The Romance Plan: Cupids: Book 5

by Lila Monroe

  I launch right in anyhow. “So, before you say anything, I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news,” I tell him, standing up and crossing the reception area of Poppy’s office suite. She loaned me the keys when I told her I needed to lure Liam to a fake meeting with a headhunter… and advised me to wear something that showed a little cleavage. “The bad news is, I don’t actually have a job to offer you. The good news—at least, I hope it’s good news—is that I do have an apology.”

  Liam shakes his head. “I don’t understand,” he says, eyes narrowing just the slightest bit. “That email was from you?”

  I nod. “I needed to talk to you.”

  “So you lured me here under false pretenses?”

  “I mean, that’s one way to look at it,” I admit. I take a step forward, nearly reaching for his hand and then thinking better of it. “But I was worried you’d blow me off if I came to you directly. And I wanted the chance to say this to you in terms you’d understand.”

  “I’ve always understood you,” Liam replies quietly, and my heart aches at the obvious pain on his face. Pain I caused. “At least, I thought I did.”

  “You did,” I promise quickly. “That’s not what I meant. I’m just saying—” I break off. Ugh, this isn’t going like I planned it at all. “Well, here. Let me show you.”

  Liam’s expression is extremely dubious, but he lets me usher him into the conference room anyway, taking a seat facing the projection screen I spent an hour setting up before he arrived. “May I present to you,” I say grandly, hitting play on my laptop, “Our Relationship Prospectus.”

  Liam blinks at the screen, then over at me. Just for a second, I think I see a glimmer of affection behind his eyes. “Really?” he asks. “You put together a—”

  “I did,” I say with a smile. “And it’s very promising, if I do say so myself.” I launch into my pitch, clicking through the slides I painstakingly created with titles like Who Needs Romance? (We All Do!) and Eliza’s Redeeming Qualities.

  It’s dorky, I know, and I almost talked myself out of it a hundred times as I wrote up the bullet-pointed lists of all the ways we’ve helped each other and a line graph charting my happiness over the course of our relationship. But they say you need to talk to someone in their own language, and this was the only way I could think to show Liam that I adore the rational side of him, too. I’ve even incorporated visual aids in the form of Verity’s book covers and some candid photos of us that Natalie snapped the day we all played kickball. There’s even a pie chart of all my favorite parts of his body.

  Liam’s face is admittedly not giving anything away as I click through the slides, but I sell it as hard as I can anyway, my voice getting higher and just the tiniest bit desperate. “I know you’ve got other options,” I admit as I’m wrapping it all up, “but I think you’ll find the compensation package is particularly generous.” I’m about to go into the details—copious and enthusiastic lovemaking, a lifetime entitlement to the last piece of bacon at brunch—when Liam holds up a hand.

  “Stop,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “You don’t have to—just stop.”

  My heart sinks. “But I don’t want to stop,” I tell him, sitting down hard in the office chair beside him. “That’s the whole point. I was an idiot, Liam. I should have just listened to you for half a second instead of jumping to all kinds of insane conclusions, but I just felt so strongly about Sterling and so protective of all my friends there, and we’d worked so hard on Verity’s book—”

  “I get it,” he says. “I do. I know I don’t have the kind of track record that inspires confidence. But what you said about me outside Verity’s party—”

  “I take it back,” I interrupt immediately, cringing at the memory. “It wasn’t true. None of it was.” Now I do take his hand, wrapping it in both of mine and squeezing. “Liam, you’re incredible. You’re kind, and funny, and warm, and brilliant. And I’d be so proud to call you mine, if you’d have me back.”

  Liam is quiet for a moment. “I don’t have a lot of people in my life that I’m close to,” he admits finally. “And being around you—falling for you—made me want to change that. But if you have reservations about who I am as a man—”

  “I don’t,” I promise. “I could never. I love who you are.” I take a deep breath, and then I say it. “I love you.”

  Liam smiles at that—a real smile, valuable and rare. “I love you too,” he says.

  I stop. “You do?”

