Bet Me: A Romantic Comedy Standalone

by Lila Monroe

  I pause. Shit. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to tell her about Dapper’s bounty, but it looks like I don’t have a choice. This thing hasn’t blown over the way I hoped, and if anything, it’s even more important she knows. I mean, everyone’s chasing after her now. Take that Dale Hollywood dude at the hotel—there’s no way he hasn’t heard about the bounty. I mean, Lizzie’s hot, but guys like that care about headlines, not how great a girl is. A famous A-lister wouldn’t be sniffing around her if there wasn’t a PR opportunity for him.

  I brace myself. “Look, Lizzie,” I start. “I need to tell you something—”

  “Excuse me.” We’re suddenly interrupted. “Would you mind taking our picture?” An older woman holds out her iPhone towards us. “Sorry to interrupt,” she says excitedly, “but we’re visiting from Canada and I’d love to get a photo of the two of us here!”

  “Sure.” Lizzie takes her phone and snaps a pic of them grinning like crazy in front of the city, the Hollywood sign directly behind them.

  “Enjoy your trip!”

  She turns back to me. “What were you saying?”

  She looks so happy, I can’t bring myself to wreck her high. “Nothing,” I say. “I’ll tell you later.”

  “OK.” She takes one last look around and snaps some pics of her own, too. “We should probably head back. There’s a ton of logistics we need to arrange to transport Danforth’s collection.”

  “Right.” I nod, still feeling guilty. “But let’s get dinner later. And talk, OK?”

  She grins. “Sure, I’ll just tell Dale Ryder to meet me another time.”

  I groan. “Seriously, that asshole?”

  “Just because he’s famous, doesn’t make him an asshole,” Lizzie laughs. “Who knows, maybe he’s going to sweep me off my feet into a world of movie premieres and room service?”

  I want to punch the guy out right now. “Not tonight. Be ready at six.”

  “Sure,” she smiles. “It’s a not-date.”

  I’ll tell her tonight, I decide, as we drive back to the hotel. Soften the blow with a drink or two, and just rip off the band-aid. After all, it’s not my bounty. I told Miles what a bad idea it was. She won’t hate me. Much.

  Right?

  22

  Lizzie

  “Here’s looking at you, kid.” I check my reflection in the giant wall of mirrors in the hotel lobby. My black, fifties-style cocktail dress isn’t exactly LA-casual, but who cares? A dress like this was made to be worn, not left in a dark suitcase.

  I look around. Jake was weirdly insistent about meeting on time. I figured we would just catch a bite in the hotel bar, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

  My phone buzzes. Outside.

  I head out the door, and am greeted with a wolf-whistle. Jake’s got the Thunderbird pulled around, and he’s standing by the passenger door, wearing a charcoal grey suit that could put Cary Grant to shame.

  Damn. I try not to drool. This whole “platonic co-worker” thing would be so much easier if he wasn’t so hot. Would it kill him to have a beer gut? Bald patch? Halitosis and a skin disease?

  “You look beautiful,” he says smoothly, as I slide into the car.

  “Thanks. You clean up pretty well yourself.”

  He gets behind the wheel and we drive up Hollywood Boulevard. The sunset is fading in a red-orange glow so gorgeous that I want to immediately sell my stuff and move out here without looking back. “We don’t get sunsets like this in New York,” I sigh.

  “It’s the smog,” Jake says, a romantic ’til death, but even he can’t ruin my good mood. Or the rumble in my stomach.

  “So, where are we going?” I ask, looking around. “Ooh, In-N-Out!”

  Jake laughs. “You want to eat junk food?”

  “Burgers aren’t junk,” I inform him. “They’re the noblest of all food groups.”

  “Well, we agree about that.” He flashes me a grin. “Just hang tight, we’re almost there.”

  We drive another couple of blocks to a non-descript building just off Hollywood. I was expecting something a bit more flashy from Jake, but when we step inside, it all makes sense. Dimly-lit leather booths, black-and-white photographs—it’s like we just stepped back in time. “I love it!” I exclaim, after we sit and the waiter takes our order. Jake smiles.

