Instant Gratification (Always Satisfied Book 2)

by Lauren Blakely

  “Perfect. That’s everything Ashley wants, and that’s all I want—to make her happy.”

  “That’s a great way to start a marriage.” This is perfect. He’s not even thinking about whether he wants me to bring someone.

  “And if anyone asks, we met in the running club and you work in advertising,” he says, recapping the backstory we created.

  “You’ve got it right. You’ve got everything right.”

  “But what’s your favorite cuisine? I should probably know, right? Shoot. What if someone asks? What if someone wants to know your favorite book? What if someone wants to know your sign?”

  “Of the zodiac?”

  “Yes! I don’t know it.”

  “I promise you, Chip, no one expects you to know the astrological sign of a guy friend. Also, anything by Vonnegut and nothing by Ayn Rand, and everything by Nick Offerman. And I like Thai and Japanese.”

  “I dig Nick Offerman too. I bet we exchanged dog-eared paperbacks. Wink, wink.”

  “With Offerman you really ought to get the audiobook, but sure, paperback works.”

  “And your favorite band? What if someone wants to know that? What if they want to know what concerts we’ve been to? Should I say Coldplay?”

  “No!” With the fire of a thousand blazing suns, I kill that notion dead. “Never. Coldplay is what they play to torture you behind enemy lines. I’m a Beatles and Rolling Stones man.”

  “Oh, cool! I like them too! Almost as much as Coldplay. I’d say maybe we could go to a Stones show someday, but I’ll probably be too busy. I always am. I’m sure it’s the same with you.”

  “Absolutely.”

  This is what I like about Chip. Despite his puppy-dog persona, he’s not poised to turn into a stage-five clinger after the wedding. He hired me because he’s completely content to spend his time with his woman, his 5K runs, his work, and his dog. Friendships aren’t his focus, so I don’t suspect he’ll be clutching my ankle and trying to follow me out the door when this is over.

  “One more thing. Can you do one of those fancy accents? Ashley loves Love Actually, so she’d get a kick out of it. I like to pretend I’m Hugh Grant sometimes. I do the whole ‘Jump’ routine for her, and she digs that. ‘Yeah, Betty, I’m thinking, can we move the Japanese ambassador to four o’clock tomorrow?’”

  “I’ll go full Hugh Grant for the groom and bride,” I say, giving him my best posh voice.

  “Ahhh! Yours is so much better than mine. But hey, at least my lady likes this guy from Tallahassee. And you’re bringing along your lovely lady friend. I can’t wait to meet her. I love meeting new people.”

  I wince, slowing my pace as I reach Gin Joint, scrubbing a hand across my stubbled jaw. “About that. Turns out I’ll be flying solo next weekend. But it’ll be great.”

  I leave it at that. No need to dive into details.

  “Oh, no, no.” His voice zooms ten stories high. “Buddy, you can’t come solo. I sold Ashley on you with the understanding that you were half of a couple. That all our men were coupled up.”

  “I understand, but at the end of the day, why does it matter?”

  “Her youngest sister is one of the bridesmaids, and she’s only eighteen. Amelia’s completely boy-obsessed. Ashley is worried her sister will throw herself at any good-looking guy in her path. And you? Well, look in the mirror. You’re too hot to be single. Not my words—those are Ashley’s. Actually, she said that about all of you when I showed her the pics, so you definitely need a plus-one.”

  “Thanks. I think. But wait a second. Do we have enough groomsmen? Don’t you need one for her sister? Or is that playing into the issue?”

  “Don’t worry about Amelia. She’ll walk with the maid of honor.”

  “Good to know,” I say diplomatically. That’s an odd situation, the bridesmaid needing a chaperone, but maybe it solves the problem of the boy obsession. “And I’ll find a date.”

  “I bet you can find one as quickly as I can find the problem in this pipeline project I’ve been studying while we’ve been on the phone. Yup. Found it!”

  “You’re speedy.”

  “That’s what she said.” He laughs and says good night before I can tell him that’s not really how that saying is supposed to work.