  “Of course I do,” he says, his smile turning quiet. Intimate. “I’ve probably loved you since that very first cartwheel, even if I couldn’t admit it to myself. You’re amazing, Eliza. You’re not like anyone else I’ve ever known.”

  Liam kisses me then, and it’s a kiss I’ve been waiting for my whole life. I wind my arms around his neck and he tugs me close, our bodies fitting perfectly together, his mouth warm and familiar and mine.

  “Oh!” I say, pulling away as I suddenly remember. “Wait, I just remembered I forgot to show you the last slide.” I fumble for the remote, clicking through to the grand finale of my Powerpoint presentation: In Case You’ve Forgotten, the Sex is Fantastic.

  Liam bursts out laughing. “You know,” he says, Maybe you better come back to my apartment and remind me.”

  I grin at him. “I can do that.”

  25

  Eliza

  “Who wants margaritas?” I call a couple of weeks later, stepping out onto Liam’s rooftop patio with a pitcher in one hand and a sleeve of clear plastic cups in the other. Even at the end of September, it’s still warm enough to swim, so we’re taking full advantage of one last summer day at the pool on top of his building. The patio is huge and lushly landscaped, with carefully tended flowering shrubs and twinkle lights offering the illusion of a private hideaway right in the middle of the city.

  “I do!” Poppy calls back. She’s lounging happily in a float shaped like a flamingo while Wes and Dylan toss a volleyball back and forth.

  “Me three!” Katie is sprawled on a deck chair in a gauzy cover up and giant heart-shaped sunglasses, excitedly making notes for her newest book.

  I pass out a round of drinks, then pour one for myself and sit down beside April, who’s perched on the side of the pool in a vintage floral-print bikini and an enormous floppy hat. “So, you decided to stay in town, huh?” she’d been asking Liam.

  “I did,” he says with says, smiling at me. “It turns out New York has some qualities to recommend it.”

  “This pool, for one,” April points out, wiggling her painted toes in the cool blue water.

  “Among other things,” Liam says, with a wink in my direction.

  “He’s consulting for a bunch of cool companies,” I tell April, slipping into the pool with a quiet splash. “Helping startups grow their business and enter new markets, that kind of thing. And nobody even has to get fired.”

  “Who could ask for anything more?” April laughs. “What about you?” she asks me. “How’s the new gig?”

  “It’s kind of amazing,” I admit, cutting a glance at Liam. The truth is, to my utter shock, I actually kind of love working under the MediaCorp umbrella. I’ve got a corner office and an actual marketing budget, and my success with Verity has made me a sought-after editor among other big romance authors—though I’ll always be her biggest fan. I was able to promote the old receptionist, Rachel, to a junior editor, and although half the Sterling staff left for new gigs elsewhere, it’s been great bringing fresh blood and new ideas into the fold.

  And best of all, Liam’s been right there with me—at least, with me during lunch breaks, and late-afternoon calls, giving me all the insider tips to navigate the cutthroat corporate culture, so I could hit the ground running with my authors.

  “It turns out, not all big publishers are soul-sucking bland Death Stars,” I admit. “Plus, the coffee in the break room is way better!”

  Liam laughs, pulling me in for another kiss.

  * * *

  We
spend the afternoon snacking on Poppy’s famous guacamole. I float on my back in the deep end, enjoying the bonus sunshine on my face. Eventually I hop out of the pool and dry off a bit, then head inside in search of dessert. I’m just arranging half a dozen bowls of candy on a tray when Liam pads barefoot into the massive kitchen. “I thought I saw you come in here,” he says, wrapping his arms around me from behind. He’s naked except for his swim trunks, his chest broad and smooth and damp against my back. “Can I help?”

  “Want to grab the ice cream out of the freezer?” I ask, turning my head to peck him on

  the mouth. Water droplets cling to his eyelashes. “I bought a bunch of stuff for a make-your-own sundae bar.” Liam raises his eyebrows, and I shrug inside his arms. “What?” I ask. “My preferred entertaining style is 13-year-old’s bar mitzvah, okay?”

  Liam laughs. “I like that about you,” he admits.

