Bet Me

“What?” I tease. “I didn’t quite catch that. Say it again?”

She pushes me lightly. “Don’t get used to it. It’s just, this whole strike is screwing everything up. It’s hard to know who to trust, or what anyone’s motives are,” Lizzie looks lost. “I mean, if a guy asks me out now, I’m always wondering, does he really like me? Or does he just want to try and get me into bed for some kind of power trip? I just wish I’d never posted that stupid video in the first place,” she adds. “It’s made everything so complicated.”

And horny. Don’t forget the horny.

“I thought it would at least weed out the guys who only want to get laid, but instead, it’s like waving a red flag to a bull!” she continues in despair. “You would have figured publically swearing off sex would send the assholes running in the other direction, but nope! I don’t understand.”

I pause. Shit. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to tell her about Dapper’s bounty, but it looks like I don’t have a choice. This thing hasn’t blown over the way I hoped, and if anything, it’s even more important she knows. I mean, everyone’s chasing after her now. Take that Dale Hollywood dude at the hotel—there’s no way he hasn’t heard about the bounty. I mean, Lizzie’s hot, but guys like that care about headlines, not how great a girl is. A famous A-lister wouldn’t be sniffing around her if there wasn’t a PR opportunity for him.

I brace myself. “Look, Lizzie,” I start. “I need to tell you something—”

“Excuse me.” We’re suddenly interrupted. “Would you mind taking our picture?” An older woman holds out her iPhone towards us. “Sorry to interrupt,” she says excitedly, “but we’re visiting from Canada and I’d love to get a photo of the two of us here!”

“Sure.” Lizzie takes her phone and snaps a pic of them grinning like crazy in front of the city, the Hollywood sign directly behind them.

“Enjoy your trip!”

She turns back to me. “What were you saying?”

She looks so happy, I can’t bring myself to wreck her high. “Nothing,” I say. “I’ll tell you later.”

“OK.” She takes one last look around and snaps some pics of her own, too. “We should probably head back. There’s a ton of logistics we need to arrange to transport Danforth’s collection.”

“Right.” I nod, still feeling guilty. “But let’s get dinner later. And talk, OK?”

She grins. “Sure, I’ll just tell Dale Ryder to meet me another time.”

I groan. “Seriously, that asshole?”

“Just because he’s famous, doesn’t make him an asshole,” Lizzie laughs. “Who knows, maybe he’s going to sweep me off my feet into a world of movie premieres and room service?”

I want to punch the guy out right now. “Not tonight. Be ready at six.”

“Sure,” she smiles. “It’s a not-date.”

I’ll tell her tonight, I decide, as we drive back to the hotel. Soften the blow with a drink or two, and just rip off the band-aid. After all, it’s not my bounty. I told Miles what a bad idea it was. She won’t hate me. Much.

Right?





22





Lizzie





“Here’s looking at you, kid.” I check my reflection in the giant wall of mirrors in the hotel lobby. My black, fifties-style cocktail dress isn’t exactly LA-casual, but who cares? A dress like this was made to be worn, not left in a dark suitcase.

I look around. Jake was weirdly insistent about meeting on time. I figured we would just catch a bite in the hotel bar, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

My phone buzzes. Outside.

I head out the door, and am greeted with a wolf-whistle. Jake’s got the Thunderbird pulled around, and he’s standing by the passenger door, wearing a charcoal grey suit that could put Cary Grant to shame.

Damn. I try not to drool. This whole “platonic co-worker” thing would be so much easier if he wasn’t so hot. Would it kill him to have a beer gut? Bald patch? Halitosis and a skin disease?

“You look beautiful,” he says smoothly, as I slide into the car.

“Thanks. You clean up pretty well yourself.”

He gets behind the wheel and we drive up Hollywood Boulevard. The sunset is fading in a red-orange glow so gorgeous that I want to immediately sell my stuff and move out here without looking back. “We don’t get sunsets like this in New York,” I sigh.

“It’s the smog,” Jake says, a romantic ’til death, but even he can’t ruin my good mood. Or the rumble in my stomach.

“So, where are we going?” I ask, looking around. “Ooh, In-N-Out!”

Jake laughs. “You want to eat junk food?”

“Burgers aren’t junk,” I inform him. “They’re the noblest of all food groups.”

“Well, we agree about that.” He flashes me a grin. “Just hang tight, we’re almost there.”

We drive another couple of blocks to a non-descript building just off Hollywood. I was expecting something a bit more flashy from Jake, but when we step inside, it all makes sense. Dimly-lit leather booths, black-and-white photographs—it’s like we just stepped back in time. “I love it!” I exclaim, after we sit and the waiter takes our order. Jake smiles.

“It’s been around since 1919. All the old stars came here, look.” He nods to the autographed photos on the wall. Valentino, Charlie Chaplin, Greta Garbo . . .

“You mean Greta Garbo might have sat on this exact seat!” I stroke the cracked leather. “And you pretend you’ve got no soul.”

Jake frowns. “Since when?”

“You know, all your bitter cynicism.” I laugh. “It’s OK, I won’t try to convert you anymore. I know my limits.”

“I’m not bitter.” Jake sounds put out, but the waiter interrupts with two ice-cold vodka martinis.

“To teamwork,” I toast. “And the big exhibition. Who knows, we might actually get it ready to open in time.”

“Of course we will,” Jake states. “And it’ll be amazing.”

I wish I could be so confident, but securing the exhibits is only the beginning. There’s still curating the rooms and writing up the materials, and Morgan has even been making noise about some big opening event.

But right now, the Met and New York City are thousands of miles away, and I’m going to enjoy the small victories where I can. Like steak dinners, and getting Danforth to agree to loan us his collection . . .

And sitting opposite a gorgeous guy in a romantic restaurant, toasting to our joint success. Because he is looking incredible tonight, with his suit clinging to his perfectly-muscular frame, and those blue eyes smiling at me across the table with their “come to bed” stare—

Down, Lizzie.

I take a sip of my drink to distract myself. “Goddamn if this isn’t the best martini I’ve ever had in my life.”

“Just wait until you taste the steak,” Jake says.

“You’ve been here before?”

He nods. “My father moved out here for wife number two. That lasted a couple of years. Three was in New Mexico on a commune, and Four I think is over in Poland still, until they get her visa.”

“Wow. And I thought my family holidays were complicated enough.”