Ménage in Manhattan: The Complete 5-Book Ménage Romance Collection

by Tara Crescent

  Then I stopped to think, and realized that it didn’t matter. I’m not looking for anything from them. Some people flirt as easily as breathing, and Sebastian seems to be one of them. Daniel’s more of an enigma, but I can’t spend time analyzing them. I need to get dramatically better at pool to beat Trevor in July, and Daniel and Sebastian want to win their bet against Clark. For the moment, our goals are aligned. That’s all.

  “Tell me about cultural anthropology,” Daniel says to me as we play. “I thought you joined the team to use us as research subjects. And don’t jerk your head up as soon as you make your shot. Keep your movements slow and steady.”

  Heat pools in my lower belly at his words. Slow and steady. I can imagine him saying that to me under very different circumstances, circumstances that would involve a lot less clothing, but I push the lust back and respond to his question. “‘Gender relations and interpersonal dynamics in a modern sporting environment’ would make for an interesting paper,” I agree. “But no, I’m just here because my ex-boyfriend is a jerk.”

  “What did he do?”

  I tell Daniel about the letter from Trevor’s lawyer, and he laughs. I glare at him, but he’s unconcerned. “Come on, Bailey, think about it. You must have hurt his feelings quite a lot for him to retaliate with such a dick move.”

  “I doubt it,” I say dryly. “The Met Gala’s coming up, and Liberal Arts faculty at NYU get an invitation. Trevor’s pouting because he can’t go rub shoulders with celebrities.”

  Sebastian’s listening to our conversation, but he doesn’t interrupt. “Is that all you think it is?” Daniel asks gently. “You are a beautiful woman, Bailey. Your ex-boyfriend is an idiot if he missed that.” He drinks the last of his beer. “Can I get you a drink while I’m at the bar? You were drinking vodka, right?”

  Trevor’s never called me beautiful before. My heart feels like it’s beating faster as I raise my gaze to Daniel’s chocolate brown eyes. “You were watching me when I walked in?” I ask faintly. Damn it, why is my body so aware of these men? I barely know them. I’m not supposed to react this way.

  “I would be a fool not to.” His eyes are warmly appreciative as he looks at me with a grin. “As horrible an outfit as this is, it can’t hide all your charms.”

  “Vodka neat,” I tell him, barely registering his assessment of my attire. “The bartender knows my preference.”

  He nods and walks away, and I tear my eyes away from his butt with difficulty. “Ready to play?” Sebastian mutters in my ear, making me jump once again. “Steady, Bailey,” he soothes, his hands on my arms. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  He is touching me, and I don’t know what to do. Things like this don’t happen to me. I’m a chubby girl. I tend to be invisible to guys. Men rarely look at me with open heat in their eyes, the way Sebastian is right now, and it both arouses me and terrifies me.

  “Is it my turn to break?” I mumble. I need to distract myself from the desire that swirls in my body, pulling me like a helpless marionette toward these men.

  An amused smile creases his lips. Sebastian Ardalan is not unaware of the effect he’s having on me. “Go ahead,” he replies. “Break.”

  Pull yourself together, I scold myself, resolving to focus on the true reason I’m here. I have to beat Trevor and wipe that smug expression off his face. I slide my bracelets off my wrists and put them on a nearby table. “Can you keep an eye on them?” I ask. “They aren’t valuable, but I don’t want to lose them.” He looks curious, so I elaborate. “They’re souvenirs from trips.”

  “I get refrigerator magnets when I travel, and Daniel buys coffee mugs,” he confides as I chalk my cue.

  “Really?” I look up, surprised by Sebastian’s revelation. I didn’t expect to have something in common with a billionaire or a celebrity chef, but it’s nice to know that even they shop at kitschy souvenir shops.

  He nods. “Really. Daniel drinks about eight cups of coffee a day, so he collects coffee mugs as a memento of his vacations. I used to take photos, but I never looked at them after I got back home. The magnets, I can look at each time I open the refrigerator.”

  Sebastian gives me some tips about breaking. He shows me how to move the tip of the cue closer to my hand so I have more control when I make the shot. When Daniel comes back with three shots, the three of us lift our glasses in a toast and gulp down the vodka, then Daniel shows me where to aim so I don’t scratch. They make me practice scattering the balls, over and over again, and each time I make contact, they speak encouraging, supportive words.

