Tonight, though, this savvy businesswoman needs to talk to a friend.

  Because when Presley walks in, slumps on a stool, and heaves a sigh, all my friend antennae twitch an alert.

  “Let me guess. Guy trouble?”

  “How could you tell?” She pretends to sniff her shirt. “Is it a new scent I'm giving off?”

  “No, but that would be a fun name for a drink. Note to self: craft a new cocktail named Guy Trouble.”

  “Yeah, and serve it to me,” she says as she drags a hand through her chestnut hair.

  I grab a bottle of tequila. “Any drink named Guy Trouble should start with tequila.”

  “Because tequila burns?”

  “It sure does.”

  “Just like exes.”

  I arch a curious brow. “Ex as in the most recent ex, or someone else?”

  She takes a beat, her jaw tight. “Ex as in way back. All the way back. Remember Hunter?”

  I nearly drop the bottle. “Hunter? Hunter as in the Hunter?”

  She scoff-laughs. “Yep. The Hunter.”

  “That was more than ten years ago. How is he giving you trouble now? You haven’t heard a word from him. I thought he was in Nepal or New Zealand or wherever his show takes him.”

  “He’s always somewhere, except now, he’s going to be here.” She stabs the counter with her finger. “My boss just contracted with him to work on a huge new project. Guess who else is heading up that huge new project?”

  “Um, gee. Could it be you?”

  She lets her face fall to the bar. “I need a double.”

  “Double trouble.”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what he is.” She lifts her face. “Have I mentioned he’s still gorgeous?”

  “You don’t have to. I see him on billboards.”

  “You’re not helpful.”

  I waggle the bottle. “Oh, yes, I am. Because I have the tequila. Let’s mix up your Guy Trouble and come up with a plan.”

  After all, I’m on the other side of guy trouble. And if I can help a friend figure out her boy problems, I’m more than happy to do that. Especially since my biggest boy problem these days is how I’m going to fit through the doorway. One baby boy is nearly done baking in my belly, and I can’t wait to meet my son someday soon, hopefully before I can no longer reach past my belly to pour drinks.

  Jason was all too happy to pay up on that bet with his coworker. After all, a gentleman always makes good on his wagers.

  AND ONE MORE EPILOGUE

  Truly

  The number of things a woman will do to impress a man can be quite extensive.

  They border on the ridiculous (waking up twenty minutes early to put on a full face of makeup lest he see you less than perfect) to the insane (claiming you like preseason basketball).

  No one enjoys preseason basketball.

  Also . . . dog-earing the pages of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance so it looks like you read it? Or declaring you dig Bret Easton Ellis?

  Ladies, we can do better.

  That means you shouldn’t ever feel pressured to say, “Sure, I’ll be happy to watch Blade Runner with you.”

  You never have to pretend you like that film.

  Fortunately, I don’t have to fake it on any of these, and I’m grateful. When I talk to women at one of my two bars (Bisou and Gin Joint are rocking hard. Yay, woman power!), I tell them the same.

  When they ask for advice, because that’s just something they all want from the master mixologist pouring their drinks, the main thing I tell women is this: be yourself.

  After all, don’t you want a guy or gal to love you for you?

  That’s what I have with my man. Jason loves all my quirks, all my insanity, and everything that makes me . . . me.

  That’s the coolest thing. Because when you find the person who’s your perfect match, you also find you’re not so inclined to spend all hours curled up with a computer or a spreadsheet.

  But my husband?

  Oh yes. I like spending my nights with him, and my mornings too. Especially when we’re making pancakes.

  I might be referring to the song.

  It might also be a euphemism for something else we do a lot of.

  After all, we’re still madly in love, and this kind of love is the ultimate instant gratification.

  THE END

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Big thanks to Lauren Clarke, Jen McCoy, Helen Williams, Kim Bias, Virginia, Lynn, Karen, Tiffany, Janice, Stephanie and more for their eyes. Big thanks to Helen for the beautiful cover. Thank you to Kelley and Candi, KP and Jenn. Massive hugs to Laurelin Paige. As always, my readers make everything possible. Songs referenced in this book are in the public domain. The exception is the pancake song. That is written by Andi Arndt. Who is awesome.

  PART-TIME LOVER

  ABOUT

  It was only supposed to be a marriage of convenience...

  Let me just say, this whole part-time lover thing was her idea. I’d have gone all-in from the start, but hey, when a gorgeous, brilliant woman invites you into her bed, and only her bed…well, I said yes.

  But then, one hysterical phone call from my brother later, begging me to find myself a wife so grandfather’s business stays in the family, and I need a promotion with Elise. Turns out a full-time husband suits her needs too, and a temporary marriage of convenience ought to do the trick, until we can simply untie the knot…

  As long as no one finds out…

  As long as no one gets hurt…

  As long as no one falls in love…

  But our ending was one I never saw coming.

