Get Lucky (12 page)

“Not as choreographed, maybe. And I’m definitely not working for secret shadow organizations of the United States government. But aside from that? Just about as good.”

I can’t stop touching her, loving the silky feeling of her skin. I’ve never been this easily aroused by a woman before, not even with Phoebe. I’ve never had a hunger that I couldn’t satisfy. I expect that to piss me off, or scare me, and am surprised when it doesn’t. I like everything about this. Considering where this day started for us, who’d have ever thought this would happen?

“You want to know something dumb?” she says. I kiss her shoulder.

“I don’t think you could say anything dumb. Unless you ask me what clouds are made of,” I say. She playfully smacks my arm.

“I’m afraid I’ll wake up and this will all be a dream.” She sighs.

“The parrot-napping? Or the sex?” I ask.

“Both got me off, so let’s go with both,” she deadpans.

We laugh, and I kiss her again. I taste champagne, strawberries, sex, and cherry lip gloss. It’s a potent combination.

“We’re going to remember this night for a long time,” I say, looking deep into her eyes.

F
uck
, I can’t believe we forgot about last night. Or at least, we did for a while.

Now I think it’s come back to both of us at about the same speed. Which is making this cab ride super fucking awkward. The air between us is so thick with sexual tension you could slice it and put it on sandwiches.

I’ve got my hand folded in my lap, just to make sure I don’t touch him. Nate’s focused on staring out the window at the fascinating desert landscape. His throat moves as he swallows; it’s like I’m hypnotized by it.

My God, the way he rode me, and the orgasm . . . . How the fuck had I forgotten the orgasm?

“On the bright side,” Nate says, carefully not looking at me, “I think I realized where your laptop is.”

Once we’re back in the hotel, we ride the elevator up to his suite. Open the door, go into the bedroom, and bam. Right there in its cute little cherry red laptop case, set up on the now-made bed. Turndown service must have found it. It’s waiting all lonesome for me to scoop it up in my arms and go write more sex scenes.

Hello, beautiful. Mommy missed you.

“How much do you remember now?” Nate asks casually, pacing over to look out the window at the Las Vegas streets below. I stand there, looking over the bed. It’s got its pillows all plumped and in place, probably put on new sheets. The evidence of last night is all cleaned up. But the memories are a little tougher to scrub away.

Hey, that was good. Maybe I should put that in a Lola scene, when she’s straddling . . . never mind. Not the time or place for work.

“My memories are pretty clear now. We were naked a lot of the time.” I’m pretty sure I’m flushing all the way to the edge of my sundress, but that could just be the sunburn. You know, from being in the goddamn desert. “That part was okay. The naked bits. Parts. Whatever.” Stop, tongue. Stop it now. “Dammit, where’s Christopher Eccleston when I need him?” I moan.

“Who?” Nate asks, looking perplexed.

Awesome. Said it out loud. Go me. I look at him, and I find myself tracing the lines of his shoulder, the way his now sweaty shirt clings to the definitions of his chest and abs.
Damn.
Normally lawyers don’t have that much time to hit the gym. Unless he’s built this way naturally . . . .

“Your eye is twitching,” Nate says with concern, coming over to look at me. “Are you all right?”

Can I just hit rewind on this and go back in time?

“I remember everything,” I mumble, gazing down at my feet. “The shower. After the shower. Champagne and strawberries. Maybe that was the final glass that did us in, you know? Tipped us over into memory-wiping boozeville.”

“But we did remember,” Nate says, moving closer to me.

God, the way his dark blue gaze rakes over my body, it leaves me trembling, my panties growing damper by the second. He brushes his fingertips down the length of my arm, and I shiver in response. I’ve never had such a reaction before, and especially not to someone who, on most occasions, has been nothing but an asshole. I’ve always dated nothing but nice, comforting guys.

Then again, Drew was a nice, comforting guy who couldn’t handle a successful woman and retreated with his tail between his legs. Where did playing it safe get me? Exactly nowhere.

But I’m not thinking about that any longer. Because Nate’s here right now, and there is growing electricity between us. I can feel it, raising the hairs along my arms.

