by Lila Monroe
And just like that, my warm fuzzies drift away. “I wish I could just forget that ever happened.” I scowl. “Or better yet, turn back the clock and forget my whole stupid strike.”
“Hey, at least you can call it off anytime you like, right?” She hands me another cupcake. “I mean, nothing’s forcing you to go without.”
Nate waves over from the bocce lawn, gesturing her over. “That’s my cue,” she grins, and goes to rejoin the group.
But her words linger. Nothing’s stopping me . . .
Except my pride. And reputation. And all the girls inspired not to settle because of me.
I sigh. God, is there any way out of this mess? As long as this bounty is hanging over my, ahem, maidenhead, I can’t trust any guy to be interested for the right reasons.
Especially Jake.
I watch him, smiling and joking with his family. The more I get to know him, the more I can see, Julia’s right: there IS a decent guy lurking under his perfect vintage suits and smooth pick-up lines. He takes care of me when I’m sick, whisks me off for fun adventures, hell, he even knows to bring me coffee the way I like it. What more do you want in a man?
And then there’s the fact that the chemistry is so hot it’s like I’m wandering the desert in July. And Jake’s the cool glass of water with condensation dripping down the rim, begging for me to lick him—
Wait a minute, where was I?
Oh yeah, my impossible catch-22. Fucked if I do, fucked if I don’t.
Jake smiles at me from across the lawn, and it’s like a ray of sunshine. Cheesy similes? I really am in trouble now.
Suddenly, I need to get out of here. I grab the nearest person and tell them to send my apologies, then I grab my stuff and bolt. But not before stuffing two more magical cupcakes in my purse, of course. I may be deep in the midst of emotional turmoil, but I still have my priorities, thank you very much.
But as I head home, my feelings keep whirling—and no amount of frosting will fill the ache I have in my chest. Because the truth is, I can’t deny it anymore: I want to be with Jake. I want him so much, I can hardly stand it. And not just for a night, but the whole his-n-her-robes, annoying pet names, nights watching Netflix, and hungover Sunday brunches deal. The big kahuna.
Love.
Just the word breaks me out in a cold sweat. How can I be falling for a guy when I still can’t trust him? It’s like I’m teetering on the edge of a massive canyon, and one wrong step could send me crashing onto the rocks below.
If I let myself fall, if I let these feelings go any further, then what happens if it turns out he only wanted me for the challenge? The thrill of the chase. But how can I know until it’s too late?
A text buzzes in my pocket. Jake.
Sorry you had to leave – don’t tell me the cupcakes got you.
No, just work. Thanks!
I tuck my phone away and sigh. One way or another, I need to figure out how to break this strike—without breaking my own damn heart.
29
Lizzie
The next days are a blur of last-minute errands, checking things off my endless to-do list, and basically running around like a lunatic. I manage to get most everything done before the big opening—mostly because Jake seems to be AWOL. I should be happy. I mean, this is what I wanted, right? Temptation keeping out of sight, out of mind. Except, Jake isn’t staying out of my head. Not at all. Every time I venture into the break room, my heart skitters in my chest, hoping against hope that when I look around, he’ll be there, grumbling about how horrible the coffee is. Or, better yet, holding out a box of doughnuts and flashing me that irresistible smile.
By the time I trudge home on Thursday night, I’m more than ready for a glass of wine and my pajamas, and my Skype date to vent with Jess.
“Hey, babe.” Jess appears on screen. The kids are nowhere in sight, and she’s got her LuluLemon pants and matching black crop top on, so she must be either on her way to yoga class or just getting back.
“Namaste,” I greet her. “Are you enlightened yet, oh wise one?”
“Not even close,” she sighs, sitting down at the kitchen table. “But I can, however, do a wicked crow pose now, so there’s that.”
“Duly noted,” I say, and reach for that wine. “Wait, am I supposed to be impressed? Or even know what crow pose is?”