  Their coaching works. After fifteen minutes, I stop dreading walking up to the table to try and dispel the tightly racked triangle of balls. I start hitting the cue ball cleanly, and when I follow Daniel’s advice - slow and steady - I even have my first legal break. Three balls hit the rails.

  “I did it!” I exclaim. “I can’t believe it. I actually did it.”

  “Yes you did,” Sebastian agrees cheerfully, handing me my stack of jewelry. “Congratulations, Bailey. We’ll make a pool player out of you yet.”

  For the first time ever, I believe him. Less than an hour of instruction and I’ve learned how to break? Daniel and Sebastian are miracle workers.

  Clark’s in some kind of snit when he shows up and reads the paperwork that the bartender hands him. Sebastian sneaks a look and comes away grinning.

  “What?” I ask. After hanging out with Daniel and Sebastian for a little over an hour, chatting about work and vacations and my pool game, I feel a sense of camaraderie with them.

  Sebastian laughs out aloud. “Clark’s rank dropped. He’s now a three. Idiot.”

  “That’s not very nice.” Though Clark was a dick to me last week, given my general ineptness at the pool table, I feel sympathetic for anyone that’s struggling at the sport. Even douchebag Clark.

  “Trust me, it’s perfectly justified,” Daniel replies. “You know why his rank dropped? He can’t play opposite a woman.”

  “Huh?”

  “He’s way more aggressive when he’s playing a woman,” Daniel explains. “His shot selection is reckless. He hits the balls too hard. Sound and fury, but no substance. He’s trying to prove something.” He shakes his head. “Clark’s been playing in the league for a while. Other teams have figured this out, so they always put up a woman when he’s playing. Of course, he loses far more often than he wins. Watch.”

  Just as Daniel predicts, when Clark puts himself up to play, still muttering about the incompetent American Poolplayers League, the other team confers briefly, and a petite Asian woman comes forward. Both Daniel and Sebastian are struggling not to laugh, and to tell the truth, I too am fighting my urge to giggle at the thunderous expression on Clark’s face.

  Bailey, I think to myself, you might be in trouble. I’m extremely attracted to Daniel and Sebastian, but as I told Gabby over lunch, attraction is not enough for me. Liking them is a pretty necessary part of the equation. The problem is, after this evening, I like them a lot.

  “Where’s Juliette?” I ask them, to try to distract myself from that train of thought. We’d been introduced last week, and we’d even had time for a brief conversation, where I’d learned that she had known Daniel and Sebastian for more than a year. She’d been polite enough, if a little aloof.

  “She’s meeting with some potential partners of mine,” Sebastian says.

  Daniel raises an eyebrow. “She didn’t want you there?” he asks curiously.

  “She did,” Sebastian replies shortly. “I declined.”

  Daniel looks amused. “Of course.” He looks as if he’s going to say more, but he stops himself short.

  I look back and forth at them, intrigued by this conversation. “Partners of yours?” I ask. “Other chefs?”

  “No, these guys are investors,” Sebastian replies. “Juliette’s my business adviser.”

  “Oh.” I feel a strange sense of relief that I’m unprepared to examine. Instead, I turn toward the pool tables, where Clark i
s, as predicted, losing to his opponent. He’s just scratched while trying to pocket the eight-ball - an automatic loss. For anyone other than me, it wasn’t really even a difficult shot. Had Clark not tried to be flashy, he would have made it without any problem. “Wow, he really can’t play against a woman, can he?”

  “Nope,” the guys confirm. We watch in silence as he racks up the balls for the next game with bad grace, but the second game goes no better. His opponent has her foot on the throttle, and she doesn’t let up.

  “If he doesn’t win the next game,” Daniel mutters next to me, “he’s going to lose the match.”

  “Aren’t you bothered?” I ask him.

  He shrugs. “It’s just a game,” he says. “I like to play, and I’m competitive enough to want to win. But if I start getting irritated every time Clark fucks up, I’m going to be angry all the time. It’s not worth it.”

