by Lila Monroe
“Oh. Well, we’ll just have to settle.” Morgan catches sight of someone behind us, and smiles for perhaps the first time since 1996. “Darling!” she calls, beckoning, before turning back to us with a smug grin. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet. This is Bradley,” she purrs, introducing a distinguished man in his mid-fifties with a luxuriant head of salt-and-pepper hair. “My fiancé.”
She thrusts her hand in my face to show off the giant, princess-cut diamond flanked by two chunky emeralds.
“It worked!” she leans in to whisper. “The strike worked! I starved him out like a general on the battlefield. He admitted defeat and asked me last night!”
“Wow.” I blink. ““I’m so happy for you both. That’s . . . the start of a beautiful relationship!”
Morgan starts cooing over the wedding plans for the Plaza and dress designs, and soon there’s a group of well-wishers gathered around.
Jake leans closer to me. “There are a few people I should say hello to,” he murmurs. He’s so close that if I wanted, I could reach up and kiss him. The thought makes me shiver, and he frowns. “Are you cold?”
“No, I’m fine.” I smile. “You’re right. We should circulate.”
“Meet you by the champagne fountain in twenty?”
“Deal.”
I watch him circle the room, shaking hands and charming donors and patrons of the museum alike. He can turn it on in an instant, but I’ve seen the other side to him, too. As I watch him talking to a reporter, he catches my eye for a moment, giving me a private wink across the room.
I feel it in my whole body, and in that moment I know—the way you know the way a movie will end long before the credits roll—that the strike is history. I can’t deny it any longer, and I don’t want to: I’m crazy about this guy, and tonight I’m going to make it official. I’m going to break the strike and sleep with Jake Weston.
And god, it won’t be a moment too soon!
I rush off to the bathroom to freshen my makeup. My reflection in the mirror is flushed and hopeful, all the crazy conflict of the past few months finally behind me. I realize that I don’t need a damn thing—not more eyeliner or lipstick—I don’t even want to powder down this glow that looks like it’s bubbling up from under my skin. I give the mirror a determined smile before walking back out into the gallery. The sooner I find Jake, then do the requisite mingling, the quicker we can get out of here. Because after all this time, I can’t wait any longer—and I don’t want to.
I walk back in and sweep the room, searching for Jake. There. He’s up against the far wall, talking to Dylan, Hollywood douchebag extraordinaire?
Ugh.
Still, he’s a VIP guest, so I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to go play nice. I mean, what’s five minutes of graciousness if I get to have ridiculously hot sex later tonight? The crowd is thick around them, and I have to duck under a waiter to get past, but just as I’m approaching, Dylan’s voice stops me short.
“I’ve gotta hand it to you, bro,” he says. “You really had this stuff figured out. I mean, playing the long game? That’s brilliant. You kept her dangling for months and now you’ve got her practically begging for it!”
My heart freezes. I stay back, out of sight behind a statue, willing Jake to tell him where to shove it.
“So what are you going to spend the money on?” Dylan continues. “Another vintage car? That Aston Martin of yours is pretty sweet.”
“Oh, don’t worry—I’ve got something special in mind,” Jake’s reply comes, and the casual tone in his voice cuts through me like a hot knife. Laced with poison.
I can’t believe it.
Except, I can. This is what I was afraid of. But being proven right is no consolation, not with my heart breaking in my chest.
I back away before either of them can catch sight of me, the sound of their laughter ringing in my ears. I duck into the hallway, a wave of nausea almost sending me to my knees. Just breathe. I can’t deny what I’ve just heard, but I don’t want to believe it either: Jake, the romance—all of it. It was never about me to begin with. Or us.
He was in it for the money all along.
31
Lizzie
I wander the gallery on autopilot for the rest of the night, shaking hands in a daze and somehow fielding questions from everyone about the exhibit. I manage to nod and smile, even though I just want to get the hell out of there as fast as I can, to somewhere I can break down properly, far away from the gallery—and Jake.
But I can’t—I’m responsible for the gala, the show, all of it. So I suck it up and circulate, putting my best face forward and hoping that no one can tell that I’m literally dying inside as I make meaningless chitchat about Greta Garbo’s gown from Grand Hotel. I’m pretending to be on cloud nine when all the while I’m counting the minutes until I can make my escape.
This should be one of the happiest nights of my life—and I’m spending it wishing I were anywhere else.
Just as I’m finishing up with one of the big-shot donors, Jake approaches. Just the sight of him hurts me deep inside, and I turn away, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave me alone. But he doesn’t. He strides right up to me like nothing’s wrong and tugs me to the dance floor.
“Stop,” I hiss under my breath. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Dancing with my best girl, I hope,” he grins.
“I’m not really in the mood right now.” I try to pull away without being conspicuous, but when I look around, I realize that everyone is watching us—I mean, him. Damn. Why does he always bring the spotlight with him?
“One dance,” he insists, and I have no choice but to let him pull me onto the floor. Jake pulls me close, and my body clearly hasn’t gotten the memo on betrayal and heartbreak, because I melt into him like I was meant to fit in his arms.
Dammit, it feels too good to be holding him like this. But it was a lie, it was all just a lie.
