“Stay,” he says, his voice low, his hand curling warm and strong on my wrist.
Every part of me feels that touch.
I jerk my hand back, feeling singed and a little concerned about his effect on me.
He’s so tall I need to crane my neck back to look up at him.
“Look, my date may have offered me up, but I didn’t agree to this.”
“Name your price,” he says.
And god, he smells really, really good, like soap and cologne and the scent of a winner.
“Price for what?”
“To park your gorgeous ass on that chair, right next to me, and play.”
I exhale. “Just that?”
“For now.” His lips twitch again, ever so lightly, and stirrings of lust awaken in my body. Damn it.
I watched Indecent Proposal. To be honest, I lusted after Robert Redford for a while. I blame Hollywood and my subconscious for making me feel like it might not be a bad idea to just do as he says. After all, I’m only agreeing to sit my “gorgeous” ass on that chair and play. Did he really think I had a gorgeous ass? “All right then,” I hear myself say.
The guy motions to the waiter, has them move my chair next to his, then leads me there to sit. He lowers his black-clad, sexy-smelling male body next to mine, and asks them to deal. Once they deal, he pushes the stack of cards in my direction.
“Play it.”
“What?”
He meets my gaze with unerringly direct silver eyes. “You heard me.”
“You’re crazy.”
He leans back and links his hand behind his head. “I’ve heard worse.”
“I’m sorry, Wynn,” my date says as he stands to leave.
“Wynn,” that deep, resonating timbre repeats.
I turn to face him, flushing. “Don’t call me that.”
“Explain why.”
“Because it’s my name and I don’t know yours. I’m at a complete disadvantage here.”
“Playboy.”
“Huh?”
“They call him Playboy,” my date says before he’s escorted to the door.
Playboy smiles.
I’m dumbfounded, shaking my head in disbelief. “Wow, my luck with men has hit a new low.”
“Don’t stress. I don’t pay to get laid. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I just rid you from the lamest date you’ve ever had.”
“It actually wasn’t lame. ’Cause you were in it.”
“And I’m exciting?”
“No. More like . . . a slasher movie.”
“She’s playing my hand,” he then tells the other guys at the table. “You all okay with me instructing her on how to play it?”
“Play it, Playboy,” they simultaneously agree.
He taps a finger to the green felt table and nods toward the cards in my hand. “Let’s see our hand.”
“My hand,” I contradict.
“What’s yours is mine,” he whispers as I show him the cards, ducking his head close to my ear as he peers at the cards.
He tells me what cards to give back and how many to ask for. I do as he instructs and still end up with only a pair.
“Why am I playing this?” I ask his profile when we lose and get dealt a new set of cards.
“Because I was losing until you arrived.”
“We’re losing now.”
He eyes me thoughtfully, then the new set of cards in my hands. “Obviously you need some coaching.” He pries the cards from me and starts playing the game. “Just stay there and don’t distract me. Distract the others.”
Detecting his brook-no-argument tone, I play with my hair, twirling the loose red strands around my index finger while I stare at each of them hard enough to make them look up.
“On second thought, forget that.”
“Huh? Who understands you?” I glare at the guy, and he glares back at me.
“I’m having trouble understanding myself right now. Just stop twiddling your damn hair.”
He wins the game, and the subsequent eight games. His pile of chips is so large that the establishment managers keep bringing him larger denomination chips to help him conserve space on the table.
When it’s all over, the men at the table start dispersing while we remain at the table. With new drinks, our chairs angled and almost facing each other, he asks me about myself.
I shrug. “You know my name. Wynn. Age thirty. Gallerist. Recently out of a relationship and completely over love.”
“Mmm. I believe you left out the best parts. Like what you’re doing here.”
I take a slow sip of my whiskey. “I have to admit, you have a wicked thing going here. But I’m still trying to figure out why I’m here.”
“You expect me to believe you didn’t know I would be here?”
“Excuse me?”