  “How very zen of you,” I quip, and he laughs. “Are you going to be this laid-back if I lose your bet too?”

  “Is that any way to talk?” Sebastian chides from his spot on the other side of Daniel. “Have some confidence in yourself, Bailey. You can absolutely win. Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

  That last exclamation was directed at Clark, who scratched on the eight-ball again. Yikes. Three-zero. Clark’s face is red with anger. He shakes hands with his opponent stiffly, and comes over to us. “Juliette not here yet?” he snaps. “Fine. Bailey, you’re up.”

  Daniel gives me an encouraging nod. "Remember what we taught you," he says quietly, as Sebastian racks the balls for me. "Steady. Long strokes, nothing jerky."

  I wink at him, hidden devilry appearing from nowhere. "I've heard that before," I joke. "Not quite in the same context though."

  He laughs aloud. "Do me proud, Bailey.”

  Clark’s not the only one who has dropped a rank. Not unexpectedly, my rank has fallen as well. Last week, I was a three, but after my abysmally poor performance, the league has downgraded me. I’m now a two - the lowest skill level of anyone in the league. You have nowhere to go but up, Bailey, I tell myself encouragingly, trying to ward off my nerves ahead of my match. Daniel and Sebastian are watching me, and I do want to do well for them. In one evening, they’ve taught me far more than Trevor’s taught me in months, and I’m really grateful.

  My opponent is another two. He’s a geeky looking guy, and he’s a dead-ringer for Sheldon Cooper, on the Big Bang Theory. As I shake his hand, I ask him if people ever tell him that. “Who?” He looks blankly at me. “I don’t own a TV.”

  It takes difficulty to keep from rolling my eyes. I don’t understand the hate some people have for TV. I like to escape reality by watching home decorating shows. Sue me.

  I’m actually so busy getting annoyed by his attitude that I don’t tense up as I break, and because I’m not paying attention, I have the break of a lifetime. Well, my lifetime. This isn’t just a legal break. No, this time, when the balls scatter, one of them actually rolls into the pocket.

  Little orange ball, I want to take you home and put you on a display shelf.

  Even more shockingly, I follow up that opening shot, that miraculous exciting break, by sinking another ball, the solid green. I miss the next one, because sadly, no fairy godmother has been by sprinkling fairy dust on my pool cue. But still - two balls in a row? This is unheard of.

  Nerd guy - whose name is Michael - tries to aim for a striped yellow ball at the far end of the table and misses, and it’s me again. Luckily, he’s left me with an incredibly easy shot - the ball I’m aiming for is only inches away from the pocket. It rolls in.

  Three balls. I’ve managed to sink three balls. This is beyond awesome. This is stupendous.

  My streak continues. Nothing dramatic - I still miss far more balls than I make, but I realize something. When I was playing with Trevor, if I missed a shot, he’d take advantage by clearing the table. Today, since I’m playing with an opponent that’s as bad as I am, the game is much more evenly balanced, and the coaching that Sebastian and Daniel have provided me is helping. It’s really, really helping. I’m keeping all the instructions I’ve heard from them in mind. Eyes on the tip of my cue. Keeping my head down while I take the shot. Steady and slow, with no sudden movements…

  And then, it’s time for a shot at the eight ball. I close my eyes and mutter a small prayer to the universe. Please, I ask. I really want this.

  I miss.

  Crap, I mutter under my breath. Crap, crap, fucking crap. I move to the side to let Michael take his shot. Sebastian’s talking to Juliette, who must have come in at some point while I was playing. She’s gesturing at him angrily, and they look like they are having some kind of argument. Daniel comes over to talk to me. “You are doing really well,” he says. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “I missed the shot at the eight.” My voice is disconsolate.

  “So what? The game’s not over yet. Your opponent still has two balls left, and he hasn’t made two shots in a row all night long. There’s an excellent chance you are going to get another try at this.”

  He’s absolutely right. I just need to keep this in perspective. Sure enough, as Daniel has predicted, the guy misses and I get another go. It’s not going to be easy - the eight ball is all the way on the far end of the table. Since I have almost no chance at it, I just go through the motions. I mark my pocket and I chalk my cue, and I aim, and wham.

