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Authors: Gretchen Galway

Tags: #Contemporary, #Romance

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BOOK: This Changes Everything
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“People will believe it if you wear something other than men’s pajamas.”

“I’m not doing a
Pretty Woman
makeover just for a weekend with a bunch of rich Silicon Valley geeks.”

“I’m not asking you to. Wear whatever you want other than pajamas.”

“Nobody will believe it.”

“You’re mental. They will.”

“I bet you they won’t,” she said.

“I bet you they will.”

“How much?”

“What?”

“If I’m right,” she said, “and nobody thinks I’m your girlfriend, what do I get?”

“That’s not fair. You’ll have too much incentive to wear old-man boxer shorts and scratch yourself inappropriately.”

Her eyes glowed with dangerous enthusiasm, the way they did when she beat him at poker. “We’ll have ground rules. I hold up my end, you hold up yours. If people don’t believe I’m your hot babe, which they won’t, then I get the jackpot. Which will be what, I wonder?”

“Can’t be cash. You’re impoverished. I’m loaded.”

“I’m not impoverished. You have a distorted view of reality. And besides, I’m going to win.” She slapped him on the back. “Let’s say a thousand.”

“That’s nothing to me and a fortune to you.”

“Please. It won’t kill me.”

He knew she couldn’t have much more than that in her checking account. “I can’t do money. I’d try to lose. It has to be something else.” He hadn’t intended on making a game out of this, but if it got her to go to the auction, he would play along. “If I lose, I give you a thousand. If you lose, you play the ukulele at my wedding, which will probably never happen, so all the more reason for you to go for it.”

She regarded a gull swooping beneath them under the bridge, then turned to him. “Teresa will never ever believe I’m your girlfriend. I’m warning you right now.”

Watching Cleo lose this bet was going to be a pleasure. It was past time she ventured outside her comfort zone. “We have a deal?”

She held out her hand. “Deal.” Then she added with a grin that lit up her eyes, “Let’s hope Teresa likes ukulele music.”

5

T
he Friday evening
of their journey south to Carmel was cold and misty, threatening rain. October on the coast usually alternated between hot, summery days and the first taste of rain since April. This weekend was forecast to have a little of both.

Cleo glanced at Sly behind the wheel. “You didn’t say anything about my outfit.”

“I didn’t want to encourage you.”

Smiling, she turned her head to look out at the rocky cliffs tumbling down to the inky waters of the Pacific. Her jeans and sweatshirt were the same she’d worn on their hike over the bridge. “You can’t say this isn’t what I normally wear, since I was wearing it when you invited me.”

He didn’t say anything.

“If you’re hoping I packed cream silk pantsuits and designer evening gowns,” she continued, “you’re going to be disappointed.”

“You never disappoint me, Cleo.”

She bit her lip to stifle a laugh. Only two hours into their bet and she was already having fun. “This is going to be a blast.”

“I’m glad. I want you to enjoy yourself. You’re doing me a favor.”

His sincerity almost made her feel guilty about how easily she was going to win. “Have you talked to Mark lately? Maybe he wouldn’t want you to be reaching out to this woman for him and his new company.”

“He was psyched, actually,” Sly said. “He’s a recluse. Hates to network. If I can do this for him, my debt to him will be paid, at least enough for me to sleep at night.”

“What’s her name?”

“Poppy Lee.”

Cleo whistled. “I’ve heard of her.”

“Yeah, she’s pretty high profile.”

“Why would someone like that want to work on Mark’s little project?”

“Because Mark is a genius who makes millions by accident,” he said.

“Millions, sure. But not billions.”

“I like how you say that so casually, as if making millions is no biggie.”

“Doesn’t seem to impress these people anymore,” she said.

“It does. Especially now. It’s crazy time again, money pouring in from Wall Street, Main Street, all over the world, companies with six people on staff getting bought for a billion overnight.”

She strummed the ukulele in her lap. She’d been playing for the past hour, the soft high notes tinkling into the leather interior to his murmurs of appreciation. Did she really want to make his life difficult? They were friends. He wasn’t asking a lot. “Sly, if you want to drop the bet, it’s fine with me. I’ll dress up and do my best.”

“Dress however you like. Just be yourself. You’re the one who thinks that won’t be enough.”

Both flattered and annoyed, she said, “You don’t realize how different you and I appear to most people.”

“This isn’t Hollywood. These are Silicon Valley people. They won’t notice your clothes or mine. If you don’t outright argue with me when I tell people you’re my girlfriend, they’ll believe me. Even Teresa.”

“So basically, the bet is on. That’s what you’re saying?”

“Looks like.”

♢ ♡ ♤

The hotel perched on the highlands above the coast, its sloped entrance enclosed by the tall, horizontal branches of Monterey cypress trees. Cleo carried her ukulele and backpack herself, amused at how naturally Sly accepted the assistance of the valet and bellhops and desk staff as they checked in.

The resort was made up of multiple short wood buildings connected by exterior walkways, all surrounded by more cypress and pine, giving it the feel of a vast, luxurious tree house on the edge of a cliff. Sly strode down a set of stairs and up another as if he knew exactly where they were going, which he probably did.

