The Consequence of Seduction

by Rachel Van Dyken

  My hands shook as I scrolled through the notifications. Feminine laughter caused me to glance up.

  Two women were hovering over Reid. Both of them had tight dresses on, boobs on display, with perfect complexions. Nobody would ever accuse them of being invisible. I tried not to let the fact that Reid chose to make a scene with me not because he wanted to but because he had no other choice bother me.

  One of the girls ran her hand through her long brown hair while she thrust her chest out.

  Reid stared.

  Then again, he was a guy, not a monk—not in any sense of the word, considering the way the guy kissed.

  I cleared my throat.

  Both girls shot me a glare at the same time.

  I raised my eyebrows. Hey, I was playing the shrew. I didn’t need to play nice. I just wanted them to leave so Reid and I could finish dinner and go home. I needed sleep, with the crazy week we had ahead of us.

  “Ah, I should probably finish eating. Thanks for stopping by.” Reid casually dismissed the women, then turned his attention to me. “Did you growl?”

  “No.” I rolled my eyes and reached for my empty wineglass. “I’m just tired, and they were lingering.”

  “Damn, I hate lingerers,” he joked.

  “They’re the worst,” I agreed with a wink. “Refuse to read social cues.”

  “And always in your personal space.” He shook his head. “Thank God I have you, Jordan. What would I do without you in my life?”

  My eyes narrowed. “Laying it on thick.”

  “Dessert.” He tapped his hands against the table and motioned for our companion. Fred scurried over to our table like he was in a race and losing.

  “Yes? Sir? Ma’am?”

  “Wow, I’m a ma’am now,” I said under my breath.

  “Chocolate.” Reid nodded. “We need something with chocolate and a dessert wine to go with. Think you can handle that, Fred?”

  “Yes, sir, right away sir.”

  I watched Fred retreat. “Did he bow?”

  “Fred has a bald spot on the top of his head, who knew?” Reid poured some wine into my glass. “Now, what’s the plan for this week? I only have a few more scenes in the city, then I have a week break before filming ends.”

  I chewed my lower lip. “Tomorrow we’re going to do an impromptu video blog in which we’ll give out relationship advice.”

  Reid coughed out an uncomfortable laugh. “You mean like bring roses on a date? That type of advice?”

  “For the love!” I threw up my hands. “What is it with you and roses? Is that all your father taught you?”

  “Hey!” Reid pointed an accusing finger in my direction. “I’ll have you know my parents have been married for over thirty years!”

  “Then I’m guessing roses are your mother’s favorite?”

  He frowned. “Yeah, but—”

  “Reid.” I checked my phone and turned the screen to him. “You have exactly sixteen hours to find your inner Romeo.”

  He nodded, then crooked his finger. I leaned in. “So I can’t use the roses thing? Like at all?”

  Did I really have to do everything? “Roses are dead to you,” I hissed. “Shit would be better than roses. You are above roses, and I swear if you say roses one more time I’m going to run you over with a golf cart.”

  “You have a golf cart?”

  “I was being sarcastic.” I folded my hands on the table to regain control of the situation. “Just Google your ass off, and you’ll be fine. But you have to be convincing—we need this to go viral. You giving normal guys advice on how to pick up a girl and . . . put your hand down, Reid, I’m not finished.” He put his hand down. “Proper advice does not include bringing roses, nor does it include flashing them with their eyes, because let’s be honest, that only works with you. If some dude with a lazy eye stares too hard at his crush, she’s going to call the cops and he’s going to end up in prison and you may be sued.” I took another deep breath. “Now . . . tell me one morsel of wisdom you can give to the average Joe. Make me believe it.”

  Our dessert arrived at that moment.

  The wine was poured.

  And if Reid squinted any harder he was going to give himself an aneurysm.

  “One thing, Reid. I’m not asking you to perform brain surgery on Fred or anything.”

  I attacked the chocolate soufflé with my spoon while Reid thought.

  “Okay.” He licked his lips. “To the average Joe, I’d say . . .” He folded his hands. “Bring a gift.”