“You expect me to believe you don’t want me and weren’t looking to snag my attention? Inventive, I admit. I’m curious.”
“Wow, cocky much. Um, no. You’re much too scandalous to bring home to my mom. But I’m determined to have new experiences . . .” I swear I’m making this shit up as I go. “Especially since I just came out of a four-year relationship,” I lavish. “I am determined to use guys the way they like to use us.”
“Is that so?”
“Of course it’s so. Do you ever wonder why you have so many women at your feet?” I motion to the crestfallen waitress who’s sending me eye-grenades from afar.
“I don’t sleep at night I’m so puzzled.” He’s amused. I’m amused by his teasing manner too, but I continue.
“Well, it’s because you know how to play the game. I want to see how you play it. Then know when I’m being played,” I say.
“Is that so?”
He doesn’t buy it.
Fuck me, he’s laughing inside.
“Yes, that’s exactly so. You don’t believe me?”
He’s smiling, still amused. “Somehow the words are there but I don’t believe a single one coming out of that pretty mouth of yours.”
The way his eyes land on my mouth makes something hot and achy settle in the pit of me. “Wow, you’re jaded. What is it you think I want?” I counter.
He scratches his chin, the rasping sound of his five o’clock shadow sensual in the dark. “Whatever it is, I’m going to provide.”
“Okay then,” I say, knowing I’ve got nothing to hide. “Find out what you will and let me find out what I need: how you play women.”
“I don’t think so, Red.”
“Not even after I dressed like a slut to get in here?” I say to tease him.
“Look around you, Red. You’re like a monk in a strip club. You’re the most conservative slut I’ve ever met.”
“Fine. So I should’ve hiked up the hem a little more. Just let me watch you woo a woman. Any woman. Call one of them over.”
“You want to watch me woo a woman?” he asks incredulously.
“Yes.” I scan the crowd and spot a sultry waitress who’s been hovering over him like mad, who’d die right now of happiness, I’m sure. “That one.”
“I don’t want to woo her.”
“Okay then, who do you want to woo?”
He stares at me. “I don’t woo, Red.”
“But you play to get laid. So. Play to get laid tonight.”
“Not tonight.”
“Why?”
He shrugs.
Then he reaches out and pulls me to my feet and puts his hand on my lower back as he leads me away. I’m careening out of my axis, my senses out of control. I don’t understand it.
“And why not tonight?” I semi-whisper, semi-pant.
“You’re Wynn Watson, aren’t you? Gallerist and serial dater.”
“I’m totally not a . . .” How did he know my last name? And then it hits me.
I’m shocked out of my mind, my brain needing a moment to rearrange itself.
“You’re Cullen Carmichael. The gambler. Serial fucker, anti-monogamist, and brother of my bestie
Livvy’s fiancé.”
“Life’s a little surprising.” He eyes me, opens my palm and puts a ten-thousand-dollar chip in my hand. “There you go, sweetheart. Don’t spend it in one swing. Save it until our next game.”
“Never, thank you. And I’m investing it, maybe. Probably. I’ll ask your brother for investing tips.”
“You’re welcome,” he says.
“No, you’re welcome.”
A surprisingly soft chuckle leaves him as he tilts his head and studies me. “Thank you,” he says seriously, and just like that, he kisses my lips. “Be a good girl and go home now,” he says, patting my ass.
“Was that . . . ? Were you wooing me?”
“I don’t woo.”
“Were you playing—”
“I’ll let you know when the game starts. Go home now.”
The guy opens the door of an Uber that seems to appear from out of nowhere. And because it’s already three a.m., I get in without argument and head home, reeling a little bit.
Cullen freaking Carmichael. Obviously in town for the wedding, and I stupidly didn’t put two and two together. Hell, I couldn’t even press my legs together with the guy around.
I can’t believe the way he bought me. Like . . . a car. Like he deserved me and like he can get anything he wants. The way he threw chips on the table like they were nothing and there went my whole life’s earning, in one play.
I turn the chip in my palm and shine my phone light to inspect it.