  “It’s been around since 1919. All the old stars came here, look.” He nods to the autographed photos on the wall. Valentino, Charlie Chaplin, Greta Garbo . . .

  “You mean Greta Garbo might have sat on this exact seat!” I stroke the cracked leather. “And you pretend you’ve got no soul.”

  Jake frowns. “Since when?”

  “You know, all your bitter cynicism.” I laugh. “It’s OK, I won’t try to convert you anymore. I know my limits.”

  “I’m not bitter.” Jake sounds put out, but the waiter interrupts with two ice-cold vodka martinis.

  “To teamwork,” I toast. “And the big exhibition. Who knows, we might actually get it ready to open in time.”

  “Of course we will,” Jake states. “And it’ll be amazing.”

  I wish I could be so confident, but securing the exhibits is only the beginning. There’s still curating the rooms and writing up the materials, and Morgan has even been making noise about some big opening event.

  But right now, the Met and New York City are thousands of miles away, and I’m going to enjoy the small victories where I can. Like steak dinners, and getting Danforth to agree to loan us his collection . . .

  And sitting opposite a gorgeous guy in a romantic restaurant, toasting to our joint success. Because he is looking incredible tonight, with his suit clinging to his perfectly-muscular frame, and those blue eyes smiling at me across the table with their “come to bed” stare—

  Down, Lizzie.

  I take a sip of my drink to distract myself. “Goddamn if this isn’t the best martini I’ve ever had in my life.”

  “Just wait until you taste the steak,” Jake says.

  “You’ve been here before?”

  He nods. “My father moved out here for wife number two. That lasted a couple of years. Three was in New Mexico on a commune, and Four I think is over in Poland still, until they get her visa.”

  “Wow. And I thought my family holidays were complicated enough.”

  Our steaks arrive, and sure enough, the meat is as tender as butter under my knife, and I close my eyes and let out a low moan as I chew. “This is fantastic.”

  When I pause for air, I look up and find Jake looking at me with a weird expression on his face. “What?” I ask. “Do I have steak sauce on my face or something?”

  “Not at all,” he says after a long moment. “You just look really beautiful tonight.”

  What?

  “Um, thanks.” I blush, and he holds my gaze for what feels like forever. And these martinis must be way stronger than back home, because my blood runs hot with the alcohol.

  At least, I think it’s the booze.

  It has to be. Because if one thing has been established beyond a shadow of a doubt, it’s that Jake Weston is all wrong for me.

  So why can’t I seem to look away from him? And how can I feel his gaze on every inch of my skin, until it’s like I’m slowly catching on fire, smoke curling around my body, ready to combust?

  “I’ll be right back,” I blurt, jumping out of the booth. I make a beeline for the bathrooms—before I can melt into a puddle of lust on the same seat that Greta Garbo definitely maybe sat her ass.

  What the hell am I playing at?

  I run cold water over my hands and give myself a stern talking-to in the bathroom mirror. OK, so Jake is smokin’ hot tonight, and as charming as ever, but I figured I was past that by now. He’s a rat, remember? A super rat. He scorns romance, thinks commitment is for dummies, and has been making fun of my strike since the moment it began. So out of all the men I could scratch my itch with, why do I want so badly for it to be him?

  Because you already know how good it would be . . .r />
  I groan in frustration. It’s been MONTHS since I got laid—not that anyone’s counting—so I’ve got all that pent-up desire whirling around, and worse still, it’s Jake I see every time I close my eyes. That false start at New Year’s . . . the moment of madness up against my wall . . . that dirty-talk on the flight. Every time he puts his hands on me, the chemistry is enough to make me lose my mind.

  Because that’s what it would be if we hooked up: a serious lapse in judgment.

  And hard. And hot. And sexy as hell.

  So what’s stopping me? It’s not like anyone would know.

  What happens in LA, stays in LA . . .

  The thought dances a tantalizing jig in my mind as I fix my makeup and re-emerge from the ladies’, heading back to our table. But I’m halfway across the room when the hostess rushes out from behind her podium.

  “You’re Lizzie, right?” she asks, throwing back a mane of dark hair that would make a Kardashian envious. “From the video?”

