“How’s it going so far?”

  “Well? I hope?”

  She laughs. “There are a lot of question marks in there.”

  “That ought to tell you how it’s going.”

  She sets down the pen, folds her hands. “What’s next? Want to tell me so I can help you strategize?”

  Wow. She’s keen to help the guy who capsized her chance at love with Max? I’d always known she was a supporter of romance, of finding true love—but now I feel it in my bones. “You’d want to do that?”

  “Yes. I would. You did something few people do in business—or in life—today. You took responsibility for your shit. I admire that,” she says, then wiggles her fingers. “Serve it up to dear Angeline.”

  I’m not sure I deserve her help, but I’m damn grateful for it. “I would love your thoughts.”

  I give her the SparkNotes on Bellamy and me.

  When I’m done, Angeline dives right in. “So, she wants to see you tonight?”

  “She said she does.”

  “But she hasn’t let on why?”

  I shake my head. “Not a word.”

  “And she’s your main squeeze? Your steady? Your one?”

  “That’s my hope.”

  Her dark eyes twinkle. “Sometimes you have to take a chance.”

  At her words, a final piece of tonight’s puzzle crystallizes for me. “I couldn’t agree more,” I say. I seize the chance to share what just sparked in my brain. “Can I tell you what I was thinking of doing?”

  She stabs her desk with her finger. “You better.”

  I outline the idea for her, and Angeline’s grin smacks of complete approval. “You better go. Now.”

  She doesn’t need to tell me twice. “Thank you. For everything,” I say from the bottom of my heart.

  Then, with fleet feet, I take off for the theater in Chelsea. A third chance with Bellamy rests entirely on what happens next. Time to attempt to scale that wall. She is worth it. She’s worth everything.

  46

  Special Edition

  I fly out of the subway on Eighth Avenue, headed to the theater. I’m not due to meet Bellamy until after seven, but we’ve always played the get-there-early game. One-upmanship has been our thing since the beginning, and I hope it keeps working for us beyond today, beyond tomorrow.

  As I near the theater, I check the time again. Five forty-five. At six, she starts recording her special edition podcast before a live audience. This grovel fest I’m planning has three stages—the third one is the go-for-broke phase.

  Grabbing my phone, I click on the digital ticket I snagged last night. Admission to the show is free, but the event is sold out. Well, she is a popular podcaster. I bound up the steps, flash the screen at the ticket counter, then go inside.

  The full house lets me blend in. I head down the aisle, snagging a seat in the eighth row. Close, but not too close. A royal blue chair commands center stage, talk-show style, single host. Behind the chair hangs a banner—it’s a caricature of a woman bending to smooch one of the frogs that surround her.

  In the house are two podiums at each aisle, with mics set up on both for audience questions.

  The theater is packed, and just before six, a voice over the loudspeaker says, “Please take your seats. The five-hundredth episode of Bellamy Hart’s A Million Frogs is about to begin.”

  Bellamy has made a helluva name for herself. There’s a charge in the air, a spark of energy as the audience goes quiet, waiting for their romance goddess.

  The click of high heels comes from backstage.

  Gets louder.

  And Bellamy strides out into the light.

  The crowd goes wild. It’s electric, the reception they give the brunette in skinny jeans, a black top, and red heels. She’s beautiful, powerful, vulnerable . . . and open to love as she waves at the crowd.

  “Hey there, dear listeners! It is so good to see all of you.” Bellamy stops, blows out a breath. “Wow. Just look at you. I am a lucky lady. And I am pleased to be your Most Devoted Guide to Romance. What a treat to be here tonight for a live, special edition. Did you bring your questions?”

  The audience roars, and my heart thumps.

  Pride suffuses me. I can’t stop grinning. I’m so amazed at what she’s pulled off. Building this show. Nurturing this dream. Damn good thing she went to Bryn to wrestle all this back. She deserves full control of her production, and I’m so glad she has it.

  Glad, too, that she hasn’t spotted me yet.

