Instant Gratification (Always Satisfied Book 2)

by Lauren Blakely

  “And I said the same. It was the first time we admitted what was happening. I said, too, that we’d figure out what to do next. Now I have another idea of what to do next.”

  Her breath catches as I drop to one knee and take her hand. “The last time we were in this elevator, I knew I’d want this with you someday. I knew you were the one. You are . . . the only one for me.”

  “You’re the only one for me,” she whispers.

  “I could give you a speech about all the things I love about you, but I’d rather show you every day for the rest of our lives why I’m madly in love with you. Will you do me the honor of being my wife?”

  She clasps her hand to her mouth and nods as tears streak down her cheeks. “I would be honored to be Mrs. Modern Gentleman.”

  Laughing, I slide a stunning diamond solitaire onto her finger, rise, and kiss the red lipstick off her lips.

  “Mrs. Jason Reynolds works too,” I murmur. “And so does Truly Goodman, as long as you’re mine.”

  “Always. I’m always yours.”

  When we reach the twelfth floor, I take her to a suite, and we enjoy reason number five thousand, two hundred, forty-five.

  Epilogue

  Jason

  The next weekend

  “Dude! You’re a rock star. I can’t thank you enough.” Eddie lumbers over to me on the lawn, clasps my hand, and pumps it up and down.

  Admittedly, I was a little surprised to receive an invitation to his wedding, but weddings can be fun. I said yes, especially since Troy is working undercover at this one, albeit in a new capacity. He’ll be rapping though, so some things never change.

  “I’m not sure what you have to thank me for, but I’m just happy to be invited.”

  He gapes at me, sweeping his long hair off his forehead. “Are you kidding? If you didn’t turn down Randy, I’d never have had a chance to score with such a smart and sexy babe.”

  He tips his forehead to the bride-to-be, the redhead from Gavin’s wedding who wanted to fuck me and my accent.

  She rushes over in her dress, a tight white number that’s plastered like a bandage around her body. Guess they aren’t doing the whole don’t see the bride before the ceremony bit either. “Jay Bond,” she purrs. “I’m so glad you never gave me your digits. If you had, who knows what would have happened? Instead, I went home with this total babe. And he’s all mine now, with all his crazy scars.”

  He winks at his bride. “I’ve got some new ones thanks to her.”

  She smacks his shoulder playfully. “And bite marks. Don’t forget the bite marks.”

  “Bite marks, scratch marks, rope burn, you name it,” Eddie says, grabbing her arm and dropping his mouth to her neck, ready to give her a vampire’s kiss.

  She shoos him away. “Don’t mess up my hair before the ceremony!”

  He snaps to attention. “You’re right. I’ll mess it up later.”

  She drags a finger down his shirt. “You better.”

  And yes, it seems Eddie indeed found his perfect, unfiltered match. He looks my way. “And thanks for doing me the solid with the Troy hookup. He rocks.”

  “He does. And I’m thrilled for you and Randy. You guys really are perfect for each other,” I quip.

  Randy squeezes his arm. “We are. Know what my favorite thing about Eddie is?”

  I shake my head, sending a prayer to the gods of polite discourse than I’m not about to hear her top ten naughty nights out with him. “You don’t really have to tell me.”

  “I’m going to anyway.”

  “No, seriously. You don’t.”

  She smacks my chest. “I do, I do. My favorite thing is he loves to cook me dinner. When I come home from a hard day at work, because managing mutual funds all day is exhausting, the last thing I want to do is cook. But he cooks gourmet meals for me. And that’s not all. He also loves to rub my feet. Did I score or what?”

  That’s thoroughly unexpected—her two favorite things, as well as her job.

  “I’d say you did,” I say with a smile, filing away this latest bit of data about couples. There is often so much more to a couple than you see. You might think you know one thing about them—they’re filthy mouthed, they like pugs, she’s the quintessential older woman and he looks like a boy toy, but beneath it all, there’s more that makes them tick.

