“That’s what I told them. How did you figure it out?”

  “Because, like Gatsby, you are trying way too hard,” she says, punctuating each word with those shiny red lips, and challenging me just like that.

  And I like it.

  I rest my elbow against the table. “Well, Daisy,” I say in a knowing tone, checking out her costume, “aren’t we quite the pair, then.”

  She lifts her chin, her hair moving perfectly with the movement. What color is her hair under that blonde wig? Is it long or short? Wavy or straight? “For the millionth time, I’m not Daisy,” she insists.

  I arch a brow, though she can’t see it beneath my mask. “A million people have asked?”

  “It’s hyperbole,” she says drily.

  “All right, fine. If you’re not Daisy . . . you must be . . .” I take a beat to roam my eyes shamelessly up and down her figure, my gaze landing on the sleek, black object between her fingers. “A cigarette girl?”

  “No.”

  “A famous flapper from history? How about Betty Boop?”

  “Please,” she says, then flicks some strands of her light hair. “Betty was a brunette.”

  “Zelda Fitzgerald, then?” I ask.

  “If you’re guessing an author, you’re just showing off,” she says, staring at me with those chocolate irises and the barest hint of a grin. One she’s clearly trying to fight off.

  “I don’t see the problem with that,” I quip.

  “So, you admit you’re a showoff?” Oh, she is a spitfire, all rat-a-tat-tat with words.

  “It’s a masquerade. Aren’t we all show-offs? Pretty sure a costume party by its very nature lures the extroverts among us.”

  “Sounds like a Book of the Month pick—The Extrovert Among Us,” she says in a highfalutin, PBS announcer tone.

  “Wouldn’t you pick up that title?” I toss back.

  “No. I prefer a good love story. You know how the saying goes. You have to kiss a lot of frogs.”

  I’d like to test that saying tonight. “You’re not wrong there.”

  Tossing her head back, she laughs, but she might be laughing at me. “You’re persistent.”

  “You’re correct.” Then I eye her, stem to stern. “If you’re not Daisy, you’re a flapper. And I bet the reason you aren’t Daisy is a simple one.”

  Straightening her shoulders, she makes a go on gesture. “And what is this simple reason?”

  “Daisy was a jerk.”

  She holds her hands out wide, a smile lighting her face. Her eyes twinkle with delight. “Thank you! At last, someone realizes that fatal flaw in a Daisy Buchanan costume. Or, really, in the character herself. She’s a terrible example of a heroine.”

  “She’s selfish, weak, and a poor mother,” I supply.

  “You’ve read the book.” She breathes a sigh of relief, but then lasers her eyes in my direction. “I’m not sure Jay’s any better, though.”

  “Did you spot me across the room?”

  She laughs lightly as if that’s the silliest thing. “No. That would imply I was looking. I only noticed you when you made a beeline for me.” And I’m getting hot under the collar from her dressing down. “Then, I could tell instantly.”

  With a hum of appraisal, but definitely not approval, she lifts a hand and runs her finger down the front of my jacket. I’d like her to keep that up even as she takes me apart. “The suit is exactly like Leonardo DiCaprio’s in the movie. You’ve even got his smirky grin down. Though you have dark hair, you’re otherwise a dead ringer. I bet you even left behind a coupe glass at the bar.”

  My God, sharp women rev my engine. “Some costumes call for accessories.”

  She lifts her cigarette holder, showing off her cherry-red nails. “They do.”

  The woman talks like sex, looks like a dirty dream, and fires barbs like she’s in a darts championship.

  It seems so wrong to take my friends’ money when I win this wager. Because, mark my words, she will be mine.

  “But,” she adds, taking her time with that word, like a cat stretching in the sun, “the costume, like Gatsby, has its flaws.”

  Fine. I’ll bite. “Tell me what’s missing, then.”

  “The flaw is thinking you can have it all,” she says, coolly and in control.

  Time for me to take the wheel. “Now that you’ve psychoanalyzed my costume, I’ve got a theory about yours.” With a nod, I indicate her enticing get-up.

