The Christmas Bet

by Alice Ward

  “Sure, you can. I’ll pay for your moving expenses and everything. And I guarantee I’ll pay better than anything you’re doing now.”

  It was tempting. Too tempting, and not because of the money. But no amount of fantasy was able to override my realism in that moment, and I shook my head again. “I can’t. One of the draws of doing what I do is being my own boss. I mean, yes, I have clients, but I still don’t answer to anyone but myself on a grand scale. I don’t want to give that up.”

  He frowned, studied my face with consideration, then kissed my nose. “Fine,” he conceded. “For now. Don’t think this topic is dropped.”

  I leaned into him, absorbing his warmth. “Fair enough.”

  He pulled me against him in a smothering hug, and I breathed in his scent. I had no idea when I would see him again. I knew he’d fly me out any time I asked, but I wasn’t the type to ask and I had a lot of work I needed to catch up on if I wanted to make my rent. Finally, and reluctantly, we broke apart. Stephan stood off to the side with my luggage, prepared to bring it inside for me.

  “Don’t go picking up the first woman you see just because you’re trying to forget how much you miss me,” I teased. I was only half kidding.

  Looking me dead in the eyes, he murmured, “The only woman I’m picking up is you, the next time you come back to Louisiana.”

  He kissed me passionately, swatted my butt, and bid me farewell. As I strode into the airport, Stephan insisting on hauling my bags to check-in, Owen’s words rang in my mind like bells. This was something. It was him and me, nobody else.

  God, it felt good.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Owen

  “What are you wearing?”

  Tabby snorted on the other end of the line. “Could you be any more unoriginal?”

  Chuckling, I sank onto my bed and looked at myself in the mirror hung above the dresser on the opposite wall. I looked happy, radiant almost. The sight actually embarrassed me, and I quickly diverted my gaze to the floor instead.

  I grinned into the phone. “Hey, it’s not my fault you left and stuck me with a never-ending erection.”

  Though I couldn’t see her, I knew Tabby was rolling her eyes. “You know, if it lasts longer than four hours, you’re supposed to go to the doctor,” she told me with faux seriousness. “I’ve read stories about guys having to get their penises drained and all kinds of horrible things because they just can’t get it down.”

  I cringed. “If you were trying to kill the mood, I’m pleased to tell you you’re successful beyond your wildest dreams.”

  While I hadn’t really had a hard-on for the entire two weeks since Tabby returned to Chicago, it felt like it. Every night, I fell asleep with a thick throbbing in my groin as images of her body tangled in my sheets floated across my mind. Attempts to remedy the situation alone hadn’t been any help, and though the cybersex sessions we’d engaged in over Skype alleviated my restlessness in the moment, I quickly reverted back to feeling unfulfilled when we said our goodnights and disconnected. There simply wasn’t a replacement for Tabby, virtual or otherwise.

  It wasn’t just her body that I obsessed over. Throughout my workdays, I found myself reaching for my phone to send her a text just to get back a message laden with snarky comments and pearls of wit. Arturo had made me a pancake breakfast a couple days ago, and the smell of the syrup made me long to hear her sleepy groans again as I tried to wake her up. Driving through the French Quarter on the way to my office was dismal, and even visiting Maw brought with it tiny pangs of wistfulness. I wanted to be able to capture a glimpse of her smile at any moment’s notice, or watch the excited awe take over her face as she snapped picture after picture, or feel her hand wrapped in mine.

  I missed her.

  It was a sobering fact. I hadn’t missed anyone since I was a young kid and my parents went on their first and only couple’s trip, a week in Atlantic City. There had been times, especially initially after leaving home, that I’d wished to be waking up in my own house rather than in a dormitory with a bunch of people I didn’t know, but I hadn’t felt that true hollowness of yearning for many, many years. I did now, and I didn’t care for it, but there was also something comforting in knowing I was able to miss someone.

  Although, I didn’t just miss someone. I missed Tabby. The distinction was important.

  “A tank top and boxers.”

  I looked at my phone, unsure if the line had broken up or if I’d actually heard her correctly. “What?”