  I wait patiently as she talks about the upcoming cuffing season, then as she shares new tips for dating profiles. Ten minutes in, she takes a seat, flashes her winning smile, and says in a playful, sexy purr: “But that’s not why you’re here, is it? I think I know why. You want to ask me questions, right?”

  The audience cheers.

  She crosses her legs, and beckons with her fingers. “Hit me up, dear listeners.” With a delighted grin, she squints, scanning the crowd as arms shoot up. “Oh, I see you came armed and ready, did ya?”

  She continues her visual tour of the crowd, and when her eyes reach me, she does a double take. But she’s not a pro for nothing. She’s deep in the host zone as she tackles the first question from the audience with a professional grin.

  A line forms at both podiums, and I get up and join at the back of the queue. As the clock ticks, audience members toss out their questions, and Bellamy seamlessly answers them all with charm, wit, and honesty.

  Finally, it’s my turn at the mic.

  The woman who owns my heart and dick gestures to me. “Hey, there, cowboy. What brings you here tonight?”

  Cowboy.

  That term of endearment sends my heart racing.

  Here goes everything. Fuck nerves. Fuck worries. Fuck fucking up. “If a man embarked on a great grovel quest to make up for screwing things up with a woman, when would an ideal time be for a big gesture?” But before she can answer, I tack on an addendum. “For instance, would you say tomorrow? Or later tonight? Or, say, just off the top of my head, right now?”

  She presses her lips together like she needs to contain her smile or she’ll burst. “I’d say . . .” She stops to flick some hair off her shoulder, then to cross her legs, and I know what she’s doing. She’s the cat playing with the mouse, because of course she is, and I love it. “I’d say right now would be a good idea.”

  Well, then. It’s showtime. “Let me start, then, by saying . . . you were right.”

  Her brow creases; she’s not sure what I’m getting at and that’s good. “Tell me more,” she says.

  “You were right when you said you could fall in love online. And I said in person was better because of chemistry.”

  “Keep going,” she says, gesturing for me to elaborate.

  “I met a woman in real life—at a party, of all places. And I was so cocky, so damn sure I could prove that the in-person chemistry we felt that night was the key to our romance. But the thing is—I fell in love with her online, through letters. So many love letters.”

  I tell her and everyone is listening to how it happened. How we happened. “I read them all the other day, and not only did they remind me I was an absolute fool if I didn’t do everything in the universe to win her back, but they, too, reminded me that we fell in love through email. Digitally. And so, I came here tonight to tell her—” I stop, then drop the pretense. “I came to tell you . . . that you won the bet. I’m here for my public reckoning. And here goes . . . You were right, you were right, you were right. You can fall in love online. It happened to me, and I want to stay in love.” I meet her gaze, and I step off the cliff, flying blind. “I hope you do too.”

  The audience loses its cool. They roar. They scream. They cheer to the rafters.

  “Say yes!”

  “If you don’t want him, I do.”

  “I call sloppy seconds.”

  Bellamy dips her head, maybe embarrassed, but mostly looking stunned. When she lifts her face, she’s all smiles while her fans shout and scream.

  When they quiet down, she collects herself. “But how do we know who won or lost? If I remember, we said we’d have to determine the winner of the bet, but we didn’t say how. How do we decide who is the happiest with their romantic outcome?”

  There’s a familiar challenge in her tone, but also warmth. Like she’s holding her arms open wide.

  Hope balloons inside me. “There’s really only one way to determine the winner.”

  “And what’s that way?” She’s playful now, my teasing, tempting Bellamy.

  I roll the dice one more time. “A kiss. Sometimes you have to kiss the frog.”

  Even with the distance, she radiates joy, from the spark in her eyes to the curve in her lips. She takes a breath and shoots me a saucy look. “Then you better get up here and kiss me senseless, cowboy.”

  I’m so there.

  I race up the steps, reach for her hand, and tug her up from her chair. The audience shrieks as I bring her close and cup her cheek.