Jake leans closer, murmuring in my ear. “Now that the show is behind us, I was thinking we could take a break—go upstate for a weekend. Hank’s been telling me about this little bed and breakfast in the Hudson Valley. I’m not going to ask what kind of shenanigans he got up to there in his youth, but it sounds pretty fun. What do you think, want to check it out?” He pulls back to smile at me, and looking into his eyes, something in me snaps. I suddenly realize what I have to do.
“That sounds great,” I force a smile. “Now that the strike is over, we can do whatever we want.”
Jake stops, looking confused. He’s standing still even though the music is still playing and couples are twirling around us like we’re part of the exhibit ourselves, encased behind a wall of glass.
“Over? What do you mean it’s over?”
“Just what I said,” I say breezily. “Todd came by the other night—you remember Todd, my ex boyfriend?”
Jake nods wordlessly, and even though I know there’s no stopping now, I start to feel sick again, adrenaline coursing through my veins so fast that my head is practically spinning.
“Well, we were catching up, one thing led to another . . .” I continue, my voice drifting off. “You know how it goes. You should let Miles know—I’m sure he’ll want to post it on the site.”
“I don’t understand.” Jake shakes his head slowly, like the words didn’t get through.
“I slept with him,” I lie, hating every minute of this—and hating the shock and betrayal in Jake’s eyes. “But why should it matter to you, anyway?” I ask. “You never cared about the bounty, right?”
A part of me is still holding out some desperate hope that he’ll agree the bounty means nothing, and then sweep me into his arms the way the heroes do in all those movies I love. But Jake’s face darkens, and he steps back, like he can’t bear to be touching me any more.
“Of course it matters to me! I thought this meant something to you, I thought we were—”
“What?” I demand. “What were we to you? If you were really with me for me, be
cause you actually liked me, not for the stupid contest, then losing the bounty shouldn’t matter to you!”
“I never gave a fuck about the bounty!” Jake’s voice rises. “What I care about is the fact that you slept with someone else!”
“It didn’t mean anything!” I fire back. “You of all people should understand that! It was just sex!”
“Just sex?” Jake says incredulously. “Is that what you think I’m all about? Is that all you think this was?”
“You can drop the act. I heard you talking to Dylan just now,” I tell him, dripping with scorn. “Boasting about what you’re going to buy with your winnings.”
“Then you didn’t hear the whole conversation,” Jake says grimly. “The part where I told him to fuck off, because I didn’t give a damn about the bounty, and IF I won, if we wound up having a future together, then I would give all the money to a charity—of your choosing.”
I search his face, but he looks sincere. My heart sinks. Did I have this all wrong? Did I just fuck everything up for good?
“But you’ve made it clear that’s not going to happen,” Jake continues. “Since you don’t give a damn about me, as you made perfectly clear when you fucked someone else.”
“No!” I say, getting more confused. “I just mean that it didn’t matter! You should understand that! What matters is everything else we share!”
“I can’t believe this,” Jake mutters under his breath. I reach out for his hand, but he jerks away from my touch, and when I look up I realize that not only has the music stopped, but the room has fallen silent—except for the whispers that buzz all around. “Right now I don’t think we share anything at all,” Jake says, his voice cold and unforgiving.
And before I can say anything at all, he turns on his heel and storms off. I’m left standing frozen in the middle of the room. I can feel the eyes of the crowd on me, but I don’t care. All that matters is that it’s over. Somehow, in the space of only a few minutes, and with a few poorly chosen words, I’ve somehow managed to ruin everything I’ve ever wanted.
Jake wasn’t the enemy. It was myself, all along.
Tears sting the back of my throat, but I can’t break down. Not here. Picking up my skirt, I do the only thing I can think of: I flee. Out of the gala, down the front steps, running away from the scene of the crime. If this was a movie, the camera would be panning up now, fading into the city lights. But I can’t escape the pain so easily. The gorgeous dress doesn’t make a difference, or the pretty props. There’s no director yelling “cut,” or a script to tell me what the hell I’m going to do next.
There’s just me and my broken heart. Alone again.
Without him.
32
Jake
What do you do when the girl you’re crazy about goes and fucks someone else? For me, the answer is whiskey and bad action movies, but no matter how many times Vin Diesel drives a fast car and punches someone in the name of family, the bullet wound in my chest doesn’t go away.
Lizzie. And Douchebag Todd. I can’t believe it, except she told me herself.
Fuck.
“Swing, batta batta, swing!” Hank yells out, cupping his hand around his mouth. Our day at the ballpark is a standing date, but today I pretty much couldn’t care less. I don’t remember even feeling this bad when Isabel left me. And not even the sight of Hank yelling a blue streak at the field or flirting with the blond server who brought him a beer can snap me out of it.
Someone get The Rock to come knock me out, because I need to be unconscious right now.
“So what’s the score?” A brunette in a tight white t-shirt leans over from the seat behind us.
“You tell me,” I say, distracted.
“I wasn’t exactly paying attention,” she says, giving me a sultry look. “I was on my way to get a beer. Care to join me?”
