Bet Me: A Romantic Comedy Standalone

by Lila Monroe

  But fuck all these guys, flocking around her when they only want one thing. Sure, she wants romance, but she’s going about it all wrong. Is this Simon really going to get all her movie references and laugh at her jokes? Can he appreciate her sarcasm? Does he even know she gets hungry and headachy if she goes too long without a snack?

  There’s no way.

  But what does it matter? She’s made it clear, I broke her trust.

  The problem is, I have no idea how to win it back again.

  I sit down at my desk and open my laptop and try to work. There’s a guy in England who collects mint-condition My Little Ponies from the 1990s and is willing to pay a pretty penny for me to find Majesty’s Dream Castle set, so I spend the evening making calls. But I can’t stop thinking about Lizzie sprawled in the grass, the sunlight beaming down on her face while that Simon guy feeds her grapes. Which is just dumb, because she’d prefer chocolate-covered pretzels from that cart on Fifth Avenue any day.

  Finally, I give up on the Dream Castle and dial her number instead.

  After a few rings, she picks up, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “Hey,” she croaks.

  “What happened to you?” I ask.

  “I don’t know . . .” Her voice trails off weakly for a moment before returning. “It was something I ate. I think I have food poisoning.”

  “From the picnic?” I ask.

  “The picnic . . . and then the carousel ride,” she moans. “The horses kept going up and down. I’ve been sick for hours.”

  “Oh, baby,” I say sympathetically. “Is he still with you?”

  “Are you kidding?” She laughs, which quickly turns into a moan. “No. I left him in the park and puked the entire way home. Thank god for trashcans. And purses.”

  “I’m coming over,” I say, grabbing my jacket and heading for the door.

  “Jake, I’m fine!” She protests. “There’s no need to—”

  But I’ve already hung up.

  When I get to her place, the door is cracked open a bit, so I walk right in.

  “Lizzie?” I call.

  “In here.” I hear a weak voice call out from the bathroom, and when I push the door open, she’s lying on the bathroom floor in a blue robe. She’s curled into the fetal position, her face the color of the white tile below her.

  “Don’t look at me,” she says weakly. “I have vomit on my face.”

  I kneel down and push the hair back from her face. “So, how was your date?” I ask. “Couldn’t stomach him?”

  She laughs, holding her stomach with both hands. “Don’t,” she gasps, “it hurts too much.”

  “Can you get up?” I ask, then cut to the chase and lift her into my arms. I can tell she’s sick because she doesn’t even protest as I carry her over to her couch and set her gently down.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, as I rifle through her drawers.

  I find a pair of purple PJs and pull them out of a drawer triumphantly, waving them like a flag. “Do you need help getting these on?”

  “I can do it,” she says, moving slowly and standing up and wavering for a second like the ground is about to tilt at any moment.

  “Just hold onto my arm and I’ll close my eyes,” I say, putting a hand over my heart. “Scout’s honor.”

  “Now I’m supposed to believe that you were actually a Boy Scout back in the day?” She laughs and almost falls over. I reach to steady her.

  “There’s a lot about me you don’t know.” I close my eyes and listen to the rustling of clothes as she takes off her bathrobe and puts the pajamas on—trying not to picture her naked right now.

  Or look.

  I swear, I don’t look for long.

  “Okay, I’m decent.”

  I open my eyes. “Are those . . . Barney pajamas?” I ask.

  “They were a gift! From Della.” Lizzie sinks onto the couch and lies back with a groan. I fetch her a glass of water and some Saltine crackers, then place a wastebasket with in easy reach. The TV is on, paused on the title credits for Bring Me the Stars.

  “Big night planned, huh?”

  “Don’t let me keep you.” Lizzie pouts, and I feel bad for teasing her when she clearly feels like death.

  “Let’s watch it,” I say, reaching for the remote. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen the whole thing from start to finish.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” she groans, shoving her face into the pillow. “It’s only the greatest movie of all time.”

