Our steaks arrive, and sure enough, the meat is as tender as butter under my knife, and I close my eyes and let out a low moan as I chew. “This is fantastic.”
When I pause for air, I look up and find Jake looking at me with a weird expression on his face. “What?” I ask. “Do I have steak sauce on my face or something?”
“Not at all,” he says after a long moment. “You just look really beautiful tonight.”
What?
“Um, thanks.” I blush, and he holds my gaze for what feels like forever. And these martinis must be way stronger than back home, because my blood runs hot with the alcohol.
At least, I think it’s the booze.
It has to be. Because if one thing has been established beyond a shadow of a doubt, it’s that Jake Weston is all wrong for me.
So why can’t I seem to look away from him? And how can I feel his gaze on every inch of my skin, until it’s like I’m slowly catching on fire, smoke curling around my body, ready to combust?
“I’ll be right back,” I blurt, jumping out of the booth. I make a beeline for the bathrooms—before I can melt into a puddle of lust on the same seat that Greta Garbo definitely maybe sat her ass.
What the hell am I playing at?
I run cold water over my hands and give myself a stern talking-to in the bathroom mirror. OK, so Jake is smokin’ hot tonight, and as charming as ever, but I figured I was past that by now. He’s a rat, remember? A super rat. He scorns romance, thinks commitment is for dummies, and has been making fun of my strike since the moment it began. So out of all the men I could scratch my itch with, why do I want so badly for it to be him?
Because you already know how good it would be . . .
I groan in frustration. It’s been MONTHS since I got laid—not that anyone’s counting—so I’ve got all that pent-up desire whirling around, and worse still, it’s Jake I see every time I close my eyes. That false start at New Year’s . . . the moment of madness up against my wall . . . that dirty-talk on the flight. Every time he puts his hands on me, the chemistry is enough to make me lose my mind.
Because that’s what it would be if we hooked up: a serious lapse in judgment.
And hard. And hot. And sexy as hell.
So what’s stopping me? It’s not like anyone would know.
What happens in LA, stays in LA . . .
The thought dances a tantalizing jig in my mind as I fix my makeup and re-emerge from the ladies’, heading back to our table. But I’m halfway across the room when the hostess rushes out from behind her podium.
“You’re Lizzie, right?” she asks, throwing back a mane of dark hair that would make a Kardashian envious. “From the video?”
I try not to cringe. “Guilty as charged.”
“I knew it!” She claps her hands together, wide-eyed and excited. “I just had to say something to you before you left—you’re my hero!”
I blink. “I am?”
“Of course!” she gushes. “You’re such an inspiration! I mean, because of your video, I finally dumped my asshole boyfriend after years of putting up with his ridiculous bullshit. Now I’m focusing on me and getting back to figuring out what I really want in life—I’m even starting my own business!”
“That’s great!” I say.
“And it’s all because of you.” She beams at me, and for a weird moment, I understand what it must be like to be Dale Ryder or some celebrity—having people gaze at you with total adoration.
It’s creepy. Creepy as fuck.
“Congratulations,” I say again, backing away. “But really, I didn’t do anything. If you’ve made some great changes in your life, that’s all you!”
“No way.” She shakes her head firmly. “You don’t understand. You’re an inspiration. An icon! All my friends agree. If it wasn’t for you, I’d still be putting up with Shane’s fucking stand-up comedy routines just so, what, he can stick it in for a couple of minutes? What good is sex, anyway?”
A requirement? Like air?
“Fuck that shit!” she says loudly. “And fuck all those guys who don’t truly deserve us. Why should we give up everything we believe in just to get laid? Solidarity, sister!” she says, squeezing my arm. “You’re the one making it happen. Don’t give up!”
I finally tear away and walk back to our booth, feeling like a zombie.
“What was that about?” Jake asks.
I shake my head, suddenly racked with guilt. Just moments before, I was actually contemplating breaking my strike, and with Jake, of all people. But apparently, this thing is still bigger than I ever imagined. I’m an icon! A legend! Can I really let the sisterhood down just because I’m having a moment of weakness?
I look over at Jake, the way the light falls across his cheekbones, and all at once I’m paralyzed with the desire to run my fingers through his hair.
And tear all his clothes off.
Fuck. When did everything get so complicated? And why suddenly does every choice feel like the wrong one?
“Dessert?” he asks.
“Definitely.”
Chocolate is always the answer, but by the time we’ve eaten our way through a molten lava cake, picked up the check, and driven back to the hotel, I’m still fighting an epic battle in my mind. It’s not so much head versus heart as head versus loins, because damn, Jake takes my hand to help me out of the car, and then presses his palm into the small of my back as he walks me into the hotel lobby, and just like that, I’m reduced to a mess of wild hormones all over again.
I take a deep breath, ignoring the heat in my blood and the way my skin is tingling. I’m almost home free. I just have to make it up to my room—alone—and then I can lock the door and go spend some quality time with that detachable shower head I spied in the bathroom. Twenty seconds away, tops. Thirty.
“Are you OK?” Jake asks as we wait for the elevator. “You look all . . . flushed.”
“Uh huh.” My answer comes out all strangled.
“Maybe you’re coming down with something.” He frowns and presses the back of his hand to my forehead, his eyes searching mine.
“No! I’m fine!” I yelp, leaping into the elevator as soon as the doors open. He follows.
“Are you sure?” he checks again. “You might have picked something up on the flight. I’ll call down to room service and get you a hot tea, maybe that will help.”
Fuck, just look at him, all worried and sexy and ready to tuck me into bed. Double fuck!
God, I want to kiss him. Oh, jeez, why can’t I just admit it? I want to do a lot more than kiss him, actually. I want to feel his mouth on mine, and his cock hard against me as he pushes me up against the wall and spreads my legs and—
“You’re definitely sick,” Jake says, touching my cheek again. “Your temperature is way up.”
His hand lingers, burning my skin, and fuck, I can’t take it anymore. Before I can talk myself out of this all over again, I reach up and pull him closer, kissing him the way I’ve wanted to ever since that night at my apartment, ever since I first laid eyes on him on New Year’s Eve.
To hell with sense and reason. I want him. Now.
23
Lizzie