  “Bringing a gift means you’ve already solidified the date.” I shook my head. “Next.”

  “Say she’s pretty.”

  I rolled my eyes. “This tablecloth is pretty. You gonna date the tablecloth, Reid?”

  “No?”

  “Is that a question?” I snapped.

  “Okay, fine.” He smacked my spoon with his, then dug into the chocolate. I tried not to appear as angry as I felt that he had freaking pushed my spoon away from sugar. My death grip on the spoon tightened. “Just be straight up. Will you go out with me?”

  I dropped the spoon.

  “That good?” He grinned.

  “The last time I heard that line I was in eighth grade. Mind you, it wasn’t directed at me, but it still counts. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but . . . you either need to Google or go talk to Max.”

  “The hell I will!”

  “He was a bachelor on Love Island. If anyone knows how to hit on a girl without getting castrated, it’s him.”

  “I won’t do it.”

  “You will.”

  “I won’t!” He jerked the dessert away from the table just as I reached for it, causing my spoon to fly back at my face and chocolate to land on my dress and my cheek.

  I glared.

  “See . . .” He smiled and reached across the table, dipping his finger in the soufflé. “Getting stuff on your clothes is totally your thing.”

  Just as he was bringing his finger back, I latched on to it and then sucked the chocolate off, twirling my tongue around it, sucking in and out. Reid let out a hoarse moan and gripped the table with his free hand. “You’ll talk to Max.”

  I licked again. Just to be sure the chocolate was gone.

  “I’ll talk to Max,” he said, breathless. “Well played.”

  I dabbed the corners of my mouth. “Why, thank you.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  REID

  If Jason and Milo’s grandma taught me anything—you know, besides the fact that you can’t always outrun the elderly—it was that panicking did nothing to help the situation. So when Jordan told me I needed to hash out some romance advice, yeah, sure, I got a little nervous, but I didn’t think it would be that hard.

  By the time I went to bed that night, I decided that I’d think back on all my past relationships and figure out how they started.

  The problem arose almost immediately when I realized: I’d never legitimately asked a woman out.

  Ever.

  Not even in first grade, when Sara Murf offered to share her carrot sticks and pronounced us married once I jammed one in my mouth.

  It took me six months of bringing the woman ranch dip for her carrot sticks to get back into her good graces after I told her I didn’t want to be her boyfriend because girls had germs.

  There was also that time in high school when the vice principal trapped me in a janitor’s closet and said, “Nobody has to know.”

  I thought she meant that nobody had to know she showed me the janitor’s closet. That thought was extremely short-lived when she grabbed my hand and placed it on her ass. To be fair, she was just out of college, so it wasn’t as creepy as it sounded.

  And I was eighteen.

  But still.

  I shivered at the memory.

  At least she didn’t have a mustache, like Grandma. I shivered in bed and pounded my pillow with my fist.

  There had to be one moment, at least one, in my short life when I actually asked a w
oman out and dated her.

  My brain hurt.

  And after another half hour of tossing and turning, the panic set in. It was slow, almost like jumping into a hot tub and midair yelling, “Oh, shit!” into the night, knowing that the heat was coming, knowing I was about as screwed as a lobster in Maine.

  The worst part, if I can be completely honest, was that I’d always been extremely secure in my ability to get women, only to finally realize at age twenty-eight that I never actually pursued them in the first place.

  I needed Max.

  Loath as I was to admit it.

  I just needed to do it in a way that he wouldn’t hold over my head for an eternity.

  There are ways to ask for favors and there are ways to ask for favors. Max was the type to whom you never actually admitted out loud that you needed help. Rather you tricked him into talking so much about a certain topic that he inevitably bragged about himself and his experiences, and then suddenly started spouting off what he considered wisdom. Really, his advice was just a lot of bullshit that he managed to make creatively smell like roses, but somehow it ended up being spot-on at least 90 percent of the time.

  Damn it! There I go with the roses again.