“Maybe next time you visit you should go to yoga with me and find out.”
“Hard pass,” I snort. “So where are the kids?”
“Richard took them to a movie,” she says, relief clear on her face. “What about you? I can already tell it’s a tough day because you’re into the pinot.”
“Just be glad I haven’t broken out the hard spirits yet. Things are a mess.”
“With Jake?”
“With everything,” I moan, cradling the glass between my palms. “I mean, I’m totally crazy about him. I want to be with him for real. But I have no idea what his real agenda is. I mean, fifty thousand dollars? I’d fuck me for that kind of money.”
Jess laughs. “Does that count?” she asks. “I mean, if we got you a massive dildo, wouldn’t that technically be game over?”
I give a hollow laugh. “I wish! But it’s this manly quest for glory, now. They’ve built it up so much that whoever gets to claim credit is basically going to become a fucking legend.”
“Don’t you mean a legend for fucking?” Jess cracks, and I laugh for real this time.
“But don’t you see, this means I can’t trust a single thing Jake says or does. I mean, how will I ever know if he would’ve gone after me on his own—without the strike? Maybe if it was anyone else, I could try and believe him. But think about it, Jess—his whole mission in life is getting the unobtainable—in work and in his personal life, too. And now I’m the shiny new toy that everyone wants!”
“I’m sorry, babe.” She looks sympathetic.
“Maybe I should take the risk, but I’ve seen enough movies to know how this ends,” I add darkly. “Me in a pink dress, alone at prom. Me with a bucket of pig’s blood on my head. Me—”
“I get it!” she laughs. “You know, fuck this shit. You should just sleep with some random dude. Break the strike and get it over with, then you can start clean with Jake.”
“Yeah,” I laugh, “that sounds like a great idea, Sis. I’ll just sleep with some random guy I don’t care about so I’m free to sleep with the guy I actually like.”
“Well, keep me posted,” she says. “Because you not fucking men is about the most excitement going on in our sex lives right now.”
I clear my throat. “Richard isn’t . . . ?”
“Stress. Work. Either that or he’s fucking Elaine in accounting,” Jess sighs.
“You . . . don’t seem worried?”
“Honestly, I’m so tired running around after the kids all day, I’m loving the break.” Jess raises her glass to me.
“I hate you,” I tell her, only half-joking. “I’m going out of my mind right about now.”
There’s a loud knock at my door, and I practically jump out of my chair, spilling my glass of wine over the table. “Shit,” I curse. “Someone’s at the door,” I tell Jess, “do you think the Ming Na Palace is taking psychic orders?”
“I should go anyway,” Jess says. “I have exactly forty-two minutes to take a bath without a tiny person tugging on my sleeve. Good luck!”
I sign off, and go open the door. If my favorite takeout place was sending random deliveries, that would be the best, but when I open my door, it’s not a double order of Pad Thai. Nope, it’s something far less appetizing.
Todd.
My scummy ex-boyfriend Todd, who I last saw waltzing his shiny new fiancée off to Tiffany’s. Horrible Todd who left me high and dry three years ago, after I helped put him through law school—just in case you’re keeping score, which I most definitely am.
“Hey, Lizzie,” he says, flashing me a too-familiar smile. He looks like he came straight from the office, in one of his fussy s
uits and a paisley-print tie, his blond hair gelled back in a way that reminds me I had to wash my hands after sex. “Can I come in?”
“Nope,” I say evenly, crossing my arms over my chest. “But the bigger question is: what the fuck are you doing here?”
“I think I made a mistake, Lizzie,” he says, smiling wider. “I should’ve never let you go.”
I snort. “It’s a little late for all this, don’t you think?” I say. “And what about Harmony?”
“That’s over,” he says quickly, putting a hand on the doorjamb so I can’t close the door without maiming him. And standing there looking at him, I’m almost annoyed enough to want to try.
“Sorry to hear that,” I say in a tone that makes it clear I’m anything but.