  As I find myself at the door of Truly’s bar, I flash back to advice I gave a reader on my blog a few weeks ago. He’d been invited to a work event on the weekend and wanted to know if he should find a date for it on Tinder.

  My response?

  We modern gentlemen face this “where to find my plus-one” dilemma all the time. But let me share my best advice with you. Are you ready? Come closer. A little closer. DO NOT FIND YOUR DATE ON TINDER.

  Tinder isn’t the place for those kinds of hookups—the ones where you need to be a gentleman. Where you want people to remember you, not your date who drank all the free champagne.

  No, I told this reader the best solution when we need someone by our side for a special occasion is to ask a friend.

  It was sound advice, if I do say so myself. I suppose I should follow it.

  7

  Jason

  As a rule of thumb, I don’t dwell on problems or linger over setbacks. I certainly don’t wallow.

  I charge forward with focus and tenacity, solving problems for myself and others.

  Tonight’s problem I will solve in a bar.

  With my jacket slung over my arm, I head into Gin Joint, scanning the swank place for my friends. I spot Harper draped on a purple couch, chatting with her husband, Nick, and when I catch his eye, I signal that I’ll join them shortly. He flips me the bird. I flip him the bird back, and all is well.

  I grab a spot at the end of the bar, searching for the woman I came to see. I need to feel her out first. See what kind of mood she’s in.

  She’s mixing a martini for a guy with hair slicked back with so much product, it looks like it’s cracking. I’ve written a number of blogs with grooming tips that could help him out. Maybe start with Gel—more is not your friend.

  I scan the chalkboard for the signature drinks. Among the gin specials are Game Plan, Last Word, Devil’s Teeth, Hush Money, and That One Time.

  A brunette with a Great Gatsby hairstyle—shoulder-length with one of those 1920s headbands—joins Truly behind the bar, taking over the martini.

  The woman I came to see marches over to me, plunks down a napkin, then tips her chin toward the Daisy Buchanan look-alike. “Gabriella will get the next few customers, since I suspect you deserve the owner’s attention.”

  “I like to think I always do.”

  “What can I get for you? Because you look like someone just told you that you can’t have bacon for breakfast.”

  I shoot her a have you gone mad look. “Bacon for breakfast? I hope that’s not what you think I eat.”

  She parks her hands on the bar. “What do you have for breakfast?”

  “Eggs and soldiers.”

  Her brow furrows. “What is that?”

  I sigh heavily, dropping my forehead to the counter. “Why, oh why, Lord, am I still explaining British references after all these years?”

  “I know the basics. Chips, fish, tea, blah, blah, blah.”

  I look up, shaking my head sadly. “What am I going to do with you? You need a full and proper education in English food. The soldiers are pieces of toast you dip into the egg, soft-boiled and perched in a snazzy egg cup.”

  “Ah. Here we call that, wait for it, toast.”

  “Yes, eggs and toast. We’re simply more creative across the pond. But I never have bacon.”

  She holds up her hand to high-five. “Welcome to the club of bacon haters.”

  “Wait. You have a club?” I high-five back, enjoying the contact more than I thought possible with high fives. But she does have great hands. They did wondrous things to my dick one night.

  Stop.

  Just stop that right now, dirty brain.

  “Of course we have a club. We have meetings an
d bylaws too.”

  “Sign me up, then.”

  “We have much work to do, comrade. And work requires a drink. I’m getting the vibe that you’re in the mood for one of my specials—a little gin, a couple cucumbers, and the best part? My homemade red-pepper laced lemonade.” Her gaze sweeps to the chalkboard sign. “Otherwise known as That One Time. Can I interest you?”

  “You can very much interest me in That One Time.”

  She spins around, grabs a glass, and starts mixing. I settle in on the black metal stool, enjoying the view.

  Women like her pouring drinks—it’s one of my favorite sights. Right next to women in bikinis lazing in the sun and women sliding on fishnet stockings and then slipping into heels. Wait, that’s not fair to the image of women in white lace. That makes the list too.

  She sets the glass in front of me, and I taste the concoction, savoring the sweet start and the fiery finish. “Beautiful. Now, tell me, why was I in the mood for That One Time?”

