The Bet (Winslow Brothers 1)

Julie is on the far side of the room, bent down over a cart of supplies, when news of my boisterous arrival cracks throughout the space, bringing her gaze to me straightaway.

“I know,” I say with a raise of my hands as Julie gives me the stank eye of an employee. It’s half respectful, half hateful and reeks of both hating me and wanting to keep her job. “I’m sorry I’m late!”

“It’s okay,” she says, even though we both know it’s not okay at all.

“Where are we? What’s left to get done before the guests start flooding in here?”

Julie points to the other side of the room. “Centerpieces still need to go on all the tables, and I’m finishing up the tablescape for the buffets. Audiovisual is all done, and the sponsor gift bags are all arranged.”

“What about the step and repeat outside? I know that was one of the most important things on the sponsor’s list.”

“It’s all set up. I started with that as soon as I got here…two hours ago.”

I gulp and laugh, though I know to Julie nothing seems even remotely funny. “Point acknowledged, babe. Really. Thank you for taking up the slack.”

“Of course, boss.”

I roll my eyes. “You know I hate when you call me that.”

“I do, boss.”

I laugh. I deserve it, honestly.

I hustle to grab a couple centerpieces, and she follows me, grabbing two of her own. “Tell me you were at least doing something interesting in your absence. Having a tryst with Johnny Depp. Licking Channing’s Tatum. Starring in an adult film? Something.”

I snort. “Oh, Julie, you know I’m not that noteworthy.”

“You could be,” she insists. “If you just let down your guard a little bit. You’re freaking supermodel-level gorgeous without even trying, and you’re one of the nicest women I know. If you’re any good in bed, you’re like the lotto jackpot of women.”

“Maybe. But I’m also a head case. Trust me.”

“Oh yeah. I know that, too.”

Having set the centerpieces down, I shove her in the shoulder as we head back to grab more. “Thanks.”

“Hey, we’ve all got our issues, you know? I’m not judging. But you are definitely crazy. And occasionally late.”

I laugh.

“Okay, you lush. Stop chugging the truth serum, and let’s bang this out. Before long, some of the richest, most successful, powerhouse men and women in the world are going to be in this room, and I don’t think they’re going to want to hear about how crazy I am.”

All manner of suit-wearing men start to flood through the doors, many of them heading directly for the bar. A couple go straight for the table of hors d’oeuvres, but the rest are too busy mingling to focus on anything but one another.

One man, in particular, seems to have drawn a bit of crowd around himself as he talks and laughs and gesticulates wildly. All the men around him break out into a mixture of laughter and guffaws as he finishes whatever tale he’s weaving.

“My God, I need one of those,” Julie mutters under her breath, staring at him longingly.

There’s something familiar about his big, muscled frame, but I’m not entirely sure what it is.

What I do notice, however, is the sparkling metal on one of his very important fingers.

I turn away and warn her, discreetly looking out at one of the giant, eighteen-foot-high glass walls over the twinkling lights of Manhattan. “He’s married, Jules. Sorry.”

She doesn’t turn, instead choosing to keep ogling the guy shamelessly. “I didn’t say it had to be him. Just one like him…or twenty like him. Whatever.”

I grin. “I don’t know.” I glance back, away from the glitz of city streets and at the man in question with a craned neck over my shoulder. He’s got dark hair and bright eyes and a smile that could fill this entire ballroom, but he also has the air of a wild man—the kind that I’m not sure ever really settles down—and enough charisma that suggests women will always be hitting on him. I don’t know if I could handle being with someone like that, ginormous frame and huge, honed muscles or not. “He’s not really my type.”

“What?” she nearly shrieks, making me reach out to clutch her elbow, afraid she’s going to make a scene. “You’re joking me right now, aren’t you? Because if that man,” she says, pausing only long enough to point directly at him and make me reach out to grab the offending finger and turn it away, “is not your type, you really do have impossible standards, and I’ll think about just getting you a couple of cats now.”

I roll my eyes. “Just because I say one guy in the world isn’t my type doesn’t mean I’m ready for spinsterdom. Come on.”

“You come on!” she insists. “Do you see him? Or do I need to get your eyes checked?”