  PART-TIME LOVER

  By Lauren Blakely

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  Did you know this book is also available in audio and paperback on all major retailers? Go to my website for links!

  1

  ELISE

  A year ago

  Something about the last night in a foreign city makes you want to do crazy things. You want to drink it all in and taste every single dish on the menu. After all, tomorrow you’ll be gone.

  Left with only memories.

  The last night is the last stop on the merry-go-round of memory-making.

  The last afternoon is too, and as the sun careens mercilessly toward the horizon, it’s a reminder that I need to jam everything in.

  “Do you feel like going a little bit wild?” I ask Veronica.

  She wiggles her eyebrows. “If you mean day drinking, we’ve already done that.”

  I wag my finger as we stroll down the middle of a cobbled street. “One glass of wine at lunch does not constitute day drinking.”

  “No? That seems the very definition.”

  I link an arm through hers. “One glass is simply a beverage at lunch. The meter doesn’t start on day drinking until you hit two glasses, silly goose.”

  “How good to know the scale for lushness,” she says drily as she stops to stare at a handbag in the Prada store window.

  I give her a few seconds to worship at the altar of designer goods. “In any case, I was thinking we ought to do something we’ve never done before.”

  She snaps her gaze from the far-too-expensive leather item she’ll never buy and presses a hand demurely to her chest, batting her hazel eyes innocently. “I’m not that kind of girl.”

  I laugh. “As if.”

  “I know. You like your sausage too much.”

  “As do you. You’re practically a butcher,” I say as we sidestep a pair of strapping, chiseled blond men, who look like twin models for Scandinavian Design’s "Catalog of Men—Denmark.” Their blue eyes linger on both of us, and one smiles and offers a confident, “Hello.”

  “Hello to you too,” I say with a grin.

  They continue in their direction and we head in ours. “Should we wander down the streets and say hello to random hot men?” Veronica offers.

  “I don’t think that’s a bad idea, but no, that’s not my notion of wild.”

  This urge to have one wild night is in complete contrast to the purpose of the three-days-in-Copenhagen getaway Veronica insisted I needed.

  It’s been a year since . . .

  I shake away the dark thought.

  Anniversaries of horrible days require trips. And day drinking. And refocusing on things that you control.

  “If I want to explore the travel sector more at work, I need to know even more about this city, so I can advertise it better. What if we take one of those buffet boat tours?”

  She laughs. “What’s a buffet boat tour?”

  “A buffet of landmarks. All-your-eyes-can-eat.” As we near the wide square at the end of the block, I point to the red booth advertising canal tours. I play my ace. “It’s like a crash course in Copenhagen, and we’ll make sure we haven’t missed a single thing. It’ll help me win new business. You know I need to focus on work.”

  She smiles in understanding. “Anything for you when you prey on my sympathies.” She marches up to the fire-engine-red booth and purchases two tickets for the next tour, then we head down the concrete steps to the boat.

  The blond guide with shoulder-length hair flashes a bright smile as we step onboard, his name tag glinting in the afternoon sun. “Good afternoon, ladies.”

  “Lars, she’s no lady.” Veronica points to me and winks.

  “Ladies or not, you’re both welcome on my ship as long as you promise to enjoy the sights.”

  “We will. Also, you’re handsome, Lars.” Veronica is a shameless flirt.

  “Thank you very much, and I’ll enjoy the sights as well.” It seems Lars is a flirt too. His blue-eyed gaze lingers on my friend with the hourglass figure and pretty eyes as we take our seats.

  We wait for the boat to fill, but only a handful of others join us. An older couple sports cameras around their necks and matching I Heart Copenhagen backpacks. There is also a gaggle of twenty-something women wearing college sweatshirts and some Japanese tourists.

  I lean back in the cushioned seat, dropping my sunglasses to shield my eyes as the boat peels away from the dock. As we slide over the placid water, Lars regales us with tales of royal families and scandals, pointing out the city’s sights. I lean closer to Veronica and whisper, “Will you pick up where you left off with the handsome boat captain?”

  Lars suffers from an affliction common to many men in Denmark. He’s a cut above average in the looks department. Let the record reflect, the Danes make the best-looking men.

  “Of course. I’m going to talk to him when the tour ends.”

  “Excellent. I love your planning skills.”

  The boat slides under another bridge then motors through a more residential area, passing homes on the water and private docks every few feet. My eyes hungrily eat up the view. My current hometown of Paris is my love, but I could get used to weekends in Copenhagen. It’s a delightful mix of old and new, like a Swiss alpine town mated with a futuristic sky-rise city.

  As I gaze at the sun-soaked homes, I imagine lazy afternoons drinking strong coffee on the deck, reading delicious tales under the rays. That seems like a recipe for happiness for the rest of my days.

  I want to feel that way. Happy. It’s been so damn elusive lately, and for a fleeting moment, it feels as if I grasp it again, so I’m no longer teetering on the edge of grief and shame.