  She eyes me up and down, with a cool and confident gaze. “Same way I could tell my friend Presley needed one when she was here a few minutes ago. Because she clearly had had a shit day at work, and things were not going her way. And it sure looks like things didn’t go your way tonight.”

  “And how exactly can you tell?” I ask since I’m not the kind of guy who wears his heart on his sleeve.

  Truly twirls her finger in a circle at me. “I can tell because you’re in your tux, Nora’s not here, and you have this furrow in your brow that says all is not perfect in Jason Land.”

  She excuses herself to saunter to the end of the bar to help Gabriella for a moment, and I glance down at my tux then figuratively side-eye the furrow in my brow. Am I more transparent than I thought, giving off telltale signs of frustration? Well, that’s unacceptable. I'm practical, I’m fun, but I’m not emotional. I’ve seen where emotions can lead a man, and now I’m focused and have been since Claire Wedgewood, the woman I thought I was going to marry once upon a time, decided that waiting around didn’t fit in her schedule.

  Then again, she was ridiculously good at putting herself first, so do what you know and all that.

  With Truly tending to orders, I take my phone from my pocket and check my e-mail.

  There’s a new one from Ryder Lockhart, a relationship and advice guru superstar.

  Can you do another guest appearance on my show this week? We have a segment coming up on dos and don’ts for modern guys in business. Good fit for you. Think of some of your best tips and be ready to be pithy and witty.

  Hell, yes. I am overflowing with pith and wit just waiting for me to share. I write back faster than a Bugatti, letting Ryder know I’ll be there.

  When Truly swings by again, I put the phone away and answer her unasked question—what went wrong tonight. “If you must know, the date ended terribly with Nora.”

  Truly’s lips curve up in the faintest of grins for a nanosecond before flattening into a straight line. “What happened? Did you guys split up?”

  How I want to toy with her to see if she’s actually jealous. But that wouldn’t help my mission. “We weren’t together.”

  “Oh.” She sounds delighted.

  “Nora has been my pretend date at a few weddings.”

  “I thought the best man for hire mostly rode solo?”

  “For the most part, but sometimes the couple prefers a plus-one, or it’s easier in the circumstances. Nora was quite good at it. She’s an actress, and she wanted to workshop some characters. But she was just cast in Raiders of the Lost Ark the Musical, so she’s now unavailable.”

  Truly’s eyes light up. “I want to see that when it comes to Broadway.”

  “Consider it a date. I’ll order tickets tonight.”

  For a second, a smile seems to tug at her lips, almost as if she likes the idea of a date. But it vanishes quickly. “Pick out seats in the friend zone.”

  I take out my sad trombone and play a few lonely notes. “You love reminding me that you cruelly friend-zoned me.”

  “We friend-zoned each other. It was mutual. Do I need to remind you of the morning after?”

  “Only if you want me to remind you of all the things you said the night before.”

  She heaves a sigh. “Jason.”

  “Yes. Like that. Only with a little more of a long, lingering moan. Kind of breathy. Sort of like Jason, yes, right there. Harder.”

  Her eyes never waver, never break my gaze as she leans closer, dropping her voice. “Truly, fucking hell. Yeah. That. Just like that. Your mouth on me. So fucking perfect.”

  Turn the oven off. I’m cooked. Officially roasted. I toss the figurative white flag at her. “You win.”

  She takes a deep bow. “Thought I might. But let’s not forget the other things we both said, mainly We can’t do this again. Malone will kill us.”

  “Hmm. That does sound familiar, now that you say it. And speaking of avoiding imminent death, I have a massive boulder rolling in my direction next weekend. It’s the first of a number of weddings coming up where I have been asked to bring a date.”

  “And how is this a problem? You can walk down the street and pluck a date off a tree, Jason. This shouldn’t be an issue.”

  “I can’t help it if women find me incredibly charming.” I flash her a grin because it is easier if we keep things light, friendly. “But I must inform you, women don’t grow on trees. If they did, I’d be planting one in my backyard. Hell, I’d sow a whole orchard.”