  Everything is right in the world as I sweep my lips over hers.

  And I kiss her—the kind of kiss that’s like declaring your love on a neon billboard in Times Square.

  Like you’re writing it across the sky.

  That’s how I feel as I kiss the woman who took me back.

  When I break the kiss, I whisper, “I missed you.”

  “I missed you too.”

  “Then how about we declare a winner of our bet?”

  She presses another kiss to my lips, slow and soft and deep. Then she sighs, presses her forehead to mine, and says, “We both won.”

  I’ll say.

  An hour and a half later, Bellamy says goodbye to the last guest, a guy who looks like he belongs on the cover of GQ.

  “Thanks again for coming, Monroe. I’m psyched you could make it.”

  “I never miss one of your podcasts. They’re incredibly . . . enlightening,” he says. Then he nods to the theater exit. “I should go. Someone’s waiting for me at home.”

  “I’d tell you to romance her, but I know you will.” She catches my gaze and gives me a warm smile. “Monroe, this is Easton. My guy,” she says, with that purr in her voice.

  The magazine model laughs as he extends a hand. “Yes, I gathered that. Impressive stuff there at the podium. I may need to use you as a new case study in my practice.”

  I lift an eyebrow, intrigued. “Life goals realized. Are you a doctor?”

  “I was.” He takes a hesitant beat. “Or really, I still am. I’ve just shifted my specialty.”

  “And you should come on my show to talk about your specialty,” Bellamy sings out.

  Monroe laughs, a laugh that says don’t bet on it. “I’ll leave you two. I suspect you have lots of catching up to do.” With a wink, he claps my shoulder. “And I mean it. You’d make a great case study. But I’ll let Bellamy tell you more about that.”

  He leaves, and I’ll ask about him later. But not now because, finally—fucking finally—I can get Bellamy out of here.

  Or maybe not, because as I scan the empty theater, a dirty idea demands attention.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she says playfully, sliding up against me, fingers tap-dancing on my chest.

  “That’s not hard to guess,” I say.

  Her hand doubles back the other way, down to squeeze my bulge. “It is hard, though.”

  “Sweetheart, that’s a given with you.”

  “Good. Keep it up.”

  My gaze drifts to her hand. “If you keep that up, so will I.”

  “Sounds like a deal.”

  A quick glance around tells me we’re alone, and I’m tempted, so damn tempted. “Is this why you asked me to meet you here when your podcast ended? To get me all alone and have your wicked way with me?”

  “No, I do have some wicked plans. But I wanted to see you because I have something to ask you.” She lets go of me, her expression turning less playful, more vulnerable.

  “Ask me anything.”

  She lifts her chin, smiles warmly. “Will you take me home tonight?”

  I only have one word for her, and it fills me with joy to say it: “Yes.”

  But once we’re there, it turns out she has other questions too.

  47

  All Paid Up

  One of her questions, I answer in bed.

  “Yes, I’ll fuck you hard,” I say as I slide into her.

  She moans gorgeously, a throaty, sensual sound as she curls her hands over my shoulders, gripping me. “And will you give it to me good?”

  Swiveling my hips, I slide almost all the way out, pausing for a tantalizing few seconds before I plunge in. “This good enough for you?”

  The answer comes in a sexy gasp as she stretches her neck, exposing all that gorgeous flesh for kissing. I heed the call, licking and sucking her honeysuckle skin as I move in her, going deeper.

  Her hands slide into my hair, and she weaves her fingers through the strands, holding tight as she moans and murmurs, “So good. But it’d be better . . . like this.”

  With the finesse of a dancer and the speed of the horny, she hooks her feet on my shoulders.

  Yes. Fucking yes.

  I drive deep into her. A high-voltage charge sparks in my body. I’m not far off, but I am determined to make everything so damn good for her.