I look at her full lips, like two plump pillows just begging to be kissed, her chest straining against her T-shirt. I start to get up, then slump back down in my chair dejectedly. All I can think about is Lizzie’s blue eyes, the way she’d stare at me over those glasses she wears that drive me out of my mind. How she’d throw her head back and laugh with every cell in her entire body . . .
“I think I’ll sit this one out,” I tell her. “Sorry.”
“Suit yourself,” she answers with a shrug, shooting me a look like I’m clinically insane before she makes her way up the risers.
“Not your type?” Hank asks, sounding surprised. “What’s with you today? You’ve been moping since the moment you picked me up.”
A vendor walks by with a tray of hot dogs and I can’t help remembering the way Lizzie devoured one with obvious relish on Santa Monica Boulevard back in LA—not to mention the way her nose wrinkled when I suggested adding ketchup.
“That girl probably doesn’t even eat hot dogs,” I mutter to no one.
Hank looks at me like I’m crazy, which I probably am, pining over some girl who’s made it clear she doesn’t want me.
“Nothing,” I sigh, draining the last of my beer. “I was just thinking about how nice it was to go out with a woman who actually eats for a change.”
“You’re referring to someone specific, I take it? Lizzie, perhaps?” he adds.
“It’s not just that she eats . . . She eats mustard on her hot dogs, Hank. Mustard. I mean, she’s totally adamant about it, and not only that, she read me the riot act about my slavish devotion to ketchup. She’s got opinions on just about everything and I love it. I mean, just eating a hot dog with her is like watching some Anthony Bourdain show.”
“Anthony who?” Hank asks.
“Forget it. It’s not important,” I say, remembering that Hank’s relationship to pop culture hit a brick wall sometime during the Nixon administration. I mean, the guy still thinks that Rosemary Clooney is the famous one instead of George—and yet he still somehow manages to know the Mets’ batting order from front to back. Go figure.
“So she likes mustard? So what? What are you getting at, Jake? That she’s spicy?” Hank laughs, slapping my knee. “The good ones always are, you know.”
“It’s not just the mustard.” I try to explain why I can’t get her out of my head. “It’s the way she could give a shit about my Aston Martin because it’s nothing compared to a Triumph—which, if you weren’t aware, is a ridiculously niche car in a classic film that practically no one has ever heard of. Except for Lizzie, because she’s like an encyclopedia for that shit.”
“So, you’re in love with her.”
I scowl. “No,” I tell him, even though it feels weird to say the word.
Hank smirks. “You know what I would do if I were you?”
“I have a pretty good idea,” I say in a blasé tone of voice, because I do—I’ve heard it all before. “That there are other fish in the sea, and that girls like Lizzie are a dime a dozen and I should just play the field. That about right?”
“You’re not even in the ballpark, if you’ll pardon my pun.” He points one bony finger at my chest, his gold wedding ring glinting in the light. How have I never noticed before that he still wears it?
“You go to that girl, and you tell her that you love her—because despite your weak denials, it’s obvious that you do. You go get Lizzie, and some hot dogs with mustard on them—or a goddamn Triumph—and you show her that you mean business. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop being a fool and do whatever it takes to get that girl back.”
I stare at him, surprised. Is this early-onset dementia talking? “I thought you didn’t believe in true love—or soulmates for that matter.”
“Then you haven’t been paying attention all of these years.” Hank gives me a look. “Betty—your grandmother—was the best thing that ever happened to me. That woman gave me the happiest thirty years of my life—and I realized it just a little too late. Finding a partner, a real partner, is more important than your stupid pride.”
“But . . . you never go on a second date!” I protest.
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“Because I know I’ll never find a love like the one I had with your grandmother again—no one’s that lucky twice—and I’m not even going to try. But you? You haven’t even tried! And if you let that girl get away, Jake, then you’re an even bigger fool than I thought.” Hank glares at me.
I sit in my chair, trying to process his weirdly monogamous pep talk.
“So what if you’re right?” I ask, still feeling that stubborn streak. “What if Lizzie is supposed to be with me?”
The last time I saw her, I basically called her a cheap slut and left her in the middle of a dance floor. I know Lizzie, and even if I can get past the fact she fucked Todd I know there’s no coming back from that, not after everything she’s been through.
“Give the lady what she wants,” Hank says, like it should be obvious. “In my experience, it works every time.”
“But what if I don’t know what that is?” I ask.
“You’ll figure it out,” Hank says. “Now, are you going to let an old man enjoy the game without that moping look on your face?”
He turns back to focus on the game, but I can’t think about anything but Lizzie. Shit, just remembering her stricken expression at the gala fills me with guilt and shame. She was right, I don’t have any claim over her, and she was free to sleep with whoever she wanted. Even Todd.
As much as it makes me want to hire a contract killer to dispose of his body after a slow and painful death.
Fuck. She was worried I only cared about sex—and I basically confirmed it by blowing up at her like that. I’ve basically dug my own grave here, so what the hell do I do now to convince her I really care?
I may not have any idea what she really wants, but I do know one thing for sure—this calls for the big gesture, something straight out of the movies she loves so much. I need to come up with something that will sweep her off her feet, show her how much she really means to me—and make her forget the fact that she probably hates my guts right now.
