The Bet by Max Monroe

Sophie

My cab swerves to a stop in front of the Mandarin Oriental in Columbus Circle, and I accidentally tap my forehead on the plexiglass divider between the driver and me, I’m so eager to hand over his money and get out.

He looks at me sideways a little, but I don’t linger. Not only would that worsen the embarrassment, but I’m already running horrendously late to set up for an important corporate event. So late, that my assistant, Julie, is probably on the brink of setting the room on fire and hopping a jet to Bora Bora.

Normally, between the two of us, we manage to get more done than a whole staff from one of the larger event firms in the same amount of time. But it’s the setup that makes the magic, and neither Julie nor I alone is equipped to outfit a six-thousand-square-foot space by ourselves.

“Come on, come on,” I mutter under my breath as the almost-spring influx of tourists makes it hard to get into the whitewashed building. Cameras in hand, they snap shots of Columbus Circle and the entrance to Central Park with little to no awareness of just how much of the sidewalk they’re blocking.

Add that in with the reason I’m running so behind—spending my normal hour and then some lying to Dr. Winters about my experimental date and the way things turned out—and I’m more than a little frazzled.

Out of time and patience, I karate chop my way through a group of teenage girls clamoring to find the right angle for their social media shots and skid toward the door like I’m on skates.

The light shifts slightly when I step into the lobby, causing my eyes to do a funny sun halo thing that makes it hard to see where I’m going, but I don’t bother slowing down.

If I run into a thing or two, the bruises I earn will just have to be a casualty of war.

“Hold the elevator,” I yell toward the closing doors, but when no hand reaches out to stop them, all I can do is whine in my head.

Why? Why did I have to spend so much time avoiding Dr. Winters’s questions about my date? And why do the people in New York have to be so damn rude?

Power walking, I hit the elevator call button, expecting to have to wait, but the same cart opens immediately, revealing itself as empty.

Oh. Well. I guess that’s why no one held it. Ha.

God, I’m a mess.

Obviously, getting snuck out on immediately following the type of sex that transcends all metrics of reality isn’t the kind of event I’m built for.

And to be honest, I’m not even sure why.

When it comes to relationships, I like defining events and lines in the sand because they’re paths to clarity. And those lines say, in no uncertain terms, that the person who commits the acts are not worth my time. Not worth my thoughts, not worth my worry, not worth the very distinct fantasy for life and marriage and babies I have.

But something about this strikes me as different. It doesn’t feel final like it should, and frankly, that terrifies me.

For as perpetually single as I am, I haven’t often dealt with feelings of rejection or loss. I haven’t been the one left standing there holding the proverbial bag. I’ve been the roadrunner, nothing left to deal with but a puff of smoke.

The elevator dings its arrival at the ballroom-floor level of the Mandarin, and I scamper out like a newborn colt, all arms and legs and incoordination.

“Shoot,” I mumble as I almost trip over my own damn feet in the hall, stutter-stepping on the carpet and throwing out a hand into the wall to stop my face from eating floor.

Forcing myself to pause and reset, I take a deep breath in through my nose, hold it, and then blow all the toxic energy out through my mouth.

Get over it, I coach myself. So what if you told Dr. Winters that your date with your TapNext match Nathan ended badly and didn’t go any further into the story? It’s not like you don’t see her every week…you can easily clear your conscience next Wednesday by hashing out all the details then.

I nod. I’m right. This isn’t a big deal. I’m freaking out for nothing.

It’s over and done. He snuck out—the end. I’ll have plenty of time to let Dr. Winters take a deep dive into the psychological consequences, and for now, I just need to concentrate on setting up for this event. The event that’s probably about to start any minute.

Shit!

I glance down at my watch and break into a jog immediately. Julie really is going to kill me.

I round the hallway to the far side of the ballroom and bust in like a bull in a china shop. The door bangs against the wall and echoes throughout the large space, but I don’t pause to do anything about it. As far as I know, doors and walls don’t respond to apologies anyway.

Julie is on the far side of the room, bent down over a cart of supplies, when news of my boisterous arrival cracks throughout the space, bringing her gaze to me straightaway.

“I know,” I say with a raise of my hands as Julie gives me the stank eye of an employee. It’s half respectful, half hateful and reeks of both hating me and wanting to keep her job. “I’m sorry I’m late!”

“It’s okay,” she says, even though we both know it’s not okay at all.

“Where are we? What’s left to get done before the guests start flooding in here?”

Julie points to the other side of the room. “Centerpieces still need to go on all the tables, and I’m finishing up the tablescape for the buffets. Audiovisual is all done, and the sponsor gift bags are all arranged.”

“What about the step and repeat outside? I know that was one of the most important things on the sponsor’s list.”

“It’s all set up. I started with that as soon as I got here…two hours ago.”

I gulp and laugh, though I know to Julie nothing seems even remotely funny. “Point acknowledged, babe. Really. Thank you for taking up the slack.”

“Of course, boss.”

I roll my eyes. “You know I hate when you call me that.”

“I do, boss.”

I laugh. I deserve it, honestly.

I hustle to grab a couple centerpieces, and she follows me, grabbing two of her own. “Tell me you were at least doing something interesting in your absence. Having a tryst with Johnny Depp. Licking Channing’s Tatum. Starring in an adult film? Something.”

I snort. “Oh, Julie, you know I’m not that noteworthy.”

“You could be,” she insists. “If you just let down your guard a little bit. You’re freaking supermodel-level gorgeous without even trying, and you’re one of the nicest women I know. If you’re any good in bed, you’re like the lotto jackpot of women.”