  “Well, I guess that settles it then.” I hit play and the credits roll onscreen. I settle back onto the couch beside her, and Lizzie shifts so her legs are resting in my lap. “Tell me if you need to go vomit again.”

  “God, no, I don’t think I have anything left,” Lizzie says, and takes a careful sip of water.

  The film begins, Marlena’s plucky, impish face lighting up the screen. It’s one of those classic romances, with star-crossed lovers and men in great suits, and I’m surprised to get caught up in the action.

  I look over at Lizzie. She’s fast asleep, snoring slightly with these muffled little noises.

  Damn, she’s cute when she’s not biting my head off.

  Hell, she’s even hotter when she is.

  I sigh and turn the movie off. I gently lift her in my arms, her head nestling into my shoulder, and carry her over to the bed, setting her carefully on the mattress. She’s got some ugly quilted throw thing that I tuck around her, and she makes another noise as I smooth down her hair, a smile spreading across her face.

  “Horseradish,” she whispers, out like a light. “For the barn dance.”

  I have no idea what she’s dreaming, but I suddenly wish it was about me. Fuck, I wish I could slip under the covers with her and spend all night with her spooned tightly against me, listening to the sound of her sleep.

  I am so screwed.

  I turn out the light and quietly let myself out. The door’s on a latch, and I hear it click behind me.

  She’s in there, and I’m out here. It feels wrong somehow, but there’s nothing I can do tonight.

  I walk home alone.

  28

  Lizzie

  When I wake up, for one blissful moment I don’t remember anything about last night. Then it all comes flooding back. The picnic. The carousel. The vomiting.

  And Jake Weston seeing me crumpled on the bathroom floor in my ratty old robe with regurgitated crab dip all over me.

  I groan and hide my face in the pillow. My hair stinks, and my mouth tastes absolutely disgusting. What must he think of me now?

  That I have seriously bad taste in dates? He already thought that, anyway.

  I force myself to sit up, and take a sip of water from the glass he left on my nightstand. I have to admit, it was really sweet of him to come take care of me, especially when I was such a puking wreck. He was kind . . . and patient . . . and sweet . . .

  Oh, no. I stop myself dead. You know who Jake is: a rat, remember? A super rat!

  Except rats don’t carry you to the couch, and feed you Saltines, and sit up with you through an old movie before tucking you into bed. And they sure don’t leave you with your embarrassing Barney’s pajamas intact and untouched.

  Anyone would think he was a . . . nice person?

  My phone rings, and I pick up to find his soothing voice on the other end of the line.

  “So, you’re alive then?”

  “Barely.” I flop back down in the pillows. “Thanks for coming over last night. I know I was a bit of a mess, but—”

  He laughs. “Don’t worry. The Exorcist is one of my favorite movies.”

  “Ugh,” I moan. “Was it that bad?”

  “Not at all,” he says with a laugh, clearly trying to make me feel better. “I’ve definitely seen worse.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “College, for one. And remind me to tell you about the time I got food poisoning on a plane from Shanghai back to the U.S. You haven’t lived ’til you’ve curl
ed yourself into the fetal position at 30,000 feet, I’m telling you.”

  “God,” I laugh, “that sounds horrible.”

  “It was,” he says. “So don’t feel bad about last night. By the way, what are you doing today? If you’re fully recovered I thought you might want to do something fun. No picnics—I promise.”

  “Like what?” I ask cautiously. Spending the day with Jake is A Very Bad Idea, but still, I can’t help feeling better at the thought.

  “You really don’t get the whole surprise thing, do you?” he says, and I can almost hear him grinning through the phone. My heart tumbles over itself in my chest, and I know I shouldn’t even be considering going—it’s playing with fire. Hell, it’s pouring gasoline on an already steady blaze, but before I can second-guess myself or change my mind, I agree. “Sure, why not?”

  “If I pick you up in an hour, will that give you enough time to scrub vomit off your face?” he asks, teasing.

  “Just for that, you’re bringing coffee.”

  I hang up and go fall into the shower, and by the time he picks me up outside my building an hour later, I’m feeling almost like my old self again.