  I try not to cringe. “Guilty as charged.”

  “I knew it!” She claps her hands together, wide-eyed and excited. “I just had to say something to you before you left—you’re my hero!”

  I blink. “I am?”

  “Of course!” she gushes. “You’re such an inspiration! I mean, because of your video, I finally dumped my asshole boyfriend after years of putting up with his ridiculous bullshit. Now I’m focusing on me and getting back to figuring out what I really want in life—I’m even starting my own business!”

  “That’s great!” I say.

  “And it’s all because of you.” She beams at me, and for a weird moment, I understand what it must be like to be Dale Ryder or some celebrity—having people gaze at you with total adoration.

  It’s creepy. Creepy as fuck.

  “Congratulations,” I say again, backing away. “But really, I didn’t do anything. If you’ve made some great changes in your life, that’s all you!”

  “No way.” She shakes her head firmly. “You don’t understand. You’re an inspiration. An icon! All my friends agree. If it wasn’t for you, I’d still be putting up with Shane’s fucking stand-up comedy routines just so, what, he can stick it in for a couple of minutes? What good is sex, anyway?”

  A requirement? Like air?

  “Fuck that shit!” she says loudly. “And fuck all those guys who don’t truly deserve us. Why should we give up everything we believe in just to get laid? Solidarity, sister!” she says, squeezing my arm. “You’re the one making it happen. Don’t give up!”

  I finally tear away and walk back to our booth, feeling like a zombie.

  “What was that about?” Jake asks.

  I shake my head, suddenly racked with guilt. Just moments before, I was actually contemplating breaking my strike, and with Jake, of all people. But apparently, this thing is still bigger than I ever imagined. I’m an icon! A legend! Can I really let the sisterhood down just because I’m having a moment of weakness?

  I look over at Jake, the way the light falls across his cheekbones, and all at once I’m paralyzed with the desire to run my fingers through his hair.

  And tear all his clothes off.

  Fuck. When did everything get so complicated? And why suddenly does every choice feel like the wrong one?

  “Dessert?” he asks.

  “Definitely.”

  Chocolate is always the answer, but by the time we’ve eaten our way through a molten lava cake, picked up the check, and driven back to the hotel, I’m still fighting an epic battle in my mind. It’s not so much head versus heart as head versus loins, because damn, Jake takes my hand to help me out of the car, and then presses his palm into the small of my back as he walks me into the hotel lobby, and just like that, I’m reduced to a mess of wild hormones all over again.

  I take a deep breath, ignoring the heat in my blood and the way my skin is tingling. I’m almost home free. I just have to make it up to my room—alone—and then I can lock the door and go spend some quality time with that detachable shower head I spied in the bathroom. Twenty seconds away, tops. Thirty.

  “Are you OK?” Jake asks as we wait for the elevator. “You look all . . . flushed.”

  “Uh huh.” My answer comes out all strangled.

  “Maybe you’re coming down with something.” He frowns and presses the back of his hand to my forehead, his eyes searching mine.

  “No! I’m fine!” I yelp, leaping into the elevator as soon as the doors open. He follows.

  “Are you sure?” he checks again. “You might have picked something up on the flight. I’ll call down to room service and get you a hot tea, maybe that will help.”

  Fuck, just look at him, all worried and sexy and ready to tuck me into bed. Double fuck!

  God, I want to kiss him. Oh, jeez, why can’t I just admit it? I want to do a lot more than kiss him, actually. I want to feel his mouth on mine, and his cock hard against me as he pushes me up against the wall and spreads my legs and—

  “You’re definitely sick,” Jake says, touching my cheek again. “Your temperature is way up.”

  His hand lingers, burning my skin, and fuck, I can’t take it anymore. Before I can talk myself out of this all over again, I reach up and pull him closer, kissing him the way I’ve wanted to ever since that night at my apartment, ever since I first laid eyes on him on New Year’s Eve.

  To hell with sense and reason. I want him. Now.

  23

  Lizzie

  We’re kissing like the world’s about to end and we’re the last two survivors on earth. Jake groans, pushing me roughly up against the elevator wall. His tongue slides into my mouth, and my legs go weak.

