The Bet (Winslow Brothers 1)

“Belle, for the love of God, stop yelling.” I groan and grip the comforter tighter around my chest. I didn’t drink that much last night, but I feel hungover. My limbs are heavy, my energy spent, and the sound of Belle’s yelling feels like an ice pick to my brain. Add in the fact that I need two to four hours with a cold compress between my legs, and it’s no wonder I’m not feeling particularly ready for my sister’s company.

My twin laughs like a hyena, and I rub at my eyes with my free hand to try to make sense of the world around me.

I widen my eyes and scout the room for signs of my late-night guest. The spot on the floor where I know we shed our clothing is empty and cleared, Jude’s attire gone like it never existed. My dress, however, is folded nicely on my chaise lounger on the opposite end of the room.

Did he seriously fold my laundry before he left?

That’s kind of sweet. And a bit odd, considering it seems like he left my apartment again like a bandit in the night.

But did he really leave? Or is he still here somewhere? Even if I’m ninety-nine percent sure he’s long gone, a one percent chance of him popping out from my bathroom with a top hat on his dick while my sister watches is still a little disconcerting.

It’s not like I can ask her if she’s seen him, though, so the only thing I can do is assume he’s MIA.

“What time is it?”

“Eleven,” she answers and plops down on the bed beside me.

I shut my eyes briefly and put a hand to my forehead.

Shit. I slept in that late? That’s so unlike me.

And it’s all thanks to the good-dicking from Mr. Sexy Good Time.

“Where were you last night?” Belle asks, and I look over to meet her probing eyes. “I texted you five million times for shit’s sake, and when I woke up this morning, I got worried that you, like, died or something and I was going to have to call the cops.” She lies back on my mattress, crosses her boot-covered feet, and stares up at the ceiling. “So, I made John stop here on the way to brunch so your dead body wouldn’t start stinking up your apartment.”

“How kind of you,” I respond and reach out toward my nightstand to grab my phone. “As you can see, there’s no need to contact the authorities to remove my rotting carcass. I’m still alive and kicking.”

She nods, and her eyes light up with amusement. “Great news.”

I glance at the screen of my phone and find so many notifications that I have to scroll down to see them all.

Most are text messages from Belle that revolve around asking where I am, mingled in with social media notifications. There’s one text from Julie about getting confirmation on the last-minute menu change for the Babkus wedding tonight.

But there’s one notification that stands out the most. A text message from Jude. Evidently, he did something before sneaking out this time, by getting my phone number out of my phone so he’d be able to send me this message since I never actually texted him.

That’s one tick in the win column for my inability to remember a damn passcode. Sure, I’m at severe risk of getting all of my personal information stolen by a stranger or hacker, but at least Jude was able to procure my digits.

Immediately, I tap on the screen to open it up.

Jude: Monday, 8 pm. The Champagne Bar, Plaza Hotel. Wear another sexy little dress.

That’s all it says.

Nothing about last night. Nothing about when he actually left my apartment. Just the promise of more fun to come if I choose to follow his instructions. It’s all a bit overwhelming, and I have no idea what I want to do, but my sister doesn’t give time to ponder on it.

“What the hell were you up to last night, Soph?” Belle asks again, and I try my best to redirect the conversation toward something that doesn’t make my head want to spin.

“Nothing really,” I answer. “But do you mind getting out of my bedroom so I can get dressed?”

“Only if you’re getting dressed to go to brunch with John and me.”

I quirk a brow.

“Oh, c’mon, Soph,” she whines and stands up from my bed. “It’s the least you can do for making me think you’d gone missing.”

“Stop being so dramatic.” I roll my eyes and shake my head, but my sister is determined.

“Put on some clothes, you little nudist, so John can buy us some fucking French toast.”

I laugh at The 40-Year-Old Virgin movie reference. But also, I agree because…French toast. I’m a sucker for all things delicious breakfast foods.

Plus, after the erotic events of last night and Jude not leaving any trace of his presence in my apartment besides a text message with instructions for a future clandestine rendezvous, I’m pretty sure I could use the mental distraction that my sister and brother-in-law can provide this morning.