HATING THE BEST MAN (Hating Him #2)

3. Playing the Odds

Chapter Three

Playing the Odds

The greatest risk is not taking any. – Tim Fargo

ELENA

When I wake up Sunday morning, I open my eyes to discover a foggy day… and an even foggier conscience.

I just had phone s*x with Lukas Griffin last night—or Skype s*x, text s*x—whatever. Whatever it was… it wasn’t right; it wasn’t appropriate. He’s my future brother-in-law’s best friend… and a regular man-w***e—or so I’ve heard.

Kat has given me enough details about Foxx’s friends. She loves them all fiercely, but she did give me the full run-down—the good, the bad and everything in-between.

After all, with me moving to Tampa, I’m going to have to get to know them—at least on a basic level. But what I’ve done with Lukas far surpasses “basic.” We’ve overstepped a boundary, and now I’m not so sure how to double back.

He called me early this morning, and he never calls. I’m usually the one that reaches out, but now he’s switched things up and I’m nervous—nervous that he’s eager for round two. And basically… I just don’t need this s**t.

This morning, I booked a one-way ticket out of Memphis as soon as I could get dressed and hopped on the most expensive flight of my life to get to Tampa ahead of time to get away from it all—to take a mini-vacation before the party even starts—just for myself.

I’ve got too much on my plate already with moving and planning this party. My closest friend Linda has been calling me for the past few days, and I don’t even have time for her.

I don’t need another complication, and Lukas Griffin—well, he’s a complication.

I always do this. I always let my hormones get me into trouble. That’s how I ended up with my ex, Teddy. I think I was in an ovulation phase, and he happened to be standing by or something.

Ugh.

That’s my problem. I go these long periods without s*x, and then at some point, I just c***k; I break down and try to hump the closest swinging p***s. And that’s all it was with Lukas—a tiny breaking point. He just caught me at a bad time, is all.

And so what if Kat implied that he was sexy? I’ve never seen his face. He could be the Elephant Man reincarnate, and I could’ve m*********d with the long missing twin of John Merrick—God rest his soul.

One week—less than one week—until I have to meet this man, this stranger who made me c****x over Internet message like an over-eager pre-teen.

Shit. This is going to be so embarrassing, but it’s going to be even more embarrassing if I try to chicken out—which I’ve thought about doing approximately three times today already.

But I can’t not attend the party that I planned, so I guess I’m just going to have to tough it out for the next week—grow some balls.

I’m pretty good at that, actually…

LUKAS

I walk out of the elevator and onto the top floor of the Grand Hyatt with the gait of a man on the hunt. I am well-dressed. I am poised. I am absolutely f*****g livid.

Tonight is the night of the party, and I haven’t heard one goddamned word from Elena since our Skype night.

I’ve called her ten thousand times since that night, wondering about the final party arrangements.

Ok… I’m lying.

I called to make sure that we both had an understanding—a common acceptance—that what we did was just a fluke, a one-time thing, and that we should never mention it to either Kat or Foxx. I’d hope she would agree… but then she never picked up. She didn’t return my phone calls. She never replied to my texts.

All that was left to do was to ponder—to contemplate just how the hell we could make it through this party without creating any more disasters—Justin Beiber music aside.

I waltz right into Armani’s, the rooftop restaurant turned engagement party ballroom, bypassing the decorators, the waiters—the staff. I’m here an hour early, and it’s not so that I can attend to the music or the food or even the booze; I’m here in search of her—Elena.

And for the most part, I’ve done my f*****g job.

I’ve convinced Foxx and Kat to attend what they believe is an upscale dinner with a potential client. I’ve managed to drag them out from the depths of their private bubble of s*x on a Friday night—and it wasn’t easy.

Now, it’s Elena’s turn.

We’re in this s**t together, and I’m just hoping and praying that she’s come through in my involuntary absence.

In my single-minded pursuit, I blaze towards the center of the floor, but I have to stop in my stampede when a cart full of cupcakes comes barreling past my shoulder. I glare at the staffer who barely missed me when the bustle of the room around me finally registers.

Everyone is scrambling, setting up the equipment, the decorations and food. Contrary to my instinct to rush, I pause in the middle of the floor, taking it all in—marveling at what the transformed restaurant has become.

It isn’t a restaurant anymore; it’s a showroom.

The customary muted lighting of Armani’s isn’t just muted; it’s glowing… in a subdued gold color that makes the air almost shimmer. Huge copper-colored ribbons line the ceiling of the room, twisting and hanging so low that they give the appearance of being touchable.

Curvy gold vases sit at the center of burgundy-covered round tables. The roses that lay within the vases are identical in color to the table lining, as if they’ve bled right into the fabric beneath them.

Trays of food and drink—in hues of amber and cream, beige and light pink—are passed around in a synchronized dance around the perimeter. So, this is what two and a half months of bitching, haranguing and negotiating with Elena over the phone got us?

Hm. I like it. In fact, I more than like it. It’s f*****g perfect.

But the more I think about what it took to get here, the more my singular focus returns, tuning everything else out. Now my thoughts are off of the décor and right back onto Elena. My eyes skim the entire floor, probing… searching.