  “You look better,” he says when I climb into the passenger seat.

  “It’s amazing what power jets and some dry toast can do for a girl.” I grin, and my smile only widens when I spy a venti coffee cup waiting in the cupholder. “Is this for me?” I scoop it up greedily and take a sip. “Vanilla latte!” I exclaim, surprised he got my order right.

  “I’m good for something.” Jake pulls out into traffic.

  “You’re really not telling me where we’re going?” I ask, trying not to notice how his casual blue T-shirt brings out his eyes . . . and hugs his shoulders with touchably soft fabric. He’s dressed down for the day, in dark wash jeans, and I have to admit, he looks good out of a suit. “You make it hard for a girl to dress for the occasion.”

  “You’ll do just fine.” Jake winks, and after a twenty-minute car ride where he refuses to tell me anything at all about what we’re doing, we pull up in front of a pretty little park on the Upper West Side. He turns off the engine. “Are you ready?”

  “Ready for what?” I ask, so curious that I can barely stand it. I get out, and look dubiously around.

  “Why the scared face?” he laughs.

  “I don’t have a good history with parks. Between the food poisoning and the hot air balloon ride, I feel like I’m taking my life in my hands by just walking in there.”

  “I promise I’ll protect you,” Jake says, grabbing my hand and leading the way. When we enter through the wrought-iron gates, I see a small crowd of people at the far end of the lawn, playing what looks like bocce ball. The only reason I even know this is that my grandparents were Italian, and bocce is HUGE in Italy. Until he passed away a few years ago, my grandfather played with all of his old crony friends from his senior center every Sunday afternoon, rain or shine. All you need to know about bocce is that it’s right up there with watching paint dry, and that being said, it’s probably the most boring game in the universe. Worse yet, it looks like Jake is leading me right to it.

  “Wait,” I say, stopping and looking at him in confusion. “Is this some new and terrible hipster thing? Is bocce in again or something? Am I going to have to keep a straight face while you introduce me to men with terrible moustaches and un-ironic suspenders?”

  “Would I do that to you?” he laughs, steering me towards the crowd. “No, as a matter of fact, it’s a birthday gathering, for my grandpa.”

  “You have a grandpa?” I blink in surprise. “You never mentioned him before.”

  Jake shrugs. “You never asked.”

  We arrive at the group, a gathering of older people in their seventies and eighties, and some younger ones, too.

  “You made it!” An older gentleman decked out in a linen suit comes over. Jake hugs him warmly.

  “Hank, I want you to meet my . . . friend, Lizzie Ryan. We’re working together on that show at the Met I’ve told you about.”

  “A pleasure.” Hank vigorously shakes my hand. He shamelessly looks me up and down, then gives me a wink. “Jake’s mentioned you often, but he didn’t tell me you were such a knockout.”

  I’m starting to see where Jake gets his sense of style. And his charm.

  “Thanks,” I reply, smiling. “And happy birthday. It’s so great to meet you. Jake’s told me . . . well, nothing about you.”

  “Keeping me a deep, dark secret, eh?” Hank says, leaning in to elbow Jake. “Probably wise,” he adds. “He just can’t stand the competition.”

  “Dream on, old man,” Jake says good-naturedly.

  “Now, Lizzie,” Hank says, taking me by the arm, “Come tell me all about yourself. How do you like my grandson?”

  “He . . . has his moments,” I say diplomatically, and he laughs.

  “That sounds about right.”

  “Lizzie!”

  I turn. It’s the couple I met with Jake way back when all this madness had just begun, the redhead and Jake’s cousin. “Julia?” I say, searching my memory.

  “That’s right.” She beams, hugging me. “And this is Nate.”

  “I remember, good to see you guys again.”

  “We’re just in town for the weekend,” Julia explains. “Until I can convince this guy to move to New York, that is.” She gives Nate a nudge, looking up at him like she wants to drag him off into the bushes and have her way with him.

  “Over my dead body,” Nate snorts, and she shoots me a smile.