  “You like a lot of things about me,” I remind him with a grin.

  “I do,” he agrees with a nod, ducking his head to nip lightly at the sensitive spot behind my ear. His mouth travels along my jawline until it finally meets mine, our damp bodies melting together as we sink into a long, slow kiss. He trails a hand down my rib cage, fingertips just grazing the skinny little tie on the side of my bikini bottoms, and I shiver.

  “You know the only thing that would make this better?” I murmur against his mouth.

  Liam rocks his hips against mine in a way that makes it clear he can think of at least several things. “What’s that?” he asks.

  “Ice cream,” I remind him cheerfully, pulling away and pulling a couple of cartons out of the stainless steel freezer. I ignore his groan as I pry the lid off the pint of Phish Food and dig out a chocolate-y spoonful, holding it out for him to taste. “Admit it’s the best,” I order.

  Liam makes a face but he does it, swallowing obediently before he smiles a slow smile, the one that turns my knees to Jell-O. The one I won’t ever get enough of.

  “Okay,” he admits grudgingly. “It’s the best.”

  And it is.

  THE END

  Thank you for reading. The fun isn’t over yet!

  If you want more sexy romantic comedy reads, keep scrolling to read Chapter One of my Billionaire Bachelors series!

  VERY IRRESISTIBLE PLAYBOY is available now!

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  * * *

  Very Irresistible Playboy

  Billionaire Bachelors #1

  CHAPTER ONE: HALLIE

  The only thing worse than showing up late for the wedding you’re supposed to shoot? Showing up late and finding the groom banging a bridesmaid in the bathroom.

  I freeze with my hand on the door, not believing what I’m seeing. Mr. Newlywed and Miss Teal Taffeta are so busy going at it they don’t even notice me. He’s got her up on the sink counter, and if adultery was an Olympic sport, I’d have to give them at least a 6 on the difficulty scale. And with that poofy bridesmaid dress practically swallowing him whole? A solid 7 out of 10, for sure.

  Minus 15 for the whole “nasty cheaters” side of things, I mean.

  I’m just thinking about sidling on past to reach a stall when his pale ass bobs over the waist of his tuxedo pants. I reel back. Okay, I don’t need to pee that bad.

  I stage a hasty retreat, back into the garlands and glitter strewn around the Central Park Boathouse. Now that’s a much prettier view. We’re set up by the building, with five crystal-bedecked white tents overlooking the lake. Even the trees are dripping with crystals, alongside bundles of white roses by the dozen, as the wedding guests sit down for their lavish meal. This has to be the most fancypants wedding I’ve ever been to, but I’m not a guest—I’m on the job today, ready to capture these beautiful memories in pictures that will last a lifetime.

  Minus the banging, of course.

  I look around for my boss for the day, aka the most in-demand wedding photographer on the East Coast. I’ve become Frederico’s go-to person when his usual assistant decides to play hooky, and despite the fact he’s a fiery bundle of Spanish artistic temperament, when he called me up this morning I couldn’t afford to turn the gig down. Literally. I just signed over the last of my savings to cover this month’s rent check.

  Question: Will the happy couple still pay for wedding pictures if they’ve already broken up before the end of the celebration?

  Don’t get me wrong. I’ve got a conscience. I just watched Mr. Newlywed say his vows. Captured photographic evidence of it, too. So with that image from the bathroom burned into my mind, I’m scrambling to think of what to do. Whether I should tell someone. How I should tell someone. Is an anonymous note a possibility? Because you know what they say about shooting the messenger and all . . .

  I go looking for Frederico to solve this particular moral dilemma, but when I check the nearest storage tent—

  Holy hell, there’s the bride pressed up against one of the tables, tongue-wrestling some dude with a man bun.

  I pause in shock, but there’s no mistaking her. I mean, the big white dress is a pretty major giveaway. The big white dress she’s letting Man Bun push his hands up under, all the way to her—

  Yup. Something blue.

  What’s with these people?