  God, this man can kiss.

  I loop my arms around his neck, yanking him closer. I’m greedy for the taste of him—and the feel of his lean, hard body up against mine. His hands move down my back and squeeze my ass, and I arch against him, needing him inside me right this minute. Then the door opens with a ding, and Jake grabs my hand, yanking me down the hallway to his room. He fumbles with the keycard, but it finally swipes, and then we’re inside, alone. I reach for him again, but Jake backs away.

  “What about the strike?” he asks, breathing hard. His eyes are stripping me naked and I groan. Dammit with these questions requiring actual answers and thought when all I want to do is tear his clothes off and make the neighbors complain about the noise.

  Think, Lizzie. You need a plan.

  “The strike,” I repeat. “Right. Fuck.”

  To hell with the strike, I want to cry, but he’s right. This isn’t just some random hook-up, it has stakes and consequences and—

  “Fuck.” Jake kisses me again, hard and hot, and the strike seems like the furthest thing from my mind. He drags his mouth away and nibbles on my earlobe. “We don’t have to do everything,” he says, sliding his hands between my thighs. He rubs me softly through my dress and I moan, it feels so fucking good.

  “Everything but?” I ask through the haze.

  “I don’t care,” he growls, spinning me around to face him. “I just want to hear you scream my name when you come.”

  Fuck. How’s a girl supposed to turn down an invitation like that?

  “Deal,” I gasp, as he kisses down my neck. We stumble across the room to the bed, stripping off clothes as we go. He throws me down on the soft mattress and yanks my dress off, burying his face in my breasts. I run my hands over his naked chest and he nips at my nipple through my bra. I shudder, then he peels the lace away and lavishes me with kisses, lapping and sucking until I’m dizzy and my nipples are straining up in stiff peaks.

  “Just so you know, your breasts are epic.” He lifts his head with a grin.

  “Thanks!” My voice comes out a squeak, but I can’t help it. Months of sexual tension are shooting through my bloodstream, and my head is spinning from all the amazing sensations flooding my nearly-naked body. I reach to explore his body, but Jake kisses over my stomach, his lips trailing softly down to my thig
hs.

  I tense, but he teases me: stroking over my body, reaching up to toy with my breasts as his tongue roves closer, closer—then retreats from the one place I need him most. I wriggle impatiently. God, I’m wound so tight, I don’t think I could get any wetter, and the way his nose and tongue are brushing lightly against my panties is driving me insane.

  “Jake,” I whimper, frustrated, and I hear him chuckle.

  “That’s right, baby. Beg for it.”

  I lift my head and fix him with a glare. “Really? You’re going to pull that smug asshole bullshit right now?”

  Jake cocks an eyebrow and deliberately strokes my clit through my panties, slowly circling and massaging it just right.

  I moan. “Oh my god!”

  “Say it,” he orders me, and fuck if it isn’t the hottest thing, seeing him all dominant and steely between my legs. “Say my name.”

  I bite my lip and shake my head. “Make me,” I challenge in a whisper, and he grins.

  “My pleasure.”

  He tugs off my panties, and spreads my legs wide. Still holding my gaze, he stokes me again.

  “Ooohh . . .” I have to clench my jaw to keep from giving him what he wants. But fuck, that feels so good.

  Jake slides a finger inside me and curls. I shudder, my body bearing down against his hand on instinct, but it’s not enough. “More,” I gasp.

  “More, please,” he corrects me, fluttering his finger inside me.

  Oh god, fuck his know-it-all stare. I need it. Him, all of him, inside me, on top of me, fucking me senseless into these hotel sheets.

  “Please,” I say, breaking. “Please, Jake. More!”

  “That’s my girl.” He lowers his head and licks up against me, and I lose my fucking mind. His tongue ravages me, licking and swirling over my tender clit until I’m gripping the pillows, crying out for more. He slides another finger inside me and pumps, and fuck, it’s good. Fuller and thicker and right where I need it. I’m so close, but I don’t want to come, not just yet. I reach down and he raises his head up, breathing hard.