The Bet (Winslow Brothers 1)

Sophie

My cab swerves to a stop in front of the Mandarin Oriental in Columbus Circle, and I accidentally tap my forehead on the plexiglass divider between the driver and me, I’m so eager to hand over his money and get out.

He looks at me sideways a little, but I don’t linger. Not only would that worsen the embarrassment, but I’m already running horrendously late to set up for an important corporate event. So late, that my assistant, Julie, is probably on the brink of setting the room on fire and hopping a jet to Bora Bora.

Normally, between the two of us, we manage to get more done than a whole staff from one of the larger event firms in the same amount of time. But it’s the setup that makes the magic, and neither Julie nor I alone is equipped to outfit a six-thousand-square-foot space by ourselves.

“Come on, come on,” I mutter under my breath as the almost-spring influx of tourists makes it hard to get into the whitewashed building. Cameras in hand, they snap shots of Columbus Circle and the entrance to Central Park with little to no awareness of just how much of the sidewalk they’re blocking.

Add that in with the reason I’m running so behind—spending my normal hour and then some lying to Dr. Winters about my experimental date and the way things turned out—and I’m more than a little frazzled.

Out of time and patience, I karate chop my way through a group of teenage girls clamoring to find the right angle for their social media shots and skid toward the door like I’m on skates.

The light shifts slightly when I step into the lobby, causing my eyes to do a funny sun halo thing that makes it hard to see where I’m going, but I don’t bother slowing down.

If I run into a thing or two, the bruises I earn will just have to be a casualty of war.

“Hold the elevator,” I yell toward the closing doors, but when no hand reaches out to stop them, all I can do is whine in my head.

Why? Why did I have to spend so much time avoiding Dr. Winters’s questions about my date? And why do the people in New York have to be so damn rude?

Power walking, I hit the elevator call button, expecting to have to wait, but the same cart opens immediately, revealing itself as empty.

Oh. Well. I guess that’s why no one held it. Ha.

God, I’m a mess.

Obviously, getting snuck out on immediately following the type of sex that transcends all metrics of reality isn’t the kind of event I’m built for.

And to be honest, I’m not even sure why.

When it comes to relationships, I like defining events and lines in the sand because they’re paths to clarity. And those lines say, in no uncertain terms, that the person who commits the acts are not worth my time. Not worth my thoughts, not worth my worry, not worth the very distinct fantasy for life and marriage and babies I have.

But something about this strikes me as different. It doesn’t feel final like it should, and frankly, that terrifies me.

For as perpetually single as I am, I haven’t often dealt with feelings of rejection or loss. I haven’t been the one left standing there holding the proverbial bag. I’ve been the roadrunner, nothing left to deal with but a puff of smoke.

The elevator dings its arrival at the ballroom-floor level of the Mandarin, and I scamper out like a newborn colt, all arms and legs and incoordination.

“Shoot,” I mumble as I almost trip over my own damn feet in the hall, stutter-stepping on the carpet and throwing out a hand into the wall to stop my face from eating floor.

Forcing myself to pause and reset, I take a deep breath in through my nose, hold it, and then blow all the toxic energy out through my mouth.

Get over it, I coach myself. So what if you told Dr. Winters that your date with your TapNext match Nathan ended badly and didn’t go any further into the story? It’s not like you don’t see her every week…you can easily clear your conscience next Wednesday by hashing out all the details then.

I nod. I’m right. This isn’t a big deal. I’m freaking out for nothing.

It’s over and done. He snuck out—the end. I’ll have plenty of time to let Dr. Winters take a deep dive into the psychological consequences, and for now, I just need to concentrate on setting up for this event. The event that’s probably about to start any minute.

Shit!

I glance down at my watch and break into a jog immediately. Julie really is going to kill me.

I round the hallway to the far side of the ballroom and bust in like a bull in a china shop. The door bangs against the wall and echoes throughout the large space, but I don’t pause to do anything about it. As far as I know, doors and walls don’t respond to apologies anyway.