  “That’s what he thinks.”

  “Isn’t she divine?” Hank asks, gazing adoringly at Julia. “Reminds me of a young Marilyn Monroe in her calendar days. I have no idea how he managed to win her over. None at all.”

  “I learned everything from you, Hank,” Nate grins.

  “You certainly did, my boy. Now this one?” Hank turns his attention to Jake. “When he was a boy, he was absolutely hopeless with the ladies!”

  “That’s right!” Nate smirks, slapping Jake on the shoulder. “No game at all. Remember when you had that crush on that girl Molly in the second grade and you used to ride your bike past her house every day until her mom told you to stop casing the joint?”

  Jake rolls his eyes, looking bashful. “So, who wants a game of bocce?”

  “Not now,” I grin. “This is just getting interesting.”

  “Nate, Grandpa?” Jake says with a warning note in his voice. “Let’s go get some beers and play.”

  Hank chuckles. “I can take a hint, son.” He pats Jake on the back, and we head over with them to the bowling lawn. There are seniors milling around, all dressed up for the occasion in straw hats and pastel-colored pantsuits that remind me of SweeTarts—or a nursery. Take your pick.

  “How about you, Lizzie?” Jake says, arching his eyebrow in that cocky stare of his that spells a challenge. “You ready for me to beat the pants off you?”

  Am I ever. Pants, and bra, and panties too.

  “You wish,” I say instead. “I’ve never actually played,” I admit. “But I watched my grandpa for years. He loved bocce.”

  “It’s easy.” Jake hands me one of the smaller balls. “You just take this ball—it’s called the jack—and throw it as far as you can. Just be sure to toss it underhand. Here, I’ll show you.”

  He moves behind me, leaning in close and resting his hands lightly on my hips. I can smell that cologne he wears, that sunny scent of citrus and sandalwood, can feel the heat of his body through his clothes, and I forget where I am momentarily. I even forget what I’m doing. All I can think about is kissing him.

  Which is crazy, considering I’m surrounded by geriatrics in leisure suits.

  “Are you ready?” he asks quietly, his voice low in my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.

  “As ever,” I say, more confidently than I actually feel. I try to ignore the tumbling feeling in my chest that happens whenever I’m around him now. I pull my arm back and open my fin
gers, the ball sailing through the air as I let go.

  “Not bad,” Jake smirks. “Now, let me show you how a real player gets it done.”

  We play a few games, until the cupcake table starts calling my name too loudly to resist. I leave Jake soundly whipping the competition, and go indulge myself with the finest frosting the city has to offer.

  “Oh my god, these are so good,” I have to moan aloud through a mouthful.

  Julia reaches in for some more champagne. “Where are they from? Oh yeah, Sugar Mama’s,” she reads from the box. “They’re the best. I send two dozen to my publisher every year for the holidays, and I’m not saying that’s why they promote me as lead title, but . . . you do the math.”

  I laugh. “Sneaky, I like it.” I take another bite, and survey the park. It’s a lovely spring day, and for the first time in weeks, I feel like I’m finally relaxing. My gaze goes to Jake, jostling with Hank to play his turn, and feel a weird . . . warmth bubbling through me. Not the red-hot heat I usually feel in his presence, like I’m about to combust, and/or tear my clothes off. No, this is something different. Almost . . . like feelings.

  Feelings.

  Fuck, I’ve gone and caught cooties off the biggest playboy in New York!

  “So you and Jake seem to be friendlier these days,” Julia says like she’s reading my mind. “I hear you’ve been spending more time together.”

  “For work,” I reply, trying to sound casual. “The opening’s next week.”

  “Uh huh.” Julia’s smirk says she can see right through me. “Well, good luck. With work.” She winks. “I find that the most stubborn, arrogant projects can sometimes turn out to be the most rewarding.”

  “Like Nate?” I ask before I can stop myself. “Whoops, sorry.”

  She grins. “Like Nate. Believe it or not, when we met, we couldn’t stand each other. But I guess what they say is true, there’s a thin line between love and hate.”