Morgan starts cooing over the wedding plans for the Plaza and dress designs, and soon there’s a group of well-wishers gathered around.
Jake leans closer to me. “There are a few people I should say hello to,” he murmurs. He’s so close that if I wanted, I could reach up and kiss him. The thought makes me shiver, and he frowns. “Are you cold?”
“No, I’m fine.” I smile. “You’re right. We should circulate.”
“Meet you by the champagne fountain in twenty?”
“Deal.”
I watch him circle the room, shaking hands and charming donors and patrons of the museum alike. He can turn it on in an instant, but I’ve seen the other side to him, too. As I watch him talking to a reporter, he catches my eye for a moment, giving me a private wink across the room.
I feel it in my whole body, and in that moment I know—the way you know the way a movie will end long before the credits roll—that the strike is history. I can’t deny it any longer, and I don’t want to: I’m crazy about this guy, and tonight I’m going to make it official. I’m going to break the strike and sleep with Jake Weston.
And god, it won’t be a moment too soon!
I rush off to the bathroom to freshen my makeup. My reflection in the mirror is flushed and hopeful, all the crazy conflict of the past few months finally behind me. I realize that I don’t need a damn thing—not more eyeliner or lipstick—I don’t even want to powder down this glow that looks like it’s bubbling up from under my skin. I give the mirror a determined smile before walking back out into the gallery. The sooner I find Jake, then do the requisite mingling, the quicker we can get out of here. Because after all this time, I can’t wait any longer—and I don’t want to.
I walk back in and sweep the room, searching for Jake. There. He’s up against the far wall, talking to Dylan, Hollywood douchebag extraordinaire?
Ugh.
Still, he’s a VIP guest, so I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to go play nice. I mean, what’s five minutes of graciousness if I get to have ridiculously hot sex later tonight? The crowd is thick around them, and I have to duck under a waiter to get past, but just as I’m approaching, Dylan’s voice stops me short.
“I’ve gotta hand it to you, bro,” he says. “You really had this stuff figured out. I mean, playing the long game? That’s brilliant. You kept her dangling for months and now you’ve got her practically begging for it!”
My heart freezes. I stay back, out of sight behind a statue, willing Jake to tell him where to shove it.
“So what are you going to spend the money on?” Dylan continues. “Another vintage car? That Aston Martin of yours is pretty sweet.”
“Oh, don’t worry—I’ve got something special in mind,” Jake’s reply comes, and the casual tone in his voice cuts through me like a hot knife. Laced with poison.
I can’t believe it.
Except, I can. This is what I was afraid of. But being proven right is no consolation, not with my heart breaking in my chest.
I back away before either of them can catch sight of me, the sound of their laughter ringing in my ears. I duck into the hallway, a wave of nausea almost sending me to my knees. Just breathe. I can’t deny what I’ve just heard, but I don’t want to believe it either: Jake, the romance—all of it. It was never about me to begin with. Or us.
He was in it for the money all along.
31
Lizzie
I wander the gallery on autopilot for the rest of the night, shaking hands in a daze and somehow fielding questions from everyone about the exhibit. I manage to nod and smile, even though I just want to get the hell out of there as fast as I can, to somewhere I can break down properly, far away from the gallery—and Jake.
But I can’t—I’m responsible for the gala, the show, all of it. So I suck it up and circulate, putting my best face forward and hoping that no one can tell that I’m literally dying inside as I make meaningless chitchat about Greta Garbo’s gown from Grand Hotel. I’m pretending to be on cloud nine when all the while I’m counting the minutes until I can make my escape.
This should be one of the happiest nights of my life—and I’m spending it wishing I were anywhere else.
Just as I’m finishing up with one of the big-shot donors, Jake approaches. Just the sight of him hurts me deep inside, and I turn away, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave me alone. But he doesn’t. He strides right up to me like nothing’s wrong and tugs me to the dance floor.
“Stop,” I hiss under my breath. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Dancing with my best girl, I hope,” he grins.
“I’m not really in the mood right now.” I try to pull away without being conspicuous, but when I look around, I realize that everyone is watching us—I mean, him. Damn. Why does he always bring the spotlight with him?
“One dance,” he insists, and I have no choice but to let him pull me onto the floor. Jake pulls me close, and my body clearly hasn’t gotten the memo on betrayal and heartbreak, because I melt into him like I was meant to fit in his arms.
Dammit, it feels too good to be holding him like this. But it was a lie, it was all just a lie.
Jake leans closer, murmuring in my ear. “Now that the show is behind us, I was thinking we could take a break—go upstate for a weekend. Hank’s been telling me about this little bed and breakfast in the Hudson Valley. I’m not going to ask what kind of shenanigans he got up to there in his youth, but it sounds pretty fun. What do you think, want to check it out?” He pulls back to smile at me, and looking into his eyes, something in me snaps. I suddenly realize what I have to do.
“That sounds great,” I force a smile. “Now that the strike is over, we can do whatever we want.”
Jake stops, looking confused. He’s standing still even though the music is still playing and couples are twirling around us like we’re part of the exhibit ourselves, encased behind a wall of glass.
“Over? What do you mean it’s over?”
“Just what I said,” I say breezily. “Todd came by the other night—you remember Todd, my ex boyfriend?”
Jake nods wordlessly, and even though I know there’s no stopping now, I start to feel sick again, adrenaline coursing through my veins so fast that my head is practically spinning.
“Well, we were catching up, one thing led to another . . .” I continue, my voice drifting off. “You know how it goes. You should let Miles know—I’m sure he’ll want to post it on the site.”
“I don’t understand.” Jake shakes his head slowly, like the words didn’t get through.
“I slept with him,” I lie, hating every minute of this—and hating the shock and betrayal in Jake’s eyes. “But why should it matter to you, anyway?” I ask. “You never cared about the bounty, right?”
A part of me is still holding out some desperate hope that he’ll agree the bounty means nothing, and then sweep me into his arms the way the heroes do in all those movies I love. But Jake’s face darkens, and he steps back, like he can’t bear to be touching me any more.