“Do you like remembering?” I ask, looking up at him. I place my hand on his chest, right above his heart. It’s beating faster and faster; always a good sign.
What the hell? Live like your fantasies a little, Julia.
I raise myself up lightly on my toes, just brushing my lips against his as I speak. “Did it turn you on?”

“It did,” he growls, and kisses me.

It’s light and quick at first, the heat between us sizzling as he pulls away. Damn, I don’t want him to do that.

I gasp when he pulls me tight against his body, trailing his hand down my back. I like it when he grabs my ass and finds my mouth again, kissing me deeply. Oh God. My clit’s already throbbing as I pull him backwards, falling onto the bed with him on top of me.

He kisses me with his eyes open, watching me. His hand glides slowly up my leg, my skirt falling around my waist. Almost to the magic spot, but he slides his hand back down again. Away from the magic spot.

“How the hell are you doing this to me?” he whispers, looking down at me with a puzzled, horny expression. His gaze is smoldering, confused, wild. “I can’t remember the last time I felt this . . . ”

He swallows, maybe afraid of the next word.

I don’t even think, and I barrel ahead. “Alive,” I add. For a second I wince, afraid that the word he was looking for was
moist
.

But he smiles, and kisses me again, his tongue probing my mouth. I moan and arch my back, moving against him. I can feel his erection pressing into me. Damn, I want to fuck him again. Like now. Right now. No passing
Go
. No collecting two hundred dollars.

Nate’s hand slips up under my dress, his fingers tracing my bra. My nipples come to attention at once under his touch, and I gasp. He starts to pull at my strap, to take my dress off . . . .

“Wait. Hold on,” I say, trying to sit up.

Nate is off me at once, lying back on the bed and staring at the ceiling. His chest rises and falls rapidly with his breathing; looks like he needs to calm down. And judging by the tent he’s pitching, maybe take a cold shower as well.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to stop . . . that.” I swallow. “I just can’t go around having these fun
Love in the Afternoon
type montages until we know for sure whether we are or are not. You know.” I pause.

“Married,” Nate adds, finishing my sentence.

“I was going to say dehydrated, but yeah. That works too.” Nothing like a little humor to lighten the mood. Or lower the erection.

Finally, Nate sighs and sits up. I’m glad we’re going to have an actual discussion about this like actual adults, even if David Tennant is stomping his little white tennis shoes all pissed off that he isn’t fucking a Chicago lawyer right now.

“What’s the next step?” Nate asks, as I get off the bed and adjust myself. You know. Like a lady. “Shit, we need to figure out what we’re doing fast. The wedding.” He rubs his face, curses softly. “Mike and Stacy’s wedding’s in a few hours. We have time, right?”

He looks over at me. He’s lucky he’s in the groom’s party. If he were a bridesmaid, he’d be in the hotel room with Stacy for the rest of the afternoon to help get her ready. Guys, they can just show up twenty minutes before the ceremony with their suit in a bag over their shoulder. It’s a man’s world.

“Yeah, we have time. Obviously, we need to find the chapel. We’ve got the photos, and there’s got to be someone who knows where we went. Maybe we can call that adventure service and ask if I was wearing the veil when we came in last night. That might give us an idea of timeline.”

I flip open my phone and stare at the picture. There we are, Nate with lipstick kisses all over his face, Elvis looming over us in the background. Where are you, king of rock ’n roll and shady matrimonial practices?

Just then, the door across the living room opens. Nate’s friend with the frosted tips and the affable smile, Tyler, steps in without a shirt on. Nice. Very nice physique. It would be even nicer if we weren’t all staring at each other with open mouths and wide eyes.

Tyler looks from me to Nate, and a wild smile stretches over his face. He even whoops and pumps his fist in the air.

“Dude. You scored! Awesome, man.” Tyler comes across the room for the sole purpose of handing Nate an imagined post-coital high five.

This is my life now.

He looks over at me. “And hey, uh, good for you too. Nate’s a really good lay. So I’ve been told.”

Tyler then high-fives me as well. Aw. That’s . . . equal opportunity, I guess.