  What’s the saying? Gird your loins? Yeah, I was going to do a hell of a lot of that in the next few minutes. I told Max to meet me for lunch at Shake Shack. I hoped that the sheer volume of people would deter him from either making a scene or stripping in public or landing us in jail—take your pick. Nothing was out of the question where my brother was concerned.

  “Well, well, well.” Max peeled off his aviator sunglasses and shook his head slowly. “The prodigal returns.”

  “Never left.”

  “And by the looks of it, he needs my help.”

  “No, I don’t.” Oh, and by the way, of all the people to gift with mind reading, God gifted Max. It’s a real thing, just ask anyone who’s ever met him.

  “Yes, you do.” Max ran a hand through his wavy dark-brown hair and grinned. A few teens standing next to us started whispering. I half expected him to turn around and pose for a picture, not that I blamed him. It was an Emory thing, females being drawn to us. Women stared, and Max had always been more than happy to let them look their fill, all the while signing their bra straps like he was a rock star. I hated that I needed Max, but if anyone could help, it was him. How the hell was I supposed to romance? Did I even know the definition of the word? “You’re stalling.”

  “Huh?” I blinked against the sun, shielding my face with my hand.

  Max motioned me toward the long lunch line. “Spit it out, we don’t have all day, and by the looks of your shaky disposition the longer you keep that shit in the more susceptible you are to the elderly.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Please.”

  “Grandma loved it when you played the victim.”

  “You know what? Thanks for meeting me for lunch, but—” I stepped away, but Max jerked me back by my white T-shirt, nearly hanging me in the process, and shoved me toward the cash register.

  “What can I get you two?” the chipper adolescent squeaked, braces flashing, black-rimmed glasses falling down her nose.

  “Two burgers.” Max wrapped a muscled arm around my shoulder and squeezed hard enough for my spine to pop. “A large fry to share with my lover.”

  “Oh, dear God.” I looked heavenward, although I wasn’t sure why, considering all these years God’s been ignoring my plea to strike Max where he stood.

  “And a strawberry milkshake . . .” He winked. “Brings all the boys to my yard, feel me?”

  The girl blushed and typed in our order, then called it via the microphone. “Will that be all?”

  “For now . . .” Max said, almost like a threat, though the girl seemed excited about it.

  “And we’re walking . . .” I shoved him toward the tables.

  Our order came a few minutes later.

  I stared at the fries.

  And my burger.

  “Spill.” Max made a slurping noise through the straw, his expression bored. “I don’t have all day and I need to get back to the office to make sure my new desk gets delivered to the right floor.”

  “New desk?”

  He nodded. “The other broke.”

  “How?”

  He grinned. “He asks how . . .” With a bout of laughter he made a spanking motion with his hand. “Taking my work home, feel me? Or maybe it’s taking my home to work? Becca liked the idea of possibly getting caught, though thanks to you the only thing people may catch is a flash of boob and some heavy kissing—maybe some blue balls if they’re lucky. BTW, have I told you how much I loathe you and this little stunt you pulled? No?” He sneered. “Lean forward.”

  “I’m not letting you slap me.”

  “Damn it, and I was so sly about it.”

  “Your slapping hand was midair.”

  Max looked up, then brought his twitchy hand back to the table. “That it was.” He placed the milkshake back down and shrugged. “Now, tell Max your problems.”

  “It’s not a problem . . . per se.”

  He nodded emphatically. “I see, and when did you first realize you had ED?”

  “WHAT?” I roared.

  “It happens!” he held his hands in the air. “Just ask Jason.”

  “I’m not asking Jason about his ED.”

  “Good call.” Max tapped his chin. “Because last time I mentioned it, he tried to kick me in the balls . . . probably because I asked it over the intercom at McDonald’s, but whatev.”

  “They let you in McDonald’s?”

  “Please,” he huffed. “Ronald McDonald had no basis for his claims!”

  “Well, last I checked, we were both still blacklisted on account of the fact that we share the same last name.”

  He popped his knuckles. “Jason may have snuck me in. I had a craving for a nugget.”

