casually, his voice low. “But what about hands . . . and fingers . . . and mouths . . . ?”

  His eyes flash, full of suggestion, and despite myself, I get hot. Because damn, he’s right. There’s nothing like the feel of a hard, masculine body pressing up against me, and someone’s lips driving me crazy, and—

  “The movie’s starting.” I drag my gaze away, cert
ain my cheeks are fire-engine red right now. “Coming?”

  I regret my word choice right away, because I hear him chuckling as he follows me into the theater. “Soon enough,” Jake says, and I try not to think about what that would be like. It’s even worse once we get settled in our seats: sitting side by side in the dark. The screening’s half-full, but still, it feels like we’re totally alone in front of the flickering screen. I fidget in my seat—why are these things always so damned uncomfortable—and when my hand brushes his on the armrest, I pull it away as if I’ve been burned, mumbling a “sorry” that he doesn’t return.

  “I hope you know you’re sharing this,” I say, as I grab a handful of his popcorn and shoving it in my mouth.

  A girl’s got to eat, right? Besides, he has a history of stealing my drinks, so turnabouts fair play. Or something.

  “I had a feeling,” he says dryly as he grabs a handful of his own and we chew in silence. Well, I mean, it’s not like the chewing is silent—it’s noisy as hell, like we’re crunching on blocks of Styrofoam. The trailers roll, but I feel Jake’s eyes on me. I turn.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” He grins. “Just wondering what happened to Mr. Hollywood? Did he stand you up?”

  “Nope,” I reply. “He met me at the top of the Empire State Building, if you must know. He even showed up with flowers!”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  I sigh. “Turns out, he just wanted to fuck me.”

  Jake laughs.

  “Gee, thanks for the sympathy.”

  “I’m not gonna say I told you so.”

  “Then don’t,” I snap. The lights go down, and the movie starts, but I can’t focus on the screen.

  I can’t help thinking that the last time we were this close, we were kissing back at my apartment, and suddenly, I’ve got an X-rated instant replay running in my mind. Plus, he’s wearing some kind of citrusy cologne that makes me think of near-naked beach vacations, which is making it nearly impossible for me to keep my mind on Bruce Willis and his impressive biceps.