“We actually. We didn’t. Not yet. I mean.” Nate looks at me.

“Already. Not today. At least, if we’re going by when the sun’s up,” I say, really adding a lot to this conversation. Tyler just looks stupefied.

“Wait, what the hell are you doing here?” Nate asks his friend. “Aren’t you supposed to be checking up on the chuppah?” He frowns. “Come to think of it, I should be there too. Fuck.” He closes his eyes.

“Naw, man. Mike and Stacy are cool. Their parents are, like, super into the whole organizing thing, so we’ve just got to show up. No worries!” Tyler finger guns at Nate and laughs.

“Then is there a reason it’s two in the afternoon and you’re walking around without a shirt on? Or pants?” Nate asks. We both stare down at Tyler’s cute little boxers. They have sailboats on them.

He laughs, sounding a little embarrassed. “I, ah, met up with one of the romance convention ladies. Tigers. All of them.” He even
rawrs
at me.

Sometimes I don’t know what kind of alien world Tyler came from, but it must be fitfully amusing there.

“Nice. Who? Anyone I know?” I tease.

To my surprise, Tyler blushes. Actually blushes.

“Maybe. I mean. Sure?” He sighs. “One of your friends.”

Oh my God, him and Shanna? I mean, they definitely had some prime time flirting going on last night, but I didn’t imagine—

“There’s my fucking star,” Meredith says, walking out of the bedroom in her stocking feet, a cigarette clamped between her lips. She buttons up her cream blouse and shrugs on her beige jacket. She smiles at me. “The fuck are you doing here, gorgeous? You’re supposed to be at your signing.” Meredith puts out her cigarette in an old, leftover cup of coffee. She blows smoke, hands on her hips. “Jesus, we gotta get you moving.”

Oh crap. Oh shit. Oh woe. Oh fuckmuppets. Between the wedding and my panel appearances, this happy little adventure has come at the worst possible damn time.

“Jesus, the signing,” I groan, grabbing my purse and laptop case. Nate and Tyler both stand to the side, looking like they have no idea what is happening or what to do. Which is pretty much exactly the truth.

“I’ll come with you,” Nate says, hands in his pockets.

“Like, I’ll just wait here,” Tyler says, sounding lost.

“Good idea, sweetie. Go tuck yourself back into bed and I’ll be around soon to fuck you good night.” Meredith winks at him, and Tyler blushes again.

What the hell is happening to my life? I point to each of them in turn.

“Meredith, ew. Tyler, thanks. Nate, you don’t have to come with me,” I say as he goes over to the dresser, pulls out a new T-shirt, and throws it on. There is a brief flash of him in all his shirtless glory, which does a number on my heart. And, you know, other body parts. Then he’s dressed. He even takes my laptop for me. Aw. Chivalry ain’t dead.

“We, ah, need to take care of that business together. Later,” he tells me.

We ignore Tyler’s grunting enthusiasm. Not like that, dude. Well. Maybe like that. But look, we need to know if it’s single fucking or married people fucking. Because if it’s the latter, I may be too sick to my stomach to have an orgasm.

“Okay. Come to the signing, do the meet and greet, watch me shake some hands and ink some books. Then we’ll go,” I tell him. Meredith’s already shoving me out the door.

“I’m so proud of you, kid,” she grunts in my ear. Nate comes after us, holding my case.

“I’m kind of intrigued, since hearing you read last night. I want to see what the fuss is,” he says, smiling.

Meredith waggles her eyebrows. “I like a man who likes a show,” she says.

We walk, and I can’t help the slight fluttering nervousness in my stomach.

Hopefully, Nate thinks we’re a good crowd.

It kind of makes me wonder why I care what he thinks.

I
’ve never been surrounded
by this many women in my life. I had no idea Julia was so popular. The line for her signing stretches across the carpeted ballroom floor, winding around several booths. I can see her up at the table, alongside two other women. She’s laughing, chatting, tossing her hair. Something she says makes the woman she’s signing for burst into raucous laughter. Julia’s good at putting people at ease.