“Maybe. But I’m also a head case. Trust me.”

“Oh yeah. I know that, too.”

Having set the centerpieces down, I shove her in the shoulder as we head back to grab more. “Thanks.”

“Hey, we’ve all got our issues, you know? I’m not judging. But you are definitely crazy. And occasionally late.”

I laugh.

“Okay, you lush. Stop chugging the truth serum, and let’s bang this out. Before long, some of the richest, most successful, powerhouse men and women in the world are going to be in this room, and I don’t think they’re going to want to hear about how crazy I am.”

All manner of suit-wearing men start to flood through the doors, many of them heading directly for the bar. A couple go straight for the table of hors d’oeuvres, but the rest are too busy mingling to focus on anything but one another.

One man, in particular, seems to have drawn a bit of crowd around himself as he talks and laughs and gesticulates wildly. All the men around him break out into a mixture of laughter and guffaws as he finishes whatever tale he’s weaving.

“My God, I need one of those,” Julie mutters under her breath, staring at him longingly.

There’s something familiar about his big, muscled frame, but I’m not entirely sure what it is.

What I do notice, however, is the sparkling metal on one of his very important fingers.

I turn away and warn her, discreetly looking out at one of the giant, eighteen-foot-high glass walls over the twinkling lights of Manhattan. “He’s married, Jules. Sorry.”

She doesn’t turn, instead choosing to keep ogling the guy shamelessly. “I didn’t say it had to be him. Just one like him…or twenty like him. Whatever.”

I grin. “I don’t know.” I glance back, away from the glitz of city streets and at the man in question with a craned neck over my shoulder. He’s got dark hair and bright eyes and a smile that could fill this entire ballroom, but he also has the air of a wild man—the kind that I’m not sure ever really settles down—and enough charisma that suggests women will always be hitting on him. I don’t know if I could handle being with someone like that, ginormous frame and huge, honed muscles or not. “He’s not really my type.”

“What?” she nearly shrieks, making me reach out to clutch her elbow, afraid she’s going to make a scene. “You’re joking me right now, aren’t you? Because if that man,” she says, pausing only long enough to point directly at him and make me reach out to grab the offending finger and turn it away, “is not your type, you really do have impossible standards, and I’ll think about just getting you a couple of cats now.”

I roll my eyes. “Just because I say one guy in the world isn’t my type doesn’t mean I’m ready for spinsterdom. Come on.”

“You come on!” she insists. “Do you see him? Or do I need to get your eyes checked?”

“Thatch!” someone else yells across the room, catching the subject of our conversation’s attention.

Julie’s still focused on me, waiting for an answer, but as my brain starts spinning over the shouted name, I finally make sense of the familiarity.

And boy is it comical.

He looks familiar because I’ve seen him in Cosmopolitan, on the dreaded coffee table in Dr. Winters’s office.

For the love of everything.

“Julie, slow your roll, sister, because I know who that man is,” I say quietly, and she quirks a brow. “It’s Thatcher Kelly, for fuck’s sake.”

“Who?”

“The billionaire!” I whisper-yell.

Julie swings her head around sharply, and she compresses her chest with a hard hand. “Okay, he’s perfect.”

I scoff. “He’s also married to Cassie Kelly, one of the most beautiful women on the planet, and they have a, like, one-year-old kid or something.”

“How do you know all of this?”

I wave her off. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that Thatcher Kelly is so far out of both our leagues, we’re practically on different planets.”

“Out of my league?” Julie shakes her head. “I’m not afraid of a challenge.”

“Jules! He’s married.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, boss, I know. Don’t worry, I’m not going after him. I’m just saying that I don’t set boundaries for myself without even trying. Nothing is unattainable, and it’d do you some good to get the same attitude.”

“What do you mean?”

“I meeean…don’t take no for an answer. Never give up on the first try. If you don’t ask, they can’t say yes. The only person capable of holding you back is you. And I, for one, don’t consider myself a cockblock.”

I consider her words closely as I watch Thatcher Kelly schmooze a dozen and a half businessmen at once. They all look at him like he’s a god, and for all I know, maybe he is. The point is, he doesn’t cower under the pressure—he revels in it.

Maybe Julie’s right.

Maybe I do give up too quickly.

Memories of Jude’s head between my legs make me feel light-headed, and I stumble to the side, my heart racing so fast it’s liable to be in my throat soon.

I envision the picture of him in the paper, smiling for the camera like he’s larger-than-life, and I recount the headline of the article and the reason for its placement there.

Club Promoter Jude Winslow Brings Fresh Fun Back to Manhattan.

The private marketing event for elite private event specialists.

Elite Private Event Specialists. That’s me. I am one of those.

“Julie, does your cousin still work on the advisory board for the Event Planners Association?”

She cocks her head to the side. “Yeah. Why?”

“There’s an event at Club Craze this weekend. And I want into it. But I’m pretty sure you have to know someone to get in there.”

“Oh, yes! I heard about this. By invitation only or some shit.” She rolls her eyes. “Like they really know who to invite.”

“Do you think your cousin could get me one?”

She shrugs. “I’m not sure. But I could definitely find out if you want—”

“Find out,” I say quickly, unable to stop myself from interrupting. “Just one day out of the two will be fine. Just get me in there.”

“You got it, boss.”

God help me, but I’m going out on a limb. I just hope it’s strong enough to hold the weight of my expectations.