  “You asked what I’m wearing. A tank top and boxers,” she said.

  “Huh.” An image bloomed in my mind, and a tent pitched in my pants. “Those boxers better be mine.”

  “Yep. I stole them out of your hamper. I find dirty underwear has a much more pungent smell than clean.”

  I almost wished she was telling the truth. The idea of Tabby curled on her bed in a pair of my boxers was surprisingly sexy. “You really have a thing for taking the sensual and twisting it into something grotesque,” I informed her.

  “Well, you accused me of thieving your underpants,” she dodged. “If you must know, I got them out of a discount bin at Walmart. Boxers are way more comfortable than panties for lounging at home.”

  This piqued my interest. “Does that mean you’re naked under those boxers?”

  “Yes, it does,” she replied, mimicking my sneaky lilt.

  I groaned. “It would be so easy for me to just slip a hand up one of those wide leg openings and make you come until you soak my wrist right now.”

  She couldn’t hide her tiny gasp, but she sounded as coolheaded as usual as she said, “If you have an arm that can stretch a thousand miles, pick several locks, and somehow find my leg openings, you are in the wrong business, my dear.”

  “Hold on,” I interjected. “I have to find my sheet.”

  “Your sheet?”

  “My tally sheet.” I grinned into the phone. “Your smart remarks are adding up at an exponential rate, sweetheart. If these were projections for next year’s sales, I’d be writing my biggest check yet.”

  Again, I caught an intake of breath from her side of the call, and my dick twitched. What I would’ve given to hear that breath in my ear at that very moment. “You just used investment humor on me,” she pointed out. “I hope you realize you’ve sunk to a new low.”

  “I haven’t even begun to sink,” I quipped. She gave a soft laugh, and a thrill raced down my spine at the sound. “Goodnight, kitten.”

  Her voice softened. “Goodnight, funny man.”

  I ended the call with a stupid teenage grin on my face and a lightness in my stomach. Since her departure, we’d been in the habit of texting all day every day and either calling either via phone or webcam every night, but I still had that same sensation of elation when we hung up like I did in high school after getting off the phone with my crush. It was so embarrassing, I couldn’t even face my own reflection before bed anymore, but it was worth it.

  A knock sounded on my bedroom door, and I looked up in surprise. It was going on eleven. The staff never bothered me this late. Getting up, I strode to the door and opened it to find Dieter.

  “Pardon the interruption, Mr. Driscoll, but you have a visitor,” he said apologetically. “I advised her to leave a message with me and perhaps get in contact with you in the morning, but she is insisting upon seeing you.”

  My heart jumped into my throat. I’d just spoken to Tabby, but it had been on the phone rather than a video call. Had she been fooling me into thinking she was at home in bed when she was actually in New Orleans, waiting for me downstairs in my foyer? It was a thought too good to be true, but I was eager to find out.

  “No problem,” I assured him, excitement blossoming in my stomach. “I’ll see her.”

  He nodded and stepped aside, allowing me to pass him and make my way down the hallway to the staircase. The moment I reached the landing, however, all hope dissipated from my being.

  It wasn’t Tabby. It was
Pippa.

  “Look at you,” she said admiringly as I descended the steps. Her eyes roved my shirtless chest and loose-fitting lounge pants. “I’ve never seen you so casual.”

  “What do you want?” I asked coldly, crossing my arms and walking just near enough to her to have a relatively quiet conversation.

  “You,” she responded without flourish.

  I stared at her unflinchingly. “So?”

  “So, here I am.” She put her hands on her hips and twisted from side to side, making sure I saw how tightly her sequined dress clung to her swollen ass.

  “Yeah, look, I’m not interested,” I said, not bothering with niceties.

  She scoffed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. I noticed several small but unblended streaks of spray tan on her neck. “Why, because you think you’re all set with that plain Jane you brought to The Club a couple weeks ago?” she jabbed. “Please. You know as well as I do that she can’t do it for you. I know what you like. I know how to give you what you need. You can’t tell me she can give you what you want the way I can.”