Ten. Thousand. Dollars!
I wonder what would happen if he were to teach me to gamble with my money. I’d finally be able to pay my business loan after years and years of renegotiating extensions.
Nah. I’d lose it all and then what? I don’t like gambling; it’s completely superficial. I believe in work, not luck.
I also don’t believe in love anymore . . . or so I tell myself.
Even now, I am tempted to fantasize what being made love to by Cullen Carmichael would feel like, and I can’t breathe at the thought. Stop it, Wynn. Stop romanticizing every man you meet. They’re not worth it. No man is, especially one they call Playboy.
* * *
The high of the night, along with my smile, fades the moment I get into my apartment—the apartment I rented after moving out of Emmett’s. Sometimes the pain is so crippling, I double over in bed. Nights are bad. The loneliness—the void—is everywhere. In the empty pillow beside mine. In the cold bed sheets, warmed only on my spot. In the dreadful fucking silence of my apartment.
But mornings aren’t much better. Somehow I drop my guard at night. Relax. (Sometimes.) Wake up, safe in my bed, staring up at the familiar white fan above my bed. And for a second, I’m fine. Until I remember. He doesn’t want me anymore. And the torture begins all over again. Forcing myself out of bed, to live, but barely. Forcing myself to eat; to eat, not taste. Forcing myself to shower, to get wet then dry. Get dressed, to pretend to be normal. Human. Forcing myself to go on when still a part of me is stuck on all that I had that crumpled the day he told me he fell out of love with me. Love. Real love. Happiness. A future, the kind that felt complete. I have none of that now.
Weekends are the worst. My days off from work, no distractions keep me from thinking about it. Turning it around in my head like a shock victim does. Finding some new clue. Some other sign that something bad was about to happen.
I spend the night restless, and the next morning I nurse a coffee cup at noon, skimming the news on my laptop, dreading the wedding tonight. It’s not even the event itself. Not really. It’s the reminder of what I have here and now. In the present. And what I don’t. It’s depressing as hell when there’s not a future to anticipate, not a romantic one anyway.
I’m not alone. A million other women are undoubtedly in the same boat. They woke up this morning only to realize the rest of their lives won’t be the way they’d hoped. This day is different because their happy ending faded to black.
This day is minus one.
I feel exasperated, like I’ve already been here and done this so much that it’s not even about the broken promises and shattered expectations anymore. It’s about the time lost as much as the derailed dreams.
At least I still have the gallery, the Fifth Street Gallery.
I like the sound of that. Pepper, also known as the most extraordinary assistant ever, came up with the name.
I take a sip of my coffee when I hear the rattling of keys, and I set my cup aside as two of my besties, Gina and Rachel, burst into my apartment.
“Okay. We knew it! We knew you weren’t getting ready.” Rachel and Gina, one blonde, one brunette, both happily married, slam the door shut behind them and storm forward.
“I told you I’d call if I needed help,” I protest as they slam my laptop shut and get me to my feet.
“You’ll never call.”
“How do you know?” I ask Gina.
“Because you never do. We’re going to get our hair done.”
Rachel heads to my closet, grabs a sweatshirt and sweatpants, and brings them over. “Come on, you’ll feel gorgeous and when you see Emmett tonight, you’ll rub it in his face what he’s missing out on.”
“I got home late and barely slept! Can we do this later? I’m not depressed, I swear!”
“We’ll see about that,” Rachel says dubiously, pressing clothes to my chest.
“Ugh. I hate you.”
“You love us.”
I groan and start changing. “Yes, I do,” I concede. “But for the record, I’m a gorgeous single girl and in charge of my life. I sold two paintings yesterday, and I had a date last night, too, so really, I’m doing fine,” I tell them.
“Really? Oh, Wynn, that’s great!” Rachel’s eyes widen with excitement and she literally leaps in the air with a little clap at the news. Meanwhile, Gina brings over my sneakers and my bag.
“Is he a keeper?” she asks dubiously.
