The Bet by Max Monroe

Jude

She grabs her purse from the top of the table and skirts it to the other side, glaring at me as she goes. Her hips sway with the speed of her walk, and everything about the motion turns me on.

Combine that with how much her unexpected Cher reference makes me want to laugh, and I’m a steamy pile of ready to fuck.

But I’m confused. My hormones are raging, spiked up on the kind of adrenaline I was desperate to tap into with this sister the night of the bachelorette party. This is the way her twin, Belle, made me feel. That’s why I could have sworn it was her. But it’s not her; it’s Sophie. The available sister.

Well now, Jude. That’s a horse of a different color.

“I’m sorry,” I call after her softly, hastening my step to catch up to her and grabbing gently at her elbow. “Really.”

She spins around to glare at me. “Your assumption just ruined my date.”

“Yes,” I say, taking all of the guilt without avoidance. That’s the good part about being the fall guy in a family of five kids, I suppose. I don’t shy away from responsibility, even if it’s uncomfortable. “And I really apologize. It was incredibly rude of me to interrupt, even if you had been your sister. And inappropriate, I suppose, given how you know me. I don’t know why I thought it was a good idea in the first place, but please, now that the damage is done, let me make it up to you.”

“How exactly do you plan to do that?” she challenges. “My date is already gone, and the night is effectively over. Unless you’ve got a time machine in your pocket, I’d say things are pretty much screwed.”

I squeeze my lips tightly in an effort not to laugh at her—because though she’s definitely being funny, I doubt any kind of amusement is the response she’s looking for—and hold up my hands in a semi-shrug.

“I don’t have a time machine. I wish I did because that would be really fucking cool, but even without it, the night doesn’t have to be over. He’s gone, but he’s not the only guy on the planet.” I slam my palm into my chest. “Hell, I’m one, and I’m standing right here. Spend the rest of the date with me.”

“That’s not how this works! That’s not how any of this works.” She shakes her head and turns to leave again, walking with determination toward the front door. The urge to reach out and stop her again is strong, but I know it’s not even remotely my right to touch her without permission either. My best bet is to try to keep up with her quickly churning legs and reason with her while we move.

“Why not?” I ask, positioning myself just off her flank as we climb the stairs to the main reception area of the restaurant. Heidi notices us, and her head tilts in concerned curiosity, but ultimately, she settles back behind the hostess stand when I glance back and offer a calm smile.

“Because you’re not part of the plan.”

“So?” I question. “Plans change. Things happen. And when they do, you make a new plan.”

“A new plan that includes going on a date with you?” She scoffs. “How convenient.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “It is convenient. That’s why you should do it. Give me a good reason why you shouldn’t.”

“Because you’re an exot—” She shakes her head briefly, sucking her lips into her mouth, but the cat’s already out of the bag and I already know what she was going to say.

Maybe, if I were actually an exotic dancer, I’d be offended—though, knowing me, probably not. But the fact that that’s not even really what I do for a living only makes me want to beam.

“Ahh,” I breathe. “Too good to go on a date with a dancer.”

“No,” she rushes to disagree, embarrassed. I almost have to laugh. She’s on the defensive now, and I kind of like the feel of stalking my prey.

She digs in her purse for her phone—at least I presume that’s what she’s after—and her body shivers in the bristling cold air of the sidewalk without any real barrier against the wind.

“I think that’s it. I think you’re embarrassed to go on a date with someone like me,” I challenge. At the same time, I work on pulling my own sport coat from my shoulders to place around hers since it seems she didn’t have standing on the sidewalk in the middle of winter waiting on a ride in her carefully crafted plans either.

“No, I’m not.”

I smile and hold up the coat as a peace offering, and she eyes it closely. There’s hesitation, sure, but the overwhelming expression on her face is abject longing. And I don’t blame her. It’s fucking cold out here, and I’m not in a skimpy dress and heels.

Finally, she accepts it, giving me her back so I can set the coat across her tanned shoulders while she slips her arms into the sleeves. It drowns her delicate frame, but at the same time, it somehow seems made for her.

“Well, good. Now that we got that out of the way, there’s nothing else to debate. Let me run back in and grab the rest of my stuff from the table, and then we can go.”

“Go?” she asks, spinning around to face me. “Go where?”

“On our date.”

“But you didn’t even know you were going to see me tonight. How could you possibly have something planned?”

“I don’t,” I say with a shrug. “We’re going to make it up as we go along.”

“Great,” she grumbles, and I laugh.

“Not one for spontaneity, huh?”

“No,” she admits. “I can’t say it’s my strong suit.”

“Well, then, stick with me. Because I’m a pro.”

While I made a quick trip back inside to leave money on my table—and Sophie’s—and grab my belongings, I enlisted Heidi to keep an eye on my new date to make sure she didn’t escape. Once everything was all set, the two of us stepped back outside into the blustery weather, this time with Sophie sporting not only my sport jacket, but my overcoat, too.

It was cold as shit without having anything to protect against the wind, but she needed it more than me, far and away.

Plus, I hailed a cab pretty quickly with a whistle and a wave, and now I’m perfectly toasty in the slightly stale air of a New York City taxi.

“Did you say Raines Law Room?” Sophie asks after I sit back into the seat and turn to face her. The fact that she’s skeptical enough of me to eavesdrop on my conversation with the cabbie makes me smile. I might be the type to toy with my women every once in a while, but at the end of the day, there’s nothing sexier than a woman with a brain.

And a woman who takes a personal interest in her own safety, no matter how trustworthy the guy may actually be, is a smart woman.

“I did,” I confirm easily, not wanting to keep her on edge. “Have you been there before?”

She shakes her head once, glances out her window and away from me momentarily, and then turns back. “I haven’t. I’ve heard of it from a couple clients, but even in all the years I’ve lived here, I’ve never been.”

“How long have you lived here?”

She laughs a little, licking her lips and blushing. “Twenty-nine years.”

“And how old are you?”

“Twenty-eight and a half,” she says comically, and a chuckle spills from my throat.

“Okay, you’re going to have to explain that one.”

Her face is beautifully confident, lifting and crinkling in all the right places as she elucidates. “My parents made the trek from Miami to New York when my mom was a few months pregnant with Belle and me so my dad could take a job in the ironworkers union.”

I laugh. “So, your first six months in New York were as a fetus.”

She nods.

“I have to admit, I’ve met a hell of a lot of people in this city over the years and listened to all manner of stories about how they came to be here, but yours might be the best I’ve ever heard. At least in the category of delivery.”

She beams, and my chest tightens noticeably. She’s so goddamn sexy, I can hardly stand myself around her. I just wish I could understand what flipped the switch in my body so hard from her sister to her.

She seems like she’s Belle, but I’m no expert in telling twins apart.

Still, feelings of self-doubt niggle, and I can’t help but make one final apology.

“I really am sorry that I mistook you for your sister. I…I don’t know what it was that made me feel so certain you were her.” I shrug. “You both have this freckle,” I explain, reaching out and touching her neck gently, right above her collarbone. “I noticed it on Belle the other night, but I didn’t realize you had the same one.”

Newly attuned to her neck, I find it impossible not to notice that her pulse is thrumming at double a normal speed.

She’s nervous or anxious or excited, and her eyes hold a secret I can’t even begin to discern.

I only wish I had the power to read a woman’s mind.

We pull to a stop in front of the completely nondescript entrance to one of the most famous speakeasies in New York, and I pass the cabbie some money and then turn for the handle of the door.

But just as I’m about to pull it, her hand comes down on my forearm.

“What is it?” I ask softly. I have no idea what she’s got to say, but for some reason, I can’t wait to find out.