  Art and foot rubs, love and patience, heart and soul.

  I catch sight of Truly standing under a tree, chatting with Troy. She’s making small talk with my former subcontractor, looking effortlessly beautiful as she sweeps a few strands of hair off her cheek, tucking them behind her ear.

  Once again, I’m keenly aware of how stunning she is, inside and out. How she’s now mine, and I’m so damn grateful my friends and my sister didn’t let me walk away from the best thing that ever happened to me. I almost let her slip through my fingers because of business, because I was stubborn, and because I was afraid.

  But I have her now, and I plan to keep making her happy every day.

  We’re one of those couples now. We share a passion for work, humor, sarcasm, hobbies, fitness, and of course, we connect in the bedroom. We’re connected on so many levels, it’s like we were meant to be.

  But I suppose that’s how you should feel when you fall in mad love with a very good friend.

  I head over to join my fiancée, dropping a kiss to her cheek.

  After we take our seats and the bride joins the groom at the front of the lawn, Troy, now an internet-ordained minister, clears his throat and proceeds to rap their wedding vows, as only Troy can do.

  “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony. Not to be entered into lightly, holy matrimony should be entered into solemnly and with reverence and honor. If any person here can show just cause why these two people should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

  I can’t think of any reason to speak now.

  Also, as Sully would say, the man has skills.

  Another Epilogue

  Truly

  A year later

  Soft French music filters through the bar. Antique curios and a collection of old clocks line the shelves. The plush sofas in the lounge that hearken back to Belle Époque era are my favorite kind—full.

  As in full of patrons, sipping drinks with names like Mais Oui and C’est La Vie.

  Bisou is ours, mine and Charlotte’s, and I’m so damn glad the deal with Darren fell through. We did this. We built this, and it’s thriving thanks to a couple of savvy businesswomen.

  Tonight, though, this savvy businesswoman needs to talk to a friend.

  Because when Presley walks in, slumps on a stool, and heaves a sigh, all my friend antennae twitch an alert.

  “Let me guess. Guy trouble?”

  “How could you tell?” She pretends to sniff her shirt. “Is it a new scent I'm giving off?”

  “No, but that would be a fun name for a drink. Note to self: craft a new cocktail named Guy Trouble.”

  “Yeah, and serve it to me,” she says as she drags a hand through her chestnut hair.

  I grab a bottle of tequila. “Any drink named Guy Trouble should start with tequila.”

  “Because tequila burns?”

  “It sure does.”

  “Just like exes.”

  I arch a curious brow. “Ex as in the most recent ex, or someone else?”

  She takes a beat, her jaw tight. “Ex as in way back. All the way back. Remember Hunter?”

  I nearly drop the bottle. “Hunter? Hunter as in the Hunter?”

  She scoff-laughs. “Yep. The Hunter.”

  “That was more than ten years ago. How is he giving you trouble now? You haven’t heard a word from him. I thought he was in Nepal or New Zealand or wherever his show takes him.”

  “He’s always somewhere, except now, he’s going to be here.” She stabs the counter with her finger. “My boss just contracted with him to work on a huge new
project. Guess who else is heading up that huge new project?”

  “Um, gee. Could it be you?”

  She lets her face fall to the bar. “I need a double.”

  “Double trouble.”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what he is.” She lifts her face. “Have I mentioned he’s still gorgeous?”

  “You don’t have to. I see him on billboards.”

  “You’re not helpful.”

  I waggle the bottle. “Oh, yes, I am. Because I have the tequila. Let’s mix up your Guy Trouble and come up with a plan.”

  After all, I’m on the other side of guy trouble. And if I can help a friend figure out her boy problems, I’m more than happy to do that. Especially since my biggest boy problem these days is how I’m going to fit through the doorway. One baby boy is nearly done baking in my belly, and I can’t wait to meet my son someday soon, hopefully before I can no longer reach past my belly to pour drinks.

  Jason was all too happy to pay up on that bet with his coworker. After all, a gentleman always makes good on his wagers.