“Oh my God, I love this. I so rarely see dudes in this kind of line,” a woman behind me says. She grins up at me, a pile of books in her arms. She’s got curly black hair and dark skin, and wrinkles her nose as she studies me. “You sure you’re in the right place, hon?”

“I love romance novels,” I say, as neutrally as possible. Hopefully, I sound like I’m telling the truth. Playing along with other people’s assumptions can be part of a lawyer’s job. “This series with, ah, all the sex. Fantastic. Can’t get enough.”

“Wow. This is so weird,” the woman says. She laughs, and even slaps me on the arm. “I love it. Good for you, man.”

“Thanks,” I say, bemused as a couple of other ladies turn to gawk at me, like I’m some kind of mythological creature on display, a manticore reading Nora Roberts.

The line moves forward a bit, then halts, and I stop short. The woman from behind bumps into me, spilling her books. I pick them up for her. Damn. She’s been balancing—five, six—
eight
paperbacks.

“Let me hold onto some of these until you get to the front,” I tell her. She makes a gasping noise of relief. “Would’ve thought you’d have a tote bag or something. That’s one thing I’ve noticed about publishing conferences; they give away totes like they’re candy or something.”

It’s true. I saw a woman with five bags slung over her arms, who then ran to grab another free tote at the Ballantine table. Some mysteries I will never understand.

“Mmm, totable candy,” the woman laughs. She nods. “Yeah, I always get too many books. It’s my big problem. I mean, I read like crazy. Makes my morning commute easier. Sci fi, fantasy, thriller, you name it. Sometimes I pick up whatever Oprah tells me to. But romance is kind of my main passion. No pun intended.” She grins. “Too many books. So yeah, not enough totes in the world.”

“Maybe I can snag you one at the front, get it autographed. I know the author,” I say.

The woman gasps and claps her hands over her mouth. It’s kind of fun, being the one with the inside track. It feels like I know a celebrity. Hell, maybe I do.

“How do you know Julia?” the woman asks, suddenly turning coy. I play along, lifting an eyebrow.

“I know her very well,” I tell the woman, leaving a hint of suggestion in my voice.

The woman giggles and even blushes. Christ, I need to tell Tyler about romance conventions.

“Maybe she based one of her alphas on you. Rolph Armani, maybe.” She really seems to like that idea.

But . . . Rolph
Armani
? I can’t help barking out a laugh.

She giggles as well. “Yeah, I know. Some of the names are kind of ridiculous. But isn’t that half the point? It’s a fantasy, after all. Like, if I met a guy on the street named Clint Embers, I’d know he was either a hustler or a wrestler. But in fiction? Totally normal.”

“Right,” I say, moving up the line and still carrying her books.

I’ll admit it; I’d sort of imagined Julia signing books for a bunch of sad, lonely housewives who’ve never held a job in their lives and need someone to fix all their problems. You know. Someone who thinks the names Rolph Armani or Clint Embers belong to actual human beings. But as I chat with the woman—Maria, as she introduces herself—I see my idea was pretty mean-spirited. All right, I’ll say it: idiotic. Maria’s a pharmacist who rock-climbs in her spare time. Corinne, who’s right ahead of us and couldn’t help overhearing the conversation, introduces herself as a forensic scientist. Like Maria before her, Corinne is dumbstruck by my presence and all but starts prodding me to make sure I’m real and not a hallucination. It turns out that having a young man in this signing line is kind of like finding the Holy Grail, if the Holy Grail had a penis.

Women are peering at me, looking sideways or standing on tiptoe. And a lot of them seem to already know each other.

“Look, I’m kind of over the whole billionaire thing,” Maria says, offering me a gummy peach ring. I decline, and she chews thoughtfully. “Like, I get kind of tired of the over-the-top wealth porn. But that’s why Julia’s books are so amazing. She gives you the old clichés, the ones you think you’re going to hate. You know, the one where the girl has to pretend to be the billionaire’s secretary to get information for the cops, and then he becomes her Dom, all that kind of stuff. Except that her characters have, like, actual quirks of their own. One of her Doms was really into collecting, like, vintage Pogs from the 90s. And her women are all ballsy.”