“No. God, no. He sold me.” I carry my empty coffee cup to the sink and wash it before leaving.
“He what?”
“He sold me. It was a game. And I ended up meeting this other guy. He was unexpected but . . . well, he was hot. So at least my hormones got a workout.”
“He was what? Wynn!!”
I smile at their excitement and decide not say anything else. One, because they will probably worry, and there’s nothing to worry about with me and Cullen. Really! I’m not going to fall for a guy like that—I’m not going to fall for any guy, period. And two, because Cullen Carmichael looks like someone’s dirty little secret, and it seems like, in some weird way, he’s now mine.
FOUR OF A KIND
We meet Livvy outside Accents, one of the most exclusive salons in the city, and its owner, Alessandra, waves us inside. “Come in, I’ll be right with you.” She motions to a few other stylists. The place is usually packed, and when we notice no other customers, the four of us seem to simultaneously realize that Livvy’s fiancé, Callan, intends to spoil his future bride and friends as if we’re the only women on the planet.
“Did you know about this?” Gina asks Livvy, turning around in amazement.
The salon is filled with white roses dipped in lavender, the delicate color soft and lovely.
“No!” Laughing in delight, Livvy stops long enough to pluck a rose from one arrangement. She inhales dreamily as I help myself to a decadent truffle.
“Someone’s getting laid tonight,” Gina teases.
“We’d worry about the state of their union if she didn’t,” I say, giggling.
“I meant Callan.” Gina smirks, and I laugh even more.
But a pang in my stomach comes out of nowhere. Like this black hole opened up inside me and all that’s there is a void.
I don’t want to be jealous of my friends. I have terrific friends and want to always be there for them. True, I sometimes wish I’d have already found the One too, but that doesn’t mean I won’t ever . . . right? Malcolm worships the ground Rachel walks on. Gina leads Ta
hoe around like the smitten man he’s become. And Callan dotes on Livvy and tends to always have the best surprises for her, like a romantic honeymoon to an unknown destination.
My friends struck gold with these men and I won the jackpot because I have all three of these girls as my dearest and closest friends.
“What do you say we get this party started?” Gina sits and swirls around in the stylist’s chair.
A waiter appears with champagne, and I take the first glass and down it as if I have an alcohol agenda. I do. I’m going to need it.
Rachel lifts her glass. “To love and sexy-as-sin men!”
As our glasses clink together, I shiver at an intrusive thought.
I’m not thinking about the sexy-as-sin men who wooed my friends into lifetime commitments. My thoughts run deeper, hotter, wilder.
Silver Eyes. Die-for jaw. Haunting disposition.
Hot Gambler is complex.
Exciting. Electric. Completely magnetic.
I’m so lost in memories about the previous night, I barely notice I’m seated before the stylist.
She gathers my hair and holds it at my nape. “Are we going for soft and sexy or elegant and risqué?” As I ponder her question, she explains, “Natural contradiction is a subtle way to keep a man guessing.”
“And there you have it,” I say to Gina with a smirk. “The lone reason I’m going stag to this wedding.”
Gina spins around and looks at her stylist. “We’ll have what Wynn’s having. The bride is the only one who gets to be predictable today.”
“She’s anything but,” I say, laughing as I look at Livvy, whose gorgeous blonde hair is already getting some love from her stylist. She’s the most talkative, friendliest girl of all four of us, and today is no exception as she tells the stylist how Callan proposed.
Thinking of the proposal makes me think of Callan, and thinking of Callan makes me think of his brother.
Ugh. Silver Eyes would love that I’m thinking about him.
Last night, that part infuriating, part sexy guy made me forget everything. He showed interest in me, included me in his poker game, and made me feel as if I belonged there. When did Emmett ever make me feel as if I belonged anywhere? Hell, he didn’t even want me in his kitchen! This is why I shouldn’t have agreed to go on the date last night. I really need to forget men altogether and focus on my gallery, the Fifth Street Gallery, my only true love.