  You know what? I don’t want to know. Maybe they have the openest of open relationships. Maybe two really scummy people just got hitched. Either way, it’s none of my business. They seem happy enough . . . completely separate from each other. Who am I to interfere?

  Or get in the way of my paycheck.

  I backtrack, straight into a puddle of mud. Ugh. I pry my slingbacks out with a sigh.

  Somehow, I thought being a pro photographer was going to be a lot more glamorous than this. I guess that’s what I get for putting my career dreams on hold. I’d been working as an executive assistant for a few years; I always told myself it was temporary, but one day, I took a look around and realized my dreams weren’t any closer than when I graduated. I took the plunge, quit my day job . . . and now I’m stuck at the bottom of the ladder starting over again. One rung at a time.

  But there are some benefits along the way. My gaze falls on the catering tent, and my stomach lets out an almighty rumble. I skipped lunch shooting the bridal party prep, and everyone is busy right now stuffing their faces under the main awning. Since nobody wants photographs of themselves with a mouthful of steak, maybe this is the perfect moment to sneak a tasty little snack.

  I slink over and peek past the draped lengths of sparkly gauze. The servers are still whisking out the hot food, but there’s a big spread of drool-worthy desserts just waiting on one of the tables. My stomach gets louder. I slip past the gauze and snag a chocolate cupcake.

  The buttercream icing melts in my mouth. Fuck, that is a perfect mouth-gasm right there. I gulp it down and look at the table again. The lemon ones look irresistible too.

  You’re never supposed to eat just one cupcake, right?

  I’m just raising my second illicit treat to my lips when a man ducks into the tent. “Busted!”

  I freeze. The guy laughs. “Sorry, you just looked so guilty. Mmm, chocolate . . .” He strolls over, grabs a cake, and shoots me a smile so warm I’m surprised the icing doesn’t melt in my hand.

  Speaking of drool-worthy? Exhibit A is right in front of me. With that tawny hair and the sexy hint of scruff on his square jaw, he looks like Chris Pine in that tux, only twice as hot.

  Where the hell did he come from, and can I get a first-class ticket there?

  “Relax,” he says, with a low rich voice that could melt all sorts of other things. “I won’t tell if you don’t.” He winks and licks the frosting right off the top in a way that should be illegal. “So, who are you hiding from?”

  “I’m not hiding,” I protest. “Well, maybe just a little. I’m supposed to be shooting the happy couple, but—” I stop myself, realizing just in time that I was planning to be discreet.<
br />
  But Mr. Hunky Pants is clearly in on the secret, because he gives me a sympathetic grin. “But they’re off busy with their friends?”

  “You know about that?” I ask, relieved. “What’s their deal?”

  “Hey, it takes all kinds.” He shrugs, devouring another dessert. “I heard that sometimes they even share.”

  I choke on my cupcake. He laughs, and passes me a glass of champagne. I gulp it down, my eyes streaming. “You know what? I don’t even want to know. I was never here.”

  “Excellent strategy,” he agrees. “Just as long as you promise not to tell the bride’s mother you saw me.”

  It’s my turn to arch an eyebrow. “Have you been getting into trouble?”

  “Not exactly. More trying to stay out of it. Mrs. Collingwood is very determined to set me up with a date. Which I wouldn’t necessarily have a problem with, except she seems to be aiming to set me up with her.” He makes a face.

  I have to laugh. “Oh, poor you,” I tease. “So many women throwing themselves at you, you have to run and hide.”

  “Hey,” he protests, grinning. “I enjoy women throwing themselves at me, if they’re the right women.” He gives me a quick once-over. “You, for example, are welcome to give it a try.”

  “Tempting.” I keep my tone light, even as the devil on my shoulder swoons. “But I’m here for business, not pleasure.”

  “Personally, I don’t see anything wrong with mixing the two.” He keeps smiling. “It always works out just fine for me.”

  Sure it does. But I used to work for the wealthiest playboy in the city, and I know the downside to guys like this. They’re all flash and dazzle: whisking you off to luxurious resorts and wining and dining you . . . before losing interest, moving onto the next shiny toy, and breaking your heart.