Come And Get It

  Lauren Blakely

  Contents

  Also by Lauren Blakely

  About

  Be the first to know

  Come and Get It

  Prologue

  1. The Boys, the Bet, and the Babe

  2. Daisy’s a Jerk

  3. Affairs of the Dick

  4. Bellamy Hart’s Planning Notes for A Million Frogs . . .

  5. The Keeper of My Secrets

  6. Bellamy Hart’s A Million Frogs Podcast . . .

  7. The Party Crasher

  Also by Lauren Blakely

  Contact

  Copyright © 2021 by Lauren Blakely

  Cover Design by Helen Williams.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This contemporary romance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This book is licensed for your personal use only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with, especially if you enjoy sexy romance novels with alpha males. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Also by Lauren Blakely

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  About

  The night a brilliant, brainy brunette walks into the costume party I know two things — I need to kiss her and I need to kiss her again, and then some.

  Trouble is, she takes off like Cinderella before the end of the night, leaving me with only a few clues to her identity.

  I’m a determined man, and I set out to find her somewhere in the big city of Manhattan.

  But then, she surprises the hell out of me as walks back into my life when I least expect it. And I won’t let her get away this time…

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  By Lauren Blakely

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  Come and Get It

  A prequel

  Prologue

  Everybody wants to come again, but not everyone can.

  So, if I invite you to a life-changing night, you better save that date. An invitation from me offers a woman something hard to get and hard to pass up—charm, class, and a relentless focus on her heart’s desire that drives her to RSVP: Accepts with pleasure.

  So much fucking pleasure. I’m a purveyor of it—the goddamn mayor of good times, the lord of lust, the emperor of ecstasy. A coveted summons to one of my underground events means an end to swiping, ghosting, and fishing.

  Like a modern-day Gatsby, I woo the most fascinating, clever, and sexy women to my soirees—women willing to pay a pretty penny for the chance to meet the man of their dreams.

  These secret parties aren’t for me. Please. Love isn’t in my cards.

  I’m not even dealing myself in. I’m quite content to be the leading matchmaker in a brand-new age of romance in New York City.

  At least, I was happy enough till she walked in on the celebration and table-flipped all my perfect plans.

  And she didn’t even RSVP.

  1

  The Boys, the Bet, and the Babe

  I’m not a party boy, but I love a good party.

  I’m more of a connoisseur of human complexity, and bars are like a three-course meal for romance, dating, and mating.

  Most of all, they are arenas for the game.

  The costumed scene at The Lucky Spot tonight is a perfect example, and from my seat at the bar, I make mental notes for my own fêtes and scope out potential guests.

  “Admit it. You wish you owned Manhattan’s most successful bar.”

  I turn to my cousin, meeting his gaze across the counter as he pours a patron a beer. “Yes, Spencer, I dream of being you,” I deadpan, then return to studying the sea of people. This is just one of the watering holes Spencer owns in Manhattan. It’s Get Lucky for a Cause night, a modern masquerade for charity.

  “Understandable.” Behind the bar, Spencer holds up a bottle of Patrón in one hand and a Macallan in the other, offering each to me in turn.

  “Is that a trick question?” I shoot him a searing stare and nod to the scotch.

  “Yes, Easton. That was a test to make sure the pod people hadn’t taken you over, given your costume,” he says, pouring the shot. “Who the hell are you tonight?”

  I smooth a hand down my swank tux jacket, lifting the glass that’s part of the costume, just like the slicked-back hair and the grin required to pull this off. “This shouldn’t be too hard to guess.”

  Spencer shrugs, the lemons attached to his T-shirt rising with his shoulders. “You got me.”

  “And what, exactly, are you?” I counter, scanning his simple yellow eye mask and his citrus-covered shirt.

  Spencer drags a finger across the words emblazoned under the lemons. When life gives you . . . “I’m wordplay, Easton.”

  Behind me, someone clears their throat. “Weird. I would have bet a grand you were irony,” Nolan says, sliding up to join us, wearing Clark Kent glasses and a white button-down undone to show the Superman logo on the T-shirt under it. My bespectacled buddy eyes me up and down in my duds—tuxedo, vest, white handkerchief in the breast pocket, bow tie and a black mask. “Are you a bandit?”

  I roll my eyes. “Maybe take in the whole costume before guessing, Nolan. And I’m wearing a mask because I know how to read an invitatio
n,” I say drily. “Glasses only work as a disguise for Clark Kent.”

  “Yes, and yours screams Zorro. Which is super helpful for an ugly mofo like yourself.” He flashes his trademark I’m-so-cute-and-charming grin. “Masquerade parties were made for dudes like you.”

  Spencer sets two shot glasses on the bar. “Now, don’t be so harsh, Nolan. Not everyone can make the list of Most Eligible YouTube Food Show Stars.”

  I get in on the ribbing too. “Such a coveted honor. With that kind of specificity, it’s a wonder you aren’t wearing a mask to remain incognito twenty-four seven.”

  “I didn’t see you on a list for Secret Matchmakers, Easton,” he says.

  Tsking, I shake my head. “I don’t need to be on a list; I’m the one who makes the list—the guest list filled with everyone who’s anyone.”

  “Excuses, excuses.” Nolan weighs scales with his hands. “As for my mask, it was either wear one or, you know, be able to see.”

  I call bullshit. “Or you just want the ladies to see your pretty-boy face.”

  Nolan props his chin in his hands. “When you have an asset this valuable, you use it fully.” He shifts his focus to me. “But seriously, who are you, E? A gangster?”