  My blood started to boil. I actually felt it simmering in my veins, burbling and popping with searing heat. Pippa could say whatever she wanted about me, that I liked prostitutes or any other slander she could muster up, but hearing her speak so foully of Tabby sent me into a tailspin of rage unlike anything I’d experienced in recent years.

  “Actually, you never gave me what I need,” I snarled. “You were like off-brand chocolate. Second choice, but it had to do in a pinch.”

  Her falsely-bronzed face started to redden, but unlike Tabby’s cheeks when they turned pink, I found the image repulsive rather than alluring. She took a step forward, the click of her platform heel bouncing up to the ceiling and reverberating back down again. “You know what? If you want to spend your time banging a gremlin and destroying your reputation, be my guest. I just figured I’d do you a favor and throw you a lifeline. You know everyone at The Club is talking about your bitch, right? It’s only a matter of time before the money and the glamour gets to her and she dumps you for one of them.”

  “Get. Out.”

  I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t even speak at a normal volume. My tone was low, and my words were coarse, but the command echoed through the foyer as if I’d bellowed at the top of my lungs.

  Pippa stared at me for a second, sizing me up, then scoffed once more. She turned and stormed from the house, not bothering to close the door behind her. I watched her retreating back and her swaying hips, and for the first time in my life I felt disgusted by my association with The Club.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Tabby

  My life had returned to the routine normalcy I’d left behind when I’d accepted Owen’s invitation to New Orleans, but there was one glaring difference now. I still woke up, had my tea and toast, took a shower, brushed my teeth and hair, got dressed, ran around doing gigs, chatted with Heather, took a call or two from my mother, came home, sifted through the day’s photographs, watched some TV over dinner, read a chapter in my latest book, and went to bed.

  But he was there.

  Owen was everywhere. Not physically, obviously, though that would’ve been wonderful, but in every other way. Every morning started with a text from him, sometimes naughty and always sweet. We sent back and forth snippets of our dreams while I drank my morning tea. I hopped in the shower and relived the mornings of bliss I’d spent in his shower. He messaged me a barrage of things he wanted to be doing to me at that very moment while I bathed, all of which I read while I groomed myself post-cleansing. I took ridiculous pictures of my outfit for the day laid out on my bed, or sometimes pictures of myself wearing whatever clothes I’d chosen, and he made comments about how I looked — or how he’d take it all off again. All my breaks between shoots were spent telling him what I’d been photographing or what the client was like, and he told me about how many obnoxious phone calls and emails he’d avoided so far. My calls with Heather were consistently interrupted with a light chiming in my ear of incoming texts. Watching TV while I ate dinner had turned into texting Owen while I ate dinner and idly listened to the show in the background. My book lay forgotten on my nightstand, and the last thing I did before falling asleep was hear his masculine, confident voice and sometimes see him smirking at me through my laptop.

  Heather was a mixture of jealous and irritated by my sudden distance. She stormed up to my apartment one day around dinnertime and banged on the door until I answered.

  “Where have you been?” she snapped. She didn’t wait to be invited in before stomping past me and whirling around with her hands on her hips.

  Stunned, I waved a hand at my apartment. “Uh… here?”

  “I used to see you all the time. All the time.” She threw her purse on the floor and flung herself onto my couch, crossing her arms over her respectable chest. “Now, I hardly hear from you. What gives, sister? Haven’t you ever heard of bros before hos?”

  I closed the door and traipsed over to the living area, settling onto the opposite end of the sofa. “I’ve heard of it, but I try to pretend I haven’t because I’m not sixteen anymore,” I joked.

  Heather wasn’t amused. She glared at my phone as it lit up, the screen reading “1 new message,” and jabbed an offended finger in its direction. “That’s where you’ve been, isn’t it? La La I’ve-Got-A-Man Land?”

  “And working,” I added defensively.

  “Yeah, working on getting his dick again,” she grumbled.