“You were the only one who really supported me, Lizzie. The only one who believed in me,” he says earnestly, taking a step closer. “She never did.”
“That’s not what you said when you dumped me,” I shoot back. “What was it? Oh yeah, I wasn’t ambitious enough. I didn’t understand your drive.”
“Please, Lizzie,” Todd begs. “Please give me another chance to make things right between us.”
After all this time, I have to say that it’s pretty gratifying to have Todd crawling back like this, but I’ve got a sneaking suspicion it’s not my supportive belief that’s got him showing up on my doorstep like this.
Not unless that’s what the kids are calling my pussy these days.
“Listen, Todd,” I say brightly, “it’s way too late for all of this. I mean, it’s great you’ve finally realized that I was the best thing that ever happened to you, and that deep down, you’re just a narcissistic douchewad who needs constant flattery and ego-stroking to make it through the day, but I’m not interested. Let’s face it, I deserve way better than you.”
I start to close the door on him, fingers and all, but he sticks his foot in the way.
“Wait, what about the strike?” he asks. “If you agree to break it with me, I’ll split the money with you. Eighty-twenty.”
I knew it!
“Goodbye, Todd,” I say, shoving him out the door.
“Sixty-forty?” he yells. “We don’t even have to really do it! We can just tell people we did! That way you can just move on with your life and leave this whole strike thing behind.”
“Oh, so this is all for my benefit? How generous.”
I slam the door shut and wait until I hear his footsteps head back down the stairs. What an arrogant, selfish, dickwad of a jerk!
With a weirdly tempting idea . . .
Nope. I shake it off. Despite what Jess says, it would be crazy to pretend I got laid, just to get this over with. I want Jake—and only Jake.
But this way, I’d get to see if he really wants me for me, or just as a prize . . .
Ugh!
I slide to the floor and grab the phone. “Hello, Ming Na Palace? I need to place an order. A big one.”
Something tells me it’s going to be a long, sexually-frustrated night.
30
Lizzie
Over the next week, I run around like a lunatic getting everything ready for the exhibition, racing all over town to pick up last minute items, and double and triple- checking everything. I’ve only been sleeping three or four hours a night, tops, and by the time the gala approaches, I’m teetering on the brink of exhaustion, walking around like a caffeine-fueled zombie—a cute, caffeine-fueled zombie with a superb sense of style, I might add, but a zombie nonetheless.
And now it’s finally opening night. I can’t believe it’s here already, but in a way it also seems like I’ve been waiting forever for it to arrive. The gallery space is amazing, and I can’t stop the waves of nervous excitement flooding my body as I walk the floor for a hundredth time. The gala event will be held in the Great Hall, but guests will also be free to wander the exhibit here.
“What are you still doing here?” Skye finds me repositioning the information cards again. Morgan roped her into overseeing the gala setup and catering arrangements. “I told you, it’s perfect. Don’t screw it up now!”
“Okay, okay!” I say, still scanning the space. “But what if we’re forgetting something?”
“We’re not. You’ve done an amazing job!” Skye insists. “Just look at this place!”
I stop looking for flaws for a minute and just take it all in—the vintage gowns, the glittering deco jewelry in glass cases, the original print of Casablanca playing on a loop, projected against the back wall. But this is about more than just vintage movie posters and props: there are viewing booths with social history footage from the era, giving context to the on-screen gems, behind-the-scenes interviews and footage, too.
It’s everything I hoped, and more.
“Now go home!” Skye orders. “Unless you’re planning on wowing our guests in jeans and a blazer.
“Okay,” I say reluctantly, heading for the exit. “But call me if you need anything?”
“We won’t.” Skye says firmly. “You go and get ready.” She shoos me away with her French-manicured hand like I’m some sort of pesky insect. “I’ve got this.”
When I get home, there’s a giant white box leaning against my apartment door, tied with a huge red bow. I bring it inside, and when I tear off the wrapping and wade through what feels like miles of carefully-folded tissue paper, I find a card on thick, embossed paper that reads:
Compliments of Jake Weston.