  “If you do that, I’ll go plant a field full of guys too.”

  “Or you can play in my field.”

  “I’ll have to weed you out first,” she says wryly.

  I lean across the bar to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, taking my time, making sure I get every single strand, especially since she trembles a little as I touch her. “You’d never be able to get rid of me.”

  “I’m feeling that’s the case already.”

  “Seriously, here’s the deal: I desperately need to take a date to the wedding next weekend and to the one after that too.”

  “Put an ad online. Ask one of your many female friends. How hard can it possibly be?”

  I snap my fingers. “Ask a friend. Brilliant idea. Bloody brilliant.” I bat my lashes. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

  She flinches, blinking. “Nooooooooo.”

  “We’re not friends? Hmm. I distinctly remember us making a friendship pact . . . albeit after the third orgasm.”

  A faint blush creeps across her cheeks, and it’s completely endearing. She lowers her voice and says, “Yes, we made a pact. Yes, we’ve been friends, even though you’re five years younger,” she mutters playfully. “And we are friends, we intend to stay friends. But . . .”

  “We’re great friends. Who else would conquer the wilds of Manhattan fitness with you? We do martial arts together. I took the obstacle course class with you. You even dragged me along to Punk Rope,” I say, reminding her of one of the many exercise classes she’s enlisted me to join with her.

  “And how much fun did we have jumping rope and doing push-ups? Plus, the obstacle course was a blast.”

  “We did kick ass on the tire run.” I sense an opportunity to remind her that, while we’re not engaging in a repeat horizontal fitness project, we have carved out a spot in the tag-teaming department. “Come along with me to the weddings. We’ll have fun, just like we do as workout buddies. You’d be a fantastic pretend date. Plus, I’m loads of fun, and you want to help a good friend.”

  She stares briefly across the expanse of the bar as if she’s contemplating my proposition while checking out the goings-on in the lounge area. “I’m sure it would be a hoot, but there has to be someone else who’d be better.”

  I look her dead in the eyes, dropping all teasing and jokes. “No. There’s not. I can’t have this business go belly-up. It requires complete discretion, and I need somebody I trust. Somebody I know. I can’t have it seeping over into the Modern Gentlema
n world. Potential clients might not be thrilled to know I’m an advice columnist by day and a paid best friend by night.”

  “You really think it’d be an issue?”

  “I don’t want to take the chance. How can I be the guy giving tips to other men on how to present themselves well, impress a boss with the best version of themselves, when at night I’m pretending to be Jay, who’s Peter the groom’s best friend from uni, only I met him a few days ago? But hey, I gave that rad toast. That’s why I need somebody by my side who understands how important the gig is for me and for Abby,” I say.

  Truly hangs her head. “It’s not fair to play the little sister card.”

  “But it’s true. I just need to get through these jobs this summer, and I’ll be nearly done with the last of the bills.”

  Truly’s dark eyes seem to light up. “Seriously? You really have earned enough to put her through medical school?”

  I straighten my shoulders, proud of this accomplishment. “For the most part, yes. She had grants and some scholarship money, and the cost in the UK isn’t the same as it is here. But I’ve earned enough and had some well-paying gigs. I’m almost there.” I rap my knuckles on the bar. “Touch wood.”

  “Look, I want to help. I really do. I think it’s great what you’re doing.” She gestures wildly to the bar. “But I have a business, and it’s incredibly time-consuming. Plus, I’m working next weekend. And I’m expanding now to some new concepts. I’ve promised to move up some employees if it all comes together. Gabriella is going to take on more work during the expansion, so I really need to focus on making sure I can win over this new investor. How about I help you find someone instead?”

  But she’s the one I need. “Isn’t there anything I could do for you? I could be your guinea pig for new cocktail concoctions. Or what about the new concepts you’re working on? I'm a bit of an expert on New York nightlife and drink culture, pubs, and whatnot. Comes with the job. So you can use me as your lab rat for that too.”

  She straightens her spine while lowering her voice to a whisper. “What did you just say?”