  But that’s why I’m here, to move past that terrible duet.

  I try valiantly to simply enjoy everything in front of me: the buildings, the water, the view.

  As we round the bend in the canal, I blink at the view.

  Holy hell, the unexpected view.

  Nearby is a private dock.

  On that dock is a man.

  He’s performing a downward-facing dog, and his rear is facing us.

  What a spectacular ass.

  It’s not covered in sweatpants or basketball shorts.

  It’s au naturel, as finely sculpted as the statue of David.

  He’s a dog all right.

  I sit up.

  I practically stand. I lean on the edge of the boat, agog. I won’t even pretend I’m not looking. I’m ogling.

  The Japanese friends whisper and point. The couple shifts closer to get a better look. The college girls titter and laugh.

  We slide along on the calm water, and now we’re fifty feet away from a sight way better than the Little Mermaid statue, more magnificent than the royal palace.

  He bends forward, pressing his palms into the wood, lifting his legs, and flipping them upside down.

  Full. Frontal. Birthday suit.

  He’s a tall drink of man, and I’m so very thirsty.

  “Look,” I whisper to Veronica, though of course she’s already engaged in the fine art of gawking. “Did you know the Mad Naked Handstander of Copenhagen was on the tour?”

  She sighs contentedly. “I am so glad you forced me to go to the buffet.” She parks her chin in her hands, watching the tall upside-down creature.

  “My favorite part of the buffet is dessert,” I say, as my eyes gobble him up.

  This man wears nudity well, even in this unusual position.

  “I enjoyed the rubies and emeralds in Rosenborg Castle, but I like these crown jewels even better,” I say.

  And hey, perhaps I’m perving, but I’m an equal-opportunity spectator at this private dock show. I don’t merely peer at the centerpiece of his physique, resting majestically against the grooves of his abs. My eyes take a most happy stroll up and down his carved body, from the planes of his stomach, to his strong thighs, to his arms ripped with muscles. His face is hard to read at 180 degrees, but I see the shape of his cheekbones, carved by angels.

  Then, he moves. He walks on his hands. Back and forth.

  Like he’s performing.

  Showing off his most unique skill set.

  I chuckle louder.

  Then louder still when he holds himself up on one hand only, waving to us.

  “What a show-off,” Veronica says.

  Lars clears his throat. “And sometimes, we see the unexpected sights of Copenhagen.”

  I do what any curious onlooker might do. I grab my phone and snap.

  Snap.

  Snap.

  The man stands, takes a bow, and waves.

  My chest heats up. The temperature in me flirts with mercury levels. He’s a stunner. My God, he’s like Skarsgård, from this distance.

  And because I believe in speaking my mind, I cup my hand over my mouth and shout, “Bravo. All of it.”

  He doffs an imaginary top hat and takes a bow. “My pleasure.” His voice booms across the water, his accent a British one.

  Sparks unexpectedly race down my chest. That accent is delicious. “Oh no. The pleasure is truly all mine.”

  His lips curve up in a smile. A wickedly handsome one. “Then meet me tonight at Jane!”

  Veronica nudges me. “That’s a club. Say yes. Say it now.” Her voice is marked with urgency as we glide away from the dock.

  “You’re insane,” I whisper.

  “This is the wild thing to do. Not a boat ride.”

  Is she crazy?

  As the boat motors on, the idea seems both intoxicating and dangerous. Stupid, maybe too. For a second, I imagine asking Lars to stop the boat. Skarsgård would jump in the water and dolphin his way over to me, parking his hands on the edge of the boat and flashing a gleaming smile, his hair wet, his face covered in droplets of water.

  Oh hell, I want to say yes to the naked man.

  He barks at me once again, shouting a street name that starts with a K, since every word here has a K in it, and ends with something like haven. “I’ll be there at seven.”

  I swallow. Is he mad? Am I? Or am I doing what I’ve told myself I should do for some time now? Seize the day.

  I cup my hand over the side of my mouth and call out, “Perhaps I’ll see you at seven.”

  Once one of the most beautiful views ever fades from sight, Veronica arches a well-groomed eyebrow. “You’re going, right?”

  A prickle of nerves skates down my spine. “I am?”

  “Did I detect a question mark?”

  “Don’t you think it’s dangerous to have drinks with a man you don’t know?”

  Shaking her head, she rises, flicks her chestnut-brown hair off her shoulders, and strides purposefully to the front of the boat. Once Lars finishes a tale about the Danish navy and their warships, he lowers his shades, drops his mic, and cocks his head to the side.

  Veronica says something to him I can’t hear.

  But his eyes tell me everything. He’s said more than “perhaps.”

  As she saunters back to me, a determined look in her eyes, she’s daring me to go. She’s chosen her own adventure for tonight.

  Flopping down in the seat, she declares, “You better get your ass to Jane on whatever street that was.” She pokes my shoulder. “You have a date, and so do I.”