  And One More Epilogue

  Truly

  The number of things a woman will do to impress a man can be quite extensive.

  They border on the ridiculous (waking up twenty minutes early to put on a full face of makeup lest he see you less than perfect) to the insane (claiming you like preseason basketball).

  No one enjoys preseason basketball.

  Also . . . dog-earing the pages of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance so it looks like you read it? Or declaring you dig Bret Easton Ellis?

  Ladies, we can do better.

  That means you shouldn’t ever feel pressured to say, “Sure, I’ll be happy to watch Blade Runner with you.”

  You never have to pretend you like that film.

  Fortunately, I don’t have to fake it on any of these, and I’m grateful. When I talk to women at one of my two bars (Bisou and Gin Joint are rocking hard. Yay, woman power!), I tell them the same.

  When they ask for advice, because that’s just something they all want from the master mixologist pouring their drinks, the main thing I tell women is this: be yourself.

  After all, don’t you want a guy or gal to love you for you?

  That’s what I have with my man. Jason loves all my quirks, all my insanity, and everything that makes me . . . me.

  That’s the coolest thing. Because when you find the person who’s your perfect match, you also find you’re not so inclined to spend all hours curled up with a computer or a spreadsheet.

  But my husband?

  Oh yes. I like spending my nights with him, and my mornings too. Especially when we’re making pancakes.

  I might be referring to the song.

  It might also be a euphemism for something else we do a lot of.

  After all, we’re still madly in love, and this kind of love is the ultimate instant gratification.

  THE END

  Ready for Josh and Haven’s fiery and passionate enemies-to-lovers romance? OVERNIGHT SERVICE is coming soon and you can order it everywhere! Read on for an excerpt and after that I have something special for you! Also, if you haven’t experienced Malone and Sloane’s sexy second chance romance, be sure to grab SATISFACTION GUARANTEED, available everywhere. And, keep an eye out for P.S. IT’S ALWAYS BEEN YOU — that’s Presley and Hunter’s love story and it’s coming in early 2020. Sign up to receive an alert when it’s available!

  Excerpt from OVERNIGHT SERVICE….

  She opens the door, just enough to peer over the chain lock. Her eyebrow rises. “Funny. I don’t remember ordering room service.”

  “Yeah, I’m here with your french fries and tomato soup. Would you like to let me in so I can serve them to you?”

  She tilts her head to the side, hmming, then answers, “I don’t think that’s what I ordered though. I specifically requested a contrite chocolate cake with humble strawberries on the side. I think you’re going to need to try again with a big fat slice of apology dessert.”

  I point down the hall. “Great. I’ll get two forks. I’ll even pour two glasses of cold milk, and we can sit and discuss what went down today. But I’m not apologizing for calling you out on your comment, and you know that.”

  She laughs. “Of course not. Apologies aren’t your style.”

  With steel in my gaze, I answer her. “Nor are they yours. So you could say we’re a lot alike in that regard.”

  “Too alike,” she mutters, then clears her throat, unlocking the chain. “You really should have brought a peace offering, Summers. But since I’m enjoying the fact that you showed up at midnight to grovel, I suppose I can let you do it. Proceed. Grovel.”

  The door inches open another sliver.

  “I’m not here to grovel. You know why I’m here.”

  “I can’t read your mind.” She takes a beat. “That’s probably for the best though. I’m sure it’s a dark, dark place up there.”

  “As is yours,” I fire back, then I rein it in because more bullets won’t help. I ease up. “Look, I’m here because we have things to discuss. We agreed to talk it out at the bar last night, and then that all fell to hell today. We need to get this shit sorted because, like it or not, we’re going to keep running into each other.” I stare at her, stone-faced, even though I kind of want to laugh. “Can you open the door the rest of the way?”

  She laughs, that husky, smoky laugh that once drove me insane. That still does, because everything she does drives me wild. She’s earned her gold medal in that event.