  I ran my fingers through my hair. I was itching to read the text, but Heather had a right to be upset with me for blowing her off so much because I was occupied with Owen, and I didn’t want to be disrespectful by interrupting her rant with his digital presence. “I know, I know,” I admitted, feeling somewhat ashamed for my behavior. “It’s just… I haven’t seen him in over a week, and I feel like I’m going crazy. I want to talk to him constantly, like I can’t get sick of him. Actually, the more I talk to him, the more I want to keep talking to him. Obsessive, right? It’s sick. I know that’s not an excuse for being a crappy friend lately, but I guess I don’t know how to handle this as well as I thought I did.”

  She stared at me. I waited for a response, either an admonishment for trying to justify my absence or an empathetic consolation for my predicament, but nothing came. She just looked at me. When the silence stretched too long and I couldn’t look away anymore without feeling stupid, I asked, “What?”

  She sighed. “God, he must be good in bed.”

  It was my turn to stare at her. “Huh?”

  “He’s got you all twisted up,” she explained, scooting toward me and clasping her hands in her lap. The resentment still lingered in her eyes, but the excitable Heather was at the forefront. “You don’t get gaga over guys, Tab, no matter how good of a catch they are. There’s only one explanation. He can make you come like a dog on a leash, and now you’ve caught feelings.”

  As comical as she sounded, I was a little affronted. “You’re not really suggesting I’m only into him for sex, are you?”

  “No, I’m suggesting the sex was so good it hooked you in. It’s the other crap, the funny and the smart and the handsome, that keeps you staying on the hook.”

  Well, she wasn’t wrong about the sex being good, but I still wasn’t keen on the idea that Owen’s prowess was what started our relationship. Of course, thinking back, it might have been, but it still wasn’t as romantic as I would’ve liked it to sound.

  “I really am sorry, Heather,” I apologized again. “You’re my best friend, and I shouldn’t shove you aside for any man.”

  She met my eyes, leaning forward, elbows on her knees. “Forget about that. I’m mad you haven’t been keeping me up on what’s going on between you and Hunky NOLA.”

  “Okay, let me make it up to you.” I gave her a guilty grin. “I’ll give you every little detail you want to know if you let me answer this text really quick.”

  She beamed. “Deal.”<
br />
  ***

  My friendship was rescued over the next few hours, in which we indulged in a shared bottle of wine and a number of bedroom tales. By the time Heather left, her irritation at me was gone. I closed the door behind her and looked at the clock, surprised to see it was about the time I usually went to bed. I’d told Owen I had a friend over and would be out of touch for a while, but I was still a tad unhappy to see no missed calls on my phone. The giddy schoolgirl side of my infatuation had hoped he’d missed me too much to heed my “won’t be able to talk for a little bit” warning.

  I grabbed my cell, headed to my bedroom area, and changed into an oversized t-shirt and miniature flannel shorts for bed. Then, I slithered between the sheets and dialed Owen.

  “I missed you.”

  The purr was so sexy, yet so romantic, that a shiver instantly rocketed up my back. “Did you?” I asked, my voice a little higher than usual. He had a way of turning me into an adolescent again.

  “You have no idea,” he replied, his voice like silk. “Did your friend leave?”

  “Yeah. She was mad at me because I was spending all my time talking to you,” I confessed. “At least, that’s what I thought. And I guess that was part of it. But she was more upset that I wasn’t telling her everything about my relationship with you.”

  “Is this friend in love with you?” he quizzed.

  I didn’t know if he was kidding, but I treated the question as if he was. “Oh, yes. You have major competition for my affections, buster.”

  “Jesus, you used the word buster,” he groaned. “What I would do to you right now…”

  “For using the word ‘buster?’”

  “It’s a relic of a word. The breadth of your vocabulary is sexy as hell.” He definitely wasn’t kidding this time.

  Three raps rang out through the apartment so loudly they sounded like they were right next to my ear. I paused, staring at the door. “I think Heather’s back. Hold on,” I told Owen. I kept the phone between the side of my face and my shoulder as I crossed to the door and peered through the peephole. I’d never felt unsafe in my apartment before, but I wasn’t naïve and there was a measure of comfort knowing someone was in direct contact in case of emergency.