“Not a lot of damsels in distress,” I say as we head up to near the front of the line.

Maria actually laughs at that. “Oh, hell no. Like, when I was reading my mom’s Harlequin romances from the eighties, I read a lot of ladies crying in corsets or fainting in Monte Carlo or something. I know there’s a place for all that, but it’s not relatable anymore, you know? My husband can’t afford for me to sit at home all day, and I wouldn’t want to.” She shrugs. “It’s fine if that’s what you want, but most of us can’t afford that lifestyle.”

“You’re very action-oriented,” I tell her.

Maria laughs. “Yeah, I’m all about action.” She nudges me in a very wink-wink way. “That’s probably what I like best about Julia: the sex scenes are fucking hot, man.”

I laugh along with her, but she’s absolutely right. The memories of last night are still a little hazy, but I distinctly remember growing hard as Julia read to me. It was the words, sure, but even better was how they were enhanced by the softness of her voice, the way she twirled her hair, the little smirk that graced her lips whenever she read something she thought sounded particularly good.

She’s good at what she does, and she loves it. That’s incredibly sexy.

Finally, we’re at the front of the line. I deposit Maria’s books on the table in front of Julia, but she’s finishing up a conversation with a woman who’s moved off to the side. The woman’s crying, or has finished crying pretty recently. Her eyes are still watery, her cheeks red. Julia gives her a tissue. I notice she’s holding on to the woman’s hand.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to gush like that,” the woman says, her voice soft and shaking. “I just wanted you to know how much it means.”

“Trust me, I feel the same,” Julia says, grinning. She’s even wiping her own eyes now.

As the woman leaves, Julia looks up at me and waggles her brows. “A tall, dark stranger enters my midst. Anything in particular you want signed?” she asks, brandishing her pen. “Any parts?” Her eyes trail down my body, obviously landing on my crotch.

Maria starts laughing.

“I’m just the delivery system,” I tell her, letting Maria up to the table. As Julia starts chatting with her fan, I sidestep away. I find myself next to the crying woman, whose tissue is, by now, mostly used up.

“Dammit,” she says, sighing. “I’m still all smudged.”

I hand her another tissue. Apparently I’m now tissue guy. Hell, there are worse ways to live.

“Thanks.” She sniffs, grabbing one.

“Are you, ah, all right?” I ask.

“I got a little overemotional. I do that sometimes,” she says, smiling as she finishes wiping her face. “I just went through a really terrible divorce.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. It’s an automatic response, but I find that I mean it, too. I feel oddly guilty, all of a sudden. Why does my business have to be so damn lucrative?

“Thank you.” She wipes under her eyes again, and keeps talking. “He told me I was too fat for him. When we were signing the final papers, he told me I’d never find anyone to love me the way I am.”

“Christ,” I say, feeling like I walked into something I shouldn’t be seeing. I also kind of want to punch this asshole in the face. Who says that kind of shit? Even during divorce?

Yesterday, I would’ve been faintly disgusted by this woman for telling me these sordid personal details. Right now, I just feel damn sorry for her.

“Oh crap, is this too much? I just launch into—” she says, pausing to blow her nose.

“It’s fine,” I tell her. She looks back to Julia, and so do I. Julia’s about finished with Maria’s books, grinning and laughing while they talk.

“I was telling Julia that her Abby Mills series, the one with the plus-size heroine, gave me the strength to get back out there. And I met a wonderful guy,” she says, her voice cracking a little. She stops and waves her hands. “I’m sorry. You don’t want to hear this.” She flushes a little.

“No. Good for you,” I tell her. And I mean it.

So Julia makes people laugh, makes them feel good about themselves, and helps them have fun. Why the hell was I giving her such a shitty time before?

I step away and watch her work. I watch her sign, giggling wildly at something another fan tells her. She even puts her head down on the table with laughing. She’s free, happy, smart, talented . . . and maybe that’s everything I didn’t like about her at first.