Pick you up at eight.
My heart can’t help skipping. Underneath all that tissue paper, I find a gorgeous red satin vintage Valentino gown—with matching red stiletto sandals and an intricately beaded evening bag.
Be still, my heart!
I move to the mirror, holding the heavy, slick material of the dress up against my body. Holy shit, it looks exactly my size—almost as if it was made for me and me alone.
I lay the dress back on the bed carefully, reverently, and make my way to the shower, buzzing with excitement now.
What does this mean? Is he back from his disappearing act? And is pulling a Pretty Woman supposed to make up for the bounty, and not telling me?
Yes.
I try to get my nerves under control. Get it together! It’s going to take more than vintage haute couture to woo me, but when I hear a knock at the door an hour later, it feels like there’s a whole meadow full of butterflies taking up residence in my stomach. I take one last look in the mirror, then go open the door.
Fuck me now.
Jake stands on my doorstep in a tux, and he looks so far beyond perfect, it’s not even fair. But even better than how drop-dead sexy he is, is the way he’s looking at me. Like I’m the most precious exhibit of all.
“Wow,” he breathes, looking me up and down. “You look incredible.”
“Thank you.” I flush. “This dress is amazing.” I twirl around to show it off.
“After you.” He gestures, and I grab my silk wrap and the purse and step out into the hallway. He rests his hand on my back, walking to the stairs, and god, if my whole body doesn’t go up in flames again just from one little touch.
I missed him.
“So where have you been?” I ask, trying to sound casual. “I’ve barely seen you this week.”
“Just working on a few last-minute surprises,” he says with a mysterious smile.
“For the opening?” I demand, suddenly panicked. “Why? What? Is something wrong?”
“No!” Jake laughs. “Relax, everything is perfect at the exhibit.”
“Are you sure?” I gulp a breath. “God, don’t scare me like that. My whole career is riding on this going off without a hitch.”
“And it will.” Jake gives me a smile that could soothe a rabid beast. “I promise. All you have to do tonight is relax and enjoy yourself.”
I’ve been to plenty of fancy parties at the Met—perks of the job—but there’s nothing like walking into that incredible lobby and seeing it packed with people because of an exhibit I’ve he
lped curate.
“It’s amazing!” Skye squeals, running up to us. Everyone seems to have embraced the Classic Hollywood theme, and she’s dressed in an ice-blue sheath dress that makes her look like she just stepped off the MGM lot. “The Times is here, and The Washington Post, and Entertainment Tonight is even covering the red carpet because of all the star power here! It’s a hit! You guys have done an awesome job! Everyone’s talking about how brilliant you two are and I’m just so exci—”
“Breathe, Skye,” I laugh.
“No time! I have to make sure the cake has arrived! It was supposed to be here an hour ago . . .” she mutters, her voice trailing off as Morgan approaches, parting the sea of the crowd and swishing across the floor in a long, black gown so tight that I’d be surprised if she’s eaten more than a crust of bread in the last three weeks.
“Bravo!” Morgan smiles, her lips painted a shimmering red, and diamonds glittering at her ears and throat. “You two really pulled it off! I have to admit, I didn’t expect a turnout like this. Not for such a minor exhibit,” she adds, unable to give a compliment that isn’t laced with poison. “Jake, bravo.”
“Not at all,” he says, again pushing me forwards. “This is all Lizzie’s hard work—I really can’t take credit for any of it. It’s her vision. I helped execute it, of course, but she’s the one you should be congratulating.”
Morgan raises an eyebrow. “Well, Lizzie, it seems you’ve outdone yourself. Although, I noticed the Bring Me the Stars section is still minus the necklace. I do hate to leave a promise unfulfilled.”
“That’s my fault,” Jake says smoothly. “I was certain I had a source, but he fell through at the last minute.”
“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.”