  I groaned into my hands.

  “Fine, fine, so if it’s not ED, is it the shrew?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Ah, young grasshopper, is there trouble on set?”

  I frowned.

  “And by set, I mean is there trouble”—he leaned forward and cupped his mouth with his hand—“in the bedroom?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Kinda defeats the purpose of you cupping your mouth if you aren’t going to whisper.”

  “That was my whisper.”

  With a sigh I dipped a fry into some of the sauce and shrugged. “Well, we aren’t exactly in the bedroom, considering we aren’t really together, therefore no sex.”

  Max froze, fry midair.

  I waved my hand in front of his face.

  “Uh, Max?”

  He shook his head, then pounded his chest as if he’d been holding his breath the whole time, then tossed a fry to the waiting pigeons. “Honest, Reid, I think I stopped breathing. What do you mean, you aren’t in bed together? What the hell are those noises I keep hearing at night?”

  “First . . .” I held up my hand. “I’m ignoring the fact that you cup your ear to the door late at night. Second.” I gulped. “It’s the TV. She likes to watch Starz at night and then forgets to turn it off, so my guess would be you were hearing the latest porno.”

  Max exhaled a sigh of relief. “Good God, I thought you were an animal! Honestly, I was starting to feel a bit insecure. Good to know the balance has been restored. Also, I may have been concerned when I started hearing barking. Never had that happen—not that I’m opposed to it, you understand.”

  “Max.” I checked my watch. “This has been fun, but I’m just going to come out and say it. I need help, all right, and right now, you’re my only option.”

  “Interesting . . .”

  I clenched my teeth and crooked my finger. He leaned forward. “If you had to give someone dating advice . . . or relationship advice, what would you say?”

  Max’s blue eyes narrowed into tiny slits. “So you’re asking for you or . . . a friend?”

  “Friend,
” I lied. “A friend I have to help.”

  “Hmm, and this friend’s name?”

  “Jason.” Sorry in advance to my accident-prone friend, but I was desperate not to be Max’s target. If he knew it was me, he’d probably send a singing hooker to set or sign me up for self-help classes, get me a prescription for ED pills. Hell, the possibilities were endless.

  Note to self: send Jason a Christmas goose.

  “Well.” Max rubbed his hands together. Oh, good, the evil genius was warming up. “First of all, I’d say that relationships take work. A lot of work—”

  “Wow, Max.” I frowned. “That’s actually really—”

  “—in the bedroom,” he finished. I sighed—he’d started off so good. “But in order to get there, you need to actually ask the girl out, make her realize you’re datable.” He shrugged. “Let’s be honest, if you aren’t an Emory man, you don’t really have a lot going for you.”

  Yeah, like I was going to say that out loud and have men everywhere hate me. Pretty sure that was the opposite of what Jordan was trying to accomplish.

  “Jason doesn’t have the eyes like you do, and let’s be honest, if he and I were running for president, his signs would say, ‘Vote for Boring,’ while mine would say ‘Join Team Awesome—Win a Free Puppy.’”

  I hated when he actually made sense.

  “So, for simple folk, like our friend”—he hooked his fingers and made air quotes—“‘Jason’”—he put his hands down—“the advice is this.” He closed his eyes very briefly before opening them again. His jaw had a slight tic. Either he was thinking too hard or the milkshake was making a comeback. “Start with a compliment, something innocent, nothing creepy. You can’t just walk up to a chick and say, ‘Nice ass,’ or, ‘Wow, you’re beautiful.’ The first gets you slapped, the second gets you ignored.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “So, pre-Becca, I used pickup lines, but only ones I knew would get the girl to laugh. Stupid pickup lines coming from a dead sexy guy equal immediate laughter and witty banter.”

  “Should I be writing this down?”

  Max frowned.

  “For Jason,” I blurted. “You know, since he can read.”

  “Can he? I’ve always wondered.” Max shrugged. “Sure, whatever, or I can just tell him myself. Why didn’t he just join our lunch date?”