After Phoebe left me, I didn’t want anyone else, ever again. I told myself it was because I didn’t want another woman wrecking my life, lying to me, cheating on me. The truth is, I didn’t want to look into another woman’s eyes—a woman I thought was spectacular, funny, smart, strong—and see that I didn’t measure up.

But somehow, I’m starting to shed that fear. Julia looks over at me as her signing line finally begins to die down. She rests her cheek on her hand, and mimes going to sleep. She’s playful, and she winks at me.

For fuck’s sake, Nate. You need to find out if you’re married or not.

The cool, lawyerly reserve comes over me as I check my phone. Shit. Only a few hours until Mike and Stacy’s wedding. We need to go. God, we still don’t even have any idea where this chapel is. Why can’t—

“There are a ton of single ladies in this line,” Tyler crows, coming over and grabbing me by the shoulder. “Dude, you hook me up with all the best places.”

Of course Tyler figured out that romance conventions are full of women. I should never have underestimated his horniness.

He’s wearing his shirt unbuttoned halfway, his sunglasses riding on top of his freshly gelled hair. He smells like bamboo body spray. It’s not a great smell.

“I’m surprised Meredith let you out of the room,” I tell him, looking back at Julia. Tyler whistles.

“Had to sneak out, bro. I was so hungry. We worked up an appetite.” He sticks his tongue between his teeth and nods suggestively. “We had room service, but it wasn’t enough. Oysters. Not my favorite thing.” Then he continues scanning down the line of women, surfing with his eyes. He whistles. “Like, a bunch of sevens and eights riding along. I’m impressed. Hot chicks like to read.”

“What the hell are you even still doing here? The restaurant’s downstairs,” I say. I’m even starting to snap at Tyler. Maybe because he’s distracting me from focusing on the problem at hand. Find the wedding chapel, see if there’s a marriage certificate.

Or maybe I’m irritated because he’s distracting me from Julia.
Oh, fuck me.

“Nothing wrong with scoping out the competition. Even if Meredith’s like, super good in bed. Older chicks, man.” He nods, like he’s giving me some sage wisdom. The Tao of Tyler. “Older chicks.”

Finally, the signing line ends. Julia stands up, talking to the other authors. They come over to us. She smiles at me, but not seductive. It’s all business right now. Which is the way it has to be. Business. The way I want it to be.

Don’t I?

“Ladies,” Tyler says, walking over to Julia’s friends, both attractive young women. Jesus fuck, is he flexing? “You had great form out there. Really good signing technique.”

“Thank you?” one of the women says, looking to Julia with a comical expression.

Tyler doesn’t seem to notice. He pulls out a card. Right, one of his “sexual professional but-not-in-a-gigolo-way” cards. He hands them out to all potential bed partners. I don’t know how he ever manages to get laid. There used to be a picture of him on the back, with his shirt off and his skin tanned. I’m glad he removed it. Ruins the class factor of giving women your “come fuck me” phone number.

“Call me anytime,” he says. Julia looks at me with wide eyes.

“Someone’s a go-getter,” she murmurs out the side of her mouth. “Hope Meredith doesn’t mind.”

“Um, baby, this isn’t you,” the woman says, scrunching up her face in amusement and handing the card back to Tyler. “Unless your last name is Presley.”

“Oh shit,” Tyler says, laughing as he takes the card back. “Sorry. Where the hell’d I get this from?” He whistles. “Must’ve found it in my room.”

Wait a minute. “Presley as in Elvis?” I ask, snatching the card back from Tyler. Julia looks it over with me, and there it is, plain as daylight. Viva Las Vegas chapel, just down the Strip.

“That place looks awesome for anyone who wants to be my baby mama tonight,” Tyler says, grinning as he tries to slip his arms around the two women. They each carefully dodge out of the embrace. Right now, his friendly douchebaggery is the least of my problems.

“Let’s go,” I tell Julia. She nods, grabbing my arm and dragging me away while Tyler protests.

“I already texted for an Uber,” she says, starting to sprint down the hall. “The game is afoot!”

Not sure this mystery is quite Sherlock Holmes level. But as I chase after her, I have to admit something to myself: I don’t want to let her go.

Fuck.