  “Go on,” she says, sensual and inviting, playing with her kill.

  “A woman who chooses a costume so open to interpretation likes a little bit of mystery,” I say. “Maybe, even, she doesn’t want to be . . . known.”

  The flapper arches a brow. “Hmmm. Perhaps you should have dressed as Freud.”

  I offer a satisfied smile. “I’d even go so far as to say a woman with multiple interpretations likes the many versions of her masquerading self.”

  “Oh, wow,” she deadpans. “We’re venturing deep into the subconscious, I see.”

  “Deep is better than shallow,” I say with gravel in my voice, lingering on the double meaning.

  She flicks some strands of her hair. “A woman needs a bit of armor against the Gatsbys of the world. So perhaps you’re not far off in your assessment. You with your tux and your raspy voice and your blue eyes and your cocky attitude.”

  Dress me all the way down, Not-Daisy. I like it. You are the most fun I’ve had in ages.

  “I like armor. And the idea of mystery. I also don’t mind complicated literary characters. Even selfish ones. Even ones who don’t get a happy ending.” I take a beat, a familiar heaviness weighing on me. “Those are rare in life. And that possibility can keep a man on his toes. I, for one, like being kept on my toes.”

  She leans her elbows against the table, takes her time answering. “So you came all the way over here to tell me that love is unpredictable?”

  “I have many theories on love, but I didn’t come over to discuss them.”

  She lifts her chin. “Then why are you here?”

  I don’t want this chance with her to end. I want it to fill up my night, so I gesture to the back room of the bar. “To see if you’d like to play blackjack or pool.”

  “Sure. That is, if you like to lose . . .”

  “Depends on the game,” I say.

  She licks her lush red lips, takes a step closer to me, curls her fingers around my lapel once more. “One hundred bucks says I beat you.”

  Her heated gaze could launch a thousand erections, and I would bet a grand that I’ll be hard all night, but I don’t want to reveal all my dirty thoughts so soon. “It’s on, Daisy.”

  We head to the games room, weaving through the crowd. No one else is playing now, so I go straight to the cue holder on the wall, select a stick for myself, and offer one to the woman in silver.

  “Ladies first.” I lean in close enough to catch a whiff of her scent—a little like honeysuckle, citrusy with hints of something sweet. It weaves into my mind with its promise of nighttime secrets.

  “Such a gentleman.” She takes the cue but sets it down to rack the balls on the felt. Then she picks up the stick, breaks, and one by one, lands her first four shots.

  I drag a hand down my face. Fuck me. “A flapper and a pool shark,” I say, and I whistle in admiration.

  She misses the fifth shot but doesn’t lose her cool. “Your turn, mister.”

  I line up the green ball, send it spinning into the corner pocket. Then I get a few more shots in before I miss. And, sure enough, the lady runs the table and pockets the eight ball. Bet she’s waggling her brows in victory behind that feathered mask. She blows on the end of the pool cue. “Every woman should have a special skill,” she says, then rubs her thumb and forefinger together. “Hand it over, Gatsby.”

  I reach into my wallet for a bill to slap into her palm just as Spencer’s wife, Charlotte, speaks over the bar’s mic, calling the patrons to attention. “And now, it’s time for the costume contest. We’ve got zombies and dragons, belles and gentlemen, cowboys and cowgirls, and more.”

  Moments later, Charlotte sashays into the games room, wearing a slinky skirt, a tight white blouse, and glasses. She’s a sexy librarian, no doubt, especially when she claps a hand on my shoulder, then glances at the woman next to me. “Jay and Daisy, you really should enter the couples’ costume contest. A thousand-dollar cash prize goes to the charity of your choice.”

  As Charlotte continues to the small stage in the games room, I turn to the pool shark, meeting her gaze through the feathered mask. A competitive spark lights her brown eyes even as she protests under her breath. “We’re not Daisy and Jay.”

  “Give in tonight, Not-Daisy.” I reach for the black feather boa draped around her neck and run my fingers along the soft fluff. I continue the trail down her arm and her breath hitches. “For tonight, we could be that doomed literary couple.”