Where…? Where is she? I don’t know where to look…or even how to look. She could be anyone. I examine the women closely, eyeing them carefully. I jump from face to face.

Waitress.

Hotel staff.

Waitress.

Waitress—Oh, wait, she’s kinda cute…

There. I hear a loud voice booming near the bar. A woman’s. I don’t think; I just move.

Finally gonna get to meet the woman behind the voice, the screen. My heart starts pumping—fast, beating with a toxic mixture of excitement and dread.

But when I make it to the woman’s side, it slams, giving a final dull thud before quieting completely. She’s a large, redheaded woman in a button-down white top. Her face is round. Her scowl is fierce. She’s grabbing people left and right, stopping trays, touching platters.

I close my eyes, bemoaning every single s****l thought I had about her. I didn’t know anything about Elena, and still, I had fantasized about f*****g her six different ways from Sunday.

I’m sick. I’m a sick man. And now look at what the hell I’ve gotten myself into. I stop right in front of her, sighing heavily.

She notices me out of the corner of her eye before turning to me, giving me her full attention. She assesses me carefully, from the top of my tux to the soles of my shoes. She raises an eyebrow.

“May I help you with something?” Her voice is gravelly—rough.

“Uh, yeah, actually. It’s me—Lukas.”

She shrugs a hefty shoulder. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

I balk—confused. Wait… “Elena?”

The redhead laughs heartily. “You’ve got the wrong woman, sweet-face. I’m the head caterer. You looking for the organizer of the party?” I nod once. “That’s Elena over there.” She points unabashedly over my shoulder… and in the direction of one of the sexiest women I have ever seen.

This new woman is facing towards me, her hands moving animatedly as she speaks. Unlike the caterer, she is neither loud nor boisterous but she is commanding the attention of everyone around her.

Her blonde hair is full, reaching to her naked collarbone. Her shoulders and back are bare and seemingly silky smooth. Her clothes are red—a dress? I’m not sure. All I see is her face… and skin… and legs…

Fuck—this is Elena?

I have the sudden urge for a cigarette… and I don’t even smoke anymore. I start walking.

I pay no attention to the audience at her helm; I don’t even see them. I cut through the crowd like the parting of the Red Sea, stopping right in front of her. Right in front of her. I am close. Too close. I could reach out and touch her. The thought is tempting.

The man talking to her notices me before she does and when he sees the look in my eyes, he backs away. Smart man. Finally, she sees me. She turns on me, regarding me curiously.

“Yes?”

I rock back on my heels, placing my hands in my pockets. “Mm. An answer before prompting… That’s funny. I couldn’t seem to get an answer for the last six days.”

Her expression drops. “Lukas,” she says simply. My sardonic smile is my reply.

For several seconds after, we stand still, staring at one another, piercing each other with hot-tempered gazes that blaze a line of fire. Her blue eyes are a liquid flame, and the heat behind them is indescribable. They glow with some sort of subtle passion—a form of anger or desire… maybe both…

I’m almost sure what I see in her eyes is reflected in my own, but suddenly, a voice cuts in.

“Elena,” a staffer says, close-by. “Where should I put the roses?”

Elena breaks the stare, shifting her attention to the waiting woman. “Over there,” she points. “On the dining tables. I need a bouquet in each centerpiece.”

I pull her eyes back to mine, ignoring the interrupting staffer. “We need to talk.”

Her eyes flash. “Maybe we do… but definitely not right now.” She starts to turn on her heel.

My hand shoots out, grabbing her securely by the wrist. Touching her skin gives me a jolt, electrifying me down to my toes. I know she feels it, too. She shudders. My voice lowers. “You know damned well we do. Right now.”

“Or what?” she challenges. Her head swivels, her eyes roaming the restaurant’s span. “You going to make a scene? You wouldn’t dare.”

My stare hardens. I pull her closer. “Try me.”

She snatches her wrist back, shrugging noncommittally with her next step. “I think I just did.”

She takes another step and then she doesn’t stop. Before I can blink, she is halfway across the floor, sashaying her way back to the fully stocked bar. I almost call after her until a hand lands on my shoulder.

“Chris. Jesus, man. What the hell are you are doing here this early?”

Chris’s face is red as usual, his breathing short—his expression pained. He looks as if he’s just finished sprinting. I suspect that he has.

“I wanted to get a good look at things before the festivities began. Plus, I needed to talk to you. I need you to look at this Voyager article before it goes to print.”

I glance at Elena’s retreating back. The skin there is bare, and I’m doing all I can to not follow it. “Can’t it wait?”

“No,” he exhales. “This article’s rolling out soon. Just take a look for me, ok?” He unloads a briefcase at the nearest table, sitting down beside it.

I take a deep breath. Typical Chris.

All he can think about is work—and all I can think about right now is play. It’s a game, really, and I’ve been sucked into it against my will. A round of “Catch the beautiful blonde,” and I’m already losing by a mile. I’m two seconds from bailing on Chris. I can tell that he sees the urgency written all over my face. He pulls out another chair, looking up at me.

“It’s not like you have anything better to do.”

Boy, if he only knew. If he only really knew.