  Do I really need to spell it out? “Just keep on guessing. A hundred bucks goes to the first to figure it out.”

  Spencer chuckles as he grabs the tequila bottle, his wedding band glinting under the light. “I’m voting for Bugsy Malone.”

  I crack a sliver of a grin. “You’re getting warmer time-period wise.” Spencer pours a tequila for Nolan, and I return to my mission.

  Observation.

  A sexy pop mix of Leon Bridges and Sam Smith seeps through the joint and I eat up the view, starting with my favorite dish.

  Lots of women.

  Curves and breasts, red lips and high cheekbones.

  Angels and cowgirls, Black Widows and Wonder Women—even two sexy zombies with gnawed off faces and short skirts. I never thought the undead could be hot but that pair of busty identical twins make eaten alive look good.

  But there’s more here than simply a good number of the fairer sex.

  There’s . . . the possibility of flirtation.

  A pair of Pokémon-costumed men face off in a fierce game of Ping-Pong against a couple of Harajuku girls. A plague doctor plays blackjack with a cowboy quite cozily. In the back room, a merman and a mermaid take each other on in pool.

  All around me is proof that people would rather gather in the real world than on their phones.

  I’m just so goddamn right. I sweep my arm toward the sea of libidinous humanity. “Could it be any more obvious that this generation is sick of dating apps?”

  Nolan lifts his tequila with a dismissive wave. “I never needed one of those.”

  “Because your ego wouldn’t fit on one,” Spencer puts in.

  “Or maybe I need space to exercise my natural charm,” Nolan says.

  “Or perhaps,” I say, resting my elbows on the bar behind me as I survey the scene, “it’s that people are aching to meet in person.”

  Eye contact matters. Chemistry is a thing. Hell, this milieu is a whole Venus flytrap, and it’s why my business is booming.

  This city is my oyster, full of pearls. And sometimes those pearls need a little help getting together.

  Inspired by the atmosphere and all the ideas I can crib from here for my next big soiree, including the music, I grab my phone from the inside jacket pocket. I dictate a voice note, tucking away the details for future me.

  “Consider a library and billiards. Perhaps a theme around old school,” I say into the device.

  Nolan barks a laugh, dropping a hand onto my shoulder. “Dude. Did you seriously just dictate a work note on a Saturday night? At Spencer’s masquerade event? For charity?”

  Busted. I groan, scrubbing a hand across my jaw as I tuck away the phone. I should have known better, and yet the addiction rules me. I am hooked on my self-made job, but it’s hardly work when you love what you do.

  And when it’s your penance too.

  “Easton, you know what the punishment is.” Spencer sighs heavily, but his green eyes twinkle like the devil.

  I gesture for him to bring it on, ready to take my punishment like a man. It won’t be the first time—once a workaholic, always a workaholic. “Give me my dare,” I say.

  Spencer strokes his chin, surveying the packed place. “I’m going to pick the absolute most difficult one for you to conquer.”

  My friend and my cousin huddle, then Spencer straightens and squares his shoulders, pointing to the smaller bar in the corner where his wife serves a long line of witches, cats, and superheroes. “Survey says it’s almost always impossible to win over the most independent woman of all—the one who’s here with a pack of friends.”

  My eyes swing around the establishment landing on . . .

  A flapper.

  Hello, lovely.

  A deliciously sexy woman leans a hip against the bar. A silvery cocktail dress hits above her knees, the fabric hugging her curves and tits. A long cigarette holder dangles between her fingers. Platinum blonde hair skims her chin in a bob and her pouty red lips shimmer. A feathered gold mask covers her nose and eyes, obscuring most of her face as she chats with an angel on her right, a devil on her left. A friendly smile curves her lips as she talks.

  “Hello, roaring twenties,” I murmur.

  Nolan elbows me. “Try to get your Daisy . . . but I bet you can’t.”

  You can’t figure out my costume, but you figured out hers?

  But I have more important matters to tend to than giving my friends a hard time.

  I’ve got a literary lady to meet and a bet to take on.

  “Consider it done,” I say with the confidence of a McLaren. Those cars know they’re cool.

  Spencer chuckles then slaps a Franklin on the bar. “A hundred says Daisy Buchanan won’t give you the time of day, let alone kiss you.”

  “Child’s play. I’ll start spending my dollars now.” Then, I set down the prop glass and leave the guys in my dust.

  2

  Daisy’s a Jerk

  I weave through the crowds to the sexy babe in silver, the sequined dress hugging her in the best kind of way.

  The tight way.

  As I go, I cycle through opening lines for a woman like her, bold enough to get dolled up in a costume hearkening back to prohibition, but clever enough to add a mask that covers most of her face. There’s no simple eye mask for her, and the choice adds to her mystery.

  That’ll be my opening—something about the intrigue of a woman who’s stepped out of the pages of a book.

  When I reach the blonde beauty, she peels away from her friends and stands defiantly before me. I meet her brown-eyed gaze and part my lips to speak.

  But she’s faster. “I never liked Jay Gatsby.”

  And the lady bats first.

  Also, accurately.

  I drag a finger along my tux lapel, modeled after the one Leo wore on the silver screen in Gatsby. “You’re the first to figure out my costume.”

  She shrugs easily. “It’s not really that hard.”

  “It’s not? My friends all went for ‘gangster.’”

  She eyes me up and down like she can’t believe anyone can’t get my costume. “You’re not hanging out with the right people if they can’t tell who you are.”