  Her lips part silently, but her eyes say she’s considering my offer. Her body says she likes the skim of my fingertips along her skin. “C’mon. What’s your favorite charity?”

  “Literacy for Youth.”

  I bring my face inches from hers, whispering, “That’s . . . hot.”

  Then, I back up an inch or two and flip her feather boa around her neck, watching her closely. Her eyes widen behind her mask, tracking my hand as I let go. Goose bumps rise on her skin. She’s as affected by our chemistry as I am.

  “Daisy’s still a jerk,” she mutters.

  “And Jay doesn’t get the girl. But really, all we have to do is be who everyone thinks you are, and who no one thinks I am,” I say. Our eyes lock through our masks. “What do you say? Let’s give in for a few minutes.”

  She takes my arm, and we sign up for the contest.

  3

  Affairs of the Dick

  Spencer bounds to the stage, mic in hand, the lemons bobbing against his shirt.

  “And let’s give it up for Bonnie and Clyde.” My cousin claps loudly, drumming up a round of applause for the outlaw couple traipsing off the small stage. “Audience vote determines the winner.”

  The crowd claps loudly for the outlaws. “They look good, Daisy,” I tell my partner from our spot at the edge of the stage.

  “But we’ll look better,” the woman says, all brazen confidence.

  She goes from breathless one second to kickass the next. Who is this woman behind the feathered mask?

  As we wait for the next couple, I wrap a hand loosely around her wrist, enjoying that touch. Her name. I need her name. “Are you going to tell me—”

  But I stop there.

  There’s something so deliciously sexy about her.

  About us.

  About this night.

  Why break the spell? She is whoever she is, and that’s all I need to know.

  She lifts her chin expectantly. “Am I going to tell you . . . what?”

  “Tell me if you’ll ever come to one of my grand parties? I’m throwing them for you after all.” I channel Leo-as-Gatsby, leaning into our roles, but I’m telling the entire truth. I would love to see her at one of my very own Carpe Diem fêtes.

  “Maybe I am. You did buy the house to stalk me,” says Daisy-For-Now as she adjusts my bow tie.

  While she fiddles with the material, I stare shamelessly at her lips, red and slick. I bet they taste like cherries.

  I could stare all night, but the iron spike in my tux pants wouldn’t be a good look on stage.

  I focus on the contest. Two men dressed as the Blues Brothers bound up the steps. After Spencer introduces them, they kiss each other, earning thunderous applause.

  Next are Beyoncé and Jay-Z lookalikes. Spencer plays a mashup of both the artists’ songs as the couple struts across the stage. Their applause is solid but not enough to take the lead from the guys.

  Now it’s down to the flapper and me.

  Before we go, I grab her hand. “You want to win?”

  “Always,” she purrs.

  I lean close to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Kissing seems to work for the audience,” I whisper.

  “All this for a kiss?”

  I run my knuckles along her jaw. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with if you think I wouldn’t move heaven and earth just to kiss you.”

  Her eyes say she doubts me, but when she sways a little closer, her body says she wants me to move mountains for her. “You’re right. I have no clue. But you have no idea if we’d be any good at kissing.”

  I know this much, though—I like bets and I like winning. “Maybe not, but I’m a betting kind of man.”

  “Then I guess you’ll have to take your chances with me,” she says as Spencer starts our introduction.

  “Walking straight from the pages of the great American novel, or Baz Luhrmann’s film set, it’s Jay Gatsby and Daisy Buchanan,” he booms.

  We stroll across the stage as the music swells with the opening notes from the film. Spencer doesn’t fuck around.

  I feel a bit like Jay entering his massive soiree, watching the scene unfold before him.

  There’s no time like the present. That’s what the last few years have taught me. Seize every chance. They don’t come around twice.

  My flapper turns, sidles up against me, grabs my lapel. “Come and get it,” she whispers.

  I believe I will.

  I rope my arm around her back to haul her against me. The crowd goes wild before I even drop my lips to hers.