  “But you didn’t actually ask to come in,” she says. “You just showed up at midnight and knocked. I thought you wanted to have a door conversation. Was I wrong?”

  “Fine. I see this is how it’s going to go.” I press my palms together in a plea. “Haven, will you please let me in?”

  She gives me a saucy little look and purses her lips. “Mais oui. Since you asked so nicely. Do come in,” she says, in that accent that sends a bolt of lust straight down my spine. I bet she knows it too. She knew it was my Achilles’ heel when I was with her.

  Hell, she was my Achilles’ heel.

  She swings open the door and I step inside.

  “Merci beaucoup.”

  She lifts her chin and gives me a sexy, sultry look. “Oh, have you been working on your French? It seems you’ve improved. Admit it, Summers. You’re trying to impress me. Tell the truth.”

  The truth? My God, she’s never getting the truth. She’s never going to know what I said to Dom about how I feel for her. I mean, felt for her.

  She’s never going to know because as I stand there in the foyer of her hotel room, taking in what she’s wearing, the bare truth is I want her just as much as I did before.

  With as much ferocity as I did then.

  More, actually.

  So much more.

  She’s wearing yoga pants and a T-shirt, and neither one of those garments has the decency to hide her toned, trim, muscular body. Even her skirts with those sinful zippers aren’t as sexy as this—nothing is sexier on this woman than clothes that accentuate her power. Her strength. Her gift. A gift that she cherished and treasured and knew what to do with. She protected her gift, and that’s one of the greatest things anyone can do with a God-given talent.

  I rip my gaze away from her legs and her arms, and look back to her big, brown eyes, telling another truth. “You want honesty? Here it is. What the hell? We agreed last night we would do our best in public to make sure the hate fumes didn’t waft off. So why the fuck would you say that when it comes to agenting only an athlete knows what an athlete needs?”

  “Only,” she says, slipping into that French accent like it’s a scarf she can toss on and off. She seems to roll the word around her tongue as if it’s a cherry she’s tasting. It sends shivers down my arms. I swear she is going to eat me alive. “Why does it bother you? You were an athlete too,” she adds, but quickly taps her finger against her lips. “You shouldn’t feel bad that you don’t have an
Olympic medal. Just like I don’t feel bad that I don’t have a law degree, as you so thoughtfully pointed out onstage. Then did it over and over and over.”

  “You know a law degree does come in handy with contracts,” I say matter-of-factly.

  “And you made that clear. I’d argue that a law degree matters more.” she says in an eerily pitch-perfect imitation of me. She taps my chest lightly. “So, really, I’d say we’re even.”

  “Even? Why did you say it in the first place?”

  “Because she asked me a question. Because I believe it. And because you and I are competitors. You never let me forget it.”

  I scoff. “You don’t want to forget it. You’re a fucking Olympic gold medalist. You love competition.”

  She sighs, conceding my point. “Fine. I do. But you’re just as ruthless.”

  I smile wickedly. “Thank you. I’ll consider that a compliment.” I take a deep breath. “But we had a truce. We had an agreement.”

  “Ah, let’s review our agreement then. It’s that we could hate each other in private but not in public?”

  “The understanding was that we wouldn’t publicly try to undermine each other.”

  She takes a step closer, her tone touched once more by the accent she drapes on now and then, the one that winds me up. “So what are we allowed to do in private then? I’m just not clear on what the rules are. Because the rules seem to change with you all the time. In private we should cut each other? And in public, we suck up? Maybe we should write these rules down.”

  I can barely think straight with her this close to me, and I’m starting to regret coming to her room. Because she’s in my space, she’s in my zone, and everything about her is a red-hot distraction. “I’m talking about common courtesy. And part of that—”

  “Yes?” she challenges in that damn seductive voice, meeting me eye-to-eye.

  I stop, trying to shake off the absolutely intoxicating effect of her, from the scent that’s driving me wild to the way she’s speaking. “Why the hell are you talking like that around me? Are you trying to turn me on?”