  There must be a fairy godmother.

  Because that ball?

  That sweet, precious eight-ball?

  Rolls into the pocket.

  I have won my first pool game.

  I squeal like Alicia Silverstone in Clueless, jumping up and down with gleeful excitement. “I won,” I shriek in Daniel and Sebastian’s direction, but they aren’t looking at my face. Their eyes are glued to my chest. “Oh come on,” I flush, getting closer to them so they are the only people that can hear my next set of words. “My face is up here, you know.”

  “I know,” Sebastian says, unabashed. “I wasn’t looking at your face.” He puts an arm around my waist and draws me in. “Now I am,” he mutters, his lips so close to mine that I stop breathing in reaction to his nearness. “Congratulations, Bailey,” he says. Then he dips his head toward my lips, and kisses me.

  He smells like musk and sandalwood and man. His kiss is soft but insistent, and I yield, parting my lips and deepening contact as if I can’t get enough of him. Forgotten is the pool hall and my opponent. I ignore Clark’s slack-jawed stare and Juliette’s narrowed eyes, and I kiss Sebastian Ardalan, bad boy celebrity chef, strong, tattooed Sebastian Ardalan, and it is so good. My hands come up to hold onto his waist, and the blood pounds in my ears, and I am helpless and aching for more.

  We pull away slowly from each other as he breaks the kiss. In his eyes, I see the same hazy lust as I’m feeling. Then he leans in for one more brief kiss. “The match isn’t over,” he says hoarsely. “First one to win two games, remember?” He shakes his head, a wry smile on his lips. “A pool game has never been more inconvenient.”

  My head's still spinning as I walk back to the table. My focus isn’t on the game. It’s on the very public kiss that Sebastian just gave me. As much as I’m trying not to think about it, I can’t help it. What does that kiss mean? What’s going to happen next? And most importantly, what does Daniel think about it?

  Distracted as I am, I promptly lose the next two games. Clark glares at me as Michael pockets the eight-ball to win. “Sebastian, you’re up next,” he says curtly. “And try to win your match, damn it.”

  Sebastian winks at me and goes up to play, and I shake my head again, confused. I need to go to the washroom and splash my face with cold water, and wonder what the heck is going on.

  12

  Bailey

  Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear.

  Ambrose Redmoon

  Juliette’s waiting for me when I get out of the stall, her expression
thunderous. Shit. Is this about Sebastian’s kiss? They aren’t dating, are they? “Is something wrong?”

  “Is something wrong?” she repeats. Her voice rises with frustration. “Yes, Bailey, I’d say something’s fucking wrong. Do you know that Sebastian blew off a really important business meeting tonight to come hang out with you?” Her fists are clenched at her side.

  “Sort of,” I reply. “He mentioned something.”

  “Well, good for him,” she drawls the words out, sarcasm oozing out of every syllable. “Isn’t that nice that Sebastian mentioned blowing off a meeting I’ve been working on for months to put together?”

  I’m not sure why I’m the target of her ire. Sebastian’s a big boy, and I’m not responsible for his behavior. “Why are you getting pissy with me?” I ask directly, refusing to pussy-foot around the fact that she’s being a bitch right now. “I don’t control Sebastian.”

  “Listen to me, Bailey.” She steps close to me, and I fight the urge to take a step back. “There’s a narrow window of opportunity here. Sebastian knows it, even if he’s ignoring it at the moment. Seb New York was just awarded a second Michelin star, and we have to strike when the iron’s hot.” She glares at me. “If there’s ever a time for Sebastian not to lose focus, it is now. The last thing he needs is a distraction.”

  Me. I’m the distraction.

  Here’s the deal. All my life, I’ve had to fight the redhead stereotype. Everyone always assumes that redheads are prone to anger and rage, but I’ve never been that person. I’m pretty even-tempered. I avoid conflict. I don’t call people out on their bullshit.

  Until now. “No,” I tell her. “You listen to me. Sebastian is an adult who can make his own decisions. If you have a problem with him, you can talk to him. But you don’t get to hurl accusations.” I meet her eyes evenly, though I’m quaking inside, wondering how she’s going to react to my speech. “Are we clear?”