  Yes, New York City, this is what the dating apps will never deliver. Chemistry. Contact. The spark and the sizzle.

  I run a thumb along her jaw and bring my mouth to hers. As I close my eyes, I dust a soft, sexy kiss to her kissable lips. She murmurs deliciously as I prolong the moment, like she’s humming with the prospect of pleasure.

  The kiss doesn’t last too long. Maybe one, two, three enticingly fantastic seconds before I break it. But the audience roars like a deafening drum.

  My other half grabs my bow tie, tugs me against her again, and steals another kiss. Her lips hunt mine in a determined, devouring kiss that sends a hot spark of pleasure down my spine.

  Straight to my dick.

  Hello, gorgeous mystery woman, meet my cock, who likes you very much.

  Judging from the way she’s melting in my arms, this night is heading in the horizontal direction once we leave this stage.

  “Get a room, get a room,” Spencer calls out, and we wrench apart for real this time.

  The crowd goes wilder.

  She looks dazed, her brown eyes all lust-drunk and glossy, her lips bruised, her red lipstick smeared.

  I take her hand and guide her off the stage with only one goal in mind.

  Take. Her. Home.

  But not a moment later, Spencer calls us back on stage. “And the winners of the costume contest are the flapper and the gangster, aka Daisy and Jay,” he says.

  My date claps in excitement. She seems to embrace the win from deep within her soul.

  When we leave the game room, I grab her hand. “Let me buy you a drink.”

  “A drink sounds perfect. I’ll have a . . . Macallan,” she says.

  That’s . . . oddly specific. Macallan is my habitual order and not exactly common. But I go with it when we reach the bar, motioning for the bartender, who quickly brings us two.

  I lift my tumbler in a toast. “To costumes and mystery.”

  She clinks back. “I have a theory about costumes too,” she says after she drinks, returning to our earlier topic.

  “Do tell.”

  “I think sometimes we have to pretend to be something else to get what we really want.”

  “And what do you really want?”

  “What everyone does.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Oh, you know. Fun. A good time. Adventure. And, most of all, a happy ending,” she says. “So, how does the night end happily for you, mister?”

  I lift a brow, letting my gaze answer her question as I stare at her lips. “I hope the same way it does for you.”

  She sets down her glass, licks the corner of her lips. “Then tell me one thing before we have this . . . happy ending tonight,” she says, gesturing to the door, the only direction I want to go with her. Out.

  “Name it.”

  She smiles at me like she’s been in on some private joke all along. “Your friends dared you to kiss me.”

  It’s a statement, not a question. She’s good—really fucking good. “No, I chose to,” I say, holding my ground.

  Her eyes are doubtful. “I don’t believe you. Do you know how I know?”

  “How do you know?” A tiny bit of worry trips through me. She might have figured me out.

  She slides closer, her body inches from mine. “I was watching you earlier, Gatsby. Watching you watching me. I saw the bill go down on the bar.” She nods to the scene of the bet a mere hour ago. “I saw you walk over. And I hope you enjoy your hundred. After all, I got what I wanted.”

  Holy fuck. She played me. She fucking played me beautifully. “And what’s that?”

  “A donation to charity,” she says.

  “That’s all you wanted?”

  “Well. I didn’t mind this.”

  She rises on her tiptoes and gives me a wet, deep kiss. My skin flashes hot, then even hotter when she runs her hand through my hair, hauls me closer, kisses me harder.

  When she ends the kiss, her lipstick is a mess and I love the look on her.

  “Number,” I say roughly, dazed by her passionate kiss. “Give me your number. Give me your name. I want to see you again. Tonight. Any night.”

  She looks kiss-drunk too, but she quickly blinks away the fog. “No.”

  I stare. “What?” I can’t have heard right.

  “I don’t want to be your bet, Gatsby,” she says, adjusting my bow tie. With a last pat, she spins on her heel and heads for the door.

  No fucking way.

  I won’t let her go.

  I slice through the crowds after her, tracking her silhouette as she moves like a cat.

  “Oh, Easton, that’s gotta hurt,” Nolan calls out, chuckling.