  Listening to her cues, reading her body, I keep a pace that drives her wild, that makes her writhe. Her face twists with agony, with the relentless chase of pleasure. When her eyes flicker open, those brown irises flash with passion, heat, and everything I didn’t know I could handle.

  But now I know I can, and I want it all—this real love.

  And as she whispers my name in a sultry, beautiful voice, I can’t fight the outcome any longer. Good thing she’s right there with me as we come together.

  Later, we’re both boneless . . . laughing . . . happy. I drop a kiss onto her cheek. “Will you fuck me hard? Was that really the question you had for me?”

  She shakes her head. “My real question is this.” She shifts to prop herself onto an elbow, head in her hand. “Will you be mine?”

  And the answer is . . .

  “Yes.”

  In the morning, I reach for the door, ready to take off. Bellamy glides up to me, kisses my jawline, then my nose, then my lips. “By the way, you were wrong about something.”

  “Me? Wrong? Hard to imagine.”

  “I hear it happens now and then,” she says saucily.

  “Do tell.”

  With a grin, she grabs my shirt. “I love both plays and musicals equally.”

  “But I was right about Hemingway, wasn’t I?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Like that was a real puzzler.”

  I laugh, then grab her hip and haul her close. “I love you.”

  “And I love you. And I especially love that you came to my podcast and professed it on air,” she says.

  “I always make good on my bets.”

  “That’s not why I liked it,” she says, turning more serious.

  “Why did you like it?”

  “Because . . . I love love.” She spreads her hand over my heart. “And that’s what you gave me last night.”

  That heart thunders under her palm, and I give her the kind of kiss she deserves. When we separate, I think back to last night one more time. “By the way, who was that guy Monroe? Someone you work with?”

  She laughs lightly. “He’s in the same biz. The romance biz. Have you heard of Doctor Romance?”

  “No, but that’s a great name.”

  “That’s Monroe. He’s sort of an underground romance . . . guru.” She brings a finger to her lips. “But keep it quiet. He’s kind of a secret, but he has a long list of clients who swear by his services. If they’re lucky enough to get on his roster.”

  “Like you need a secret handshake?”

  “Exactly. I’m pretty sure he has quite a story to tell.”

  “Maybe I’ll hear it someday. Until then . . . dinner tonight?”

  She gives me her yes, and I cherish it.

  The next weekend, I grab a stool at The Lucky Spot before happy hour and open my wallet. From behind the bar, Spencer asks what’s up? with his eyes.

  I don’t say a word—just fish through the bills.

  The first one, then the next, then another.

  “Oh, yes, come to Papa,” Spencer says, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together. “Why don’t I call Nolan? Let him join in the pay-off.”

  “Be my guest.”

  A minute later, our friend with the glasses smiles gleefully on Spencer’s phone screen as he walks past a purple Victorian home in San Francisco. “I’ll take my payout via Venmo, thank you very much, Easton. But I do like the way greenbacks look. Thank you for showing me some hot money porn.”

  I waggle ten bills in front of him. “One thousand bucks gets you hard?”

  He lets his tongue loll out. “I just came.”

  Spencer cracks up. “Classy, Nolan.”

  “That’s me. I’m always a class act,” he says, then a feminine hand comes down on his shoulder.

  “He’s literally never classy,” Emerson says, popping into the shot.

  “We know that,” Spencer and I say in unison.

  “Hey! There’s the food truck I want to check out. Be right back,” she says, then dips out of the shot.

  Nolan’s gaze follows her for a few lingering seconds before he returns to us. “I predicted you’d cry in your cereal when you let Bellamy get away,” he says, then holds up a finger. “But good on you, man. You got her back.”

  Across the bar from me, Spencer lifts a glass of water. “Let’s toast to knowing when you’ve got the real thing and being smart enough to hold on to it.”

  I lift a glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

  Coco isn’t the loudest at her birthday party. TJ isn’t either. Nor is Bellamy.

  The winner of the most raucous award is my little sister as she orders a lap dance from Leo at Stallions and Studs.

  And does he ever give her the business.