“Here we are,” he said, opening the door of a building at the far north end of the resort. The rocks dropped directly below the planks under their feet, sloping gradually to the coast. The wind had picked up, and the surf roared. “Feels like rain.”

She followed him inside, wiping mist off her cheeks. “Will that interfere with the auction? People might not come if they can’t golf?”

“They’ll come. These people don’t usually golf.”

“Unless it’s a video game,” she said.

“Even then. No time. Most are workaholics.”

“Like you.”

“No,” he said. “I’m much worse.”

The bellhop arrived and brought in the bags, asked if he could do anything, then cheerfully accepted Sly’s folded bill and departed. With a start, Cleo noticed the champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries waiting for them on a tray on the bed.

The only bed in a room bigger than her apartment.

A fireplace crackled from the corner. The bathroom held a walk-in tub and a shower stall with several heads, so that everyone inside—and there was room for quite an orgy in there—had a constant stream of hot water.

“Hope that bathtub’s comfortable,” she said, picking up the strawberry by its GMO stem and dangling it over his mouth.

He bit off the berry and smiled at her, cheeks bulging.

“Shall I pop open the bubbly?” she asked.

He held up a finger as he swallowed, then said, “Wine reception in an hour.”

“That should be fun,” she said. “For you.”

“You’ll be joining me, I hope.”

“You said I only had to go to the auction.”

“This doesn’t really count. It’s free food and drink. Aren’t you hungry?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “What else is there going on this weekend you need me to attend?”

“Don’t you want to win your bet? A few hours at a busy auction aren’t going to give you much opportunity.”

“You’re dastardly.”

He grinned. “I like the sound of that. It goes really well with ‘tech mogul.’ I bet it would be great for business.”

“You’re hopeless. Fine, I’ll go. But I want to walk around first. I saw hiking paths.”

“There are many. Go past the pool. There’s a vineyard, but otherwise they’ve left it fairly wild.”

“Except for the miles of golf courses.”

“Except for that.” He flung his garment bag on the bed, rattling the champagne flutes on the tray. “Go take your hike, hug your tree. I’m going to get pretty.”

She pinched his chin. “Already did.” Grabbing her parka, she walked to the door. “I’ll meet you there. Where is it?”

“The Cypress Room. Six thirty. But…”

“Yes?”

“Aren’t you…” He pressed his fingers into his forehead. “Never mind.”

Smiling, she closed the door, knowing he’d almost asked her if she was going to change what she was wearing.

In spite of all his business smarts, he really didn’t have a clue about some things. They were great friends, but nobody would have paired them together, not even them. Only chance—and a passing interest in piano lessons—had done that. The band geek didn’t go to prom with the Most Likely To Succeed. In fact, she’d refused to go at all, hanging out at the twenty-four-hour diner with her similarly geeky friends, sharing a plate of garlic fries with extra garlic and arguing about superheroes.

During her marriage, she’d made an effort to “grow up,” as Dylan had called it, wearing more fashionable women’s clothing and giving up the flip-flops. She’d followed his advice—choosing pink instead of green, tight instead of comfortable, dressy instead of casual—and look where it had gotten her. Divorced at twenty-five. When he hadn’t been able to transform her into what he’d wanted, he’d found an off-the-shelf model that was ready to go.

She looked off to the west and inhaled the cold salt air, trying to banish the image of her ex-husband with her best friend—now her ex-best-friend—together. Not that she’d ever admit it to Sly, but she hadn’t slept with anyone since her marriage. If Dylan had chosen a stranger, maybe it would’ve been easier to move on and get serious about somebody else. But he hadn’t chosen a stranger. The two people she loved and trusted most, other than her parents, had ripped her heart out of her chest and diced it into pieces.

But she was over it now. She was. Four years was more than enough time to stop punching the empty pillow next to her in bed while she imagined a certain handsome, self-satisfied face.

Cleo unclenched her hands and bounded down the steps to the garden below, whistling a new melody she’d been working on for over a week.

It had been
at least
a year since she’d punched the pillow imagining Dylan’s face, and she’d only lost her temper then because a mutual acquaintance had accidentally copied her on the email loop about his first anniversary party with Ashley—in Tahiti. When he’d been with Cleo, he’d refused to leave the county for their honeymoon, let alone the hemisphere. But with Ashley, the lovely, perfect Ashley…

She whistled louder to cleanse away the unwelcome thoughts. Some lessons were painful to learn, but worth the hurt in the long term. The world would have to accept her as she was. And if that meant Sly had to hand over a few bucks, all the better.

6

S
ly finished
his second plate of food from the gourmet buffet, eyeing the corridor to the vineyard hike with growing impatience. He set down his plate and got another glass of wine at the bar. About two dozen people had come to the reception. A few familiar faces, most unfamiliar. He’d had a little success in his career, but it was a big industry and he was a relative nobody.

Teresa liked to arrive a little late so she could make an entrance.

Making a face, he sipped his wine. She didn’t love him; that wasn’t why she chased him now. Five years ago, she’d been the one to break it off after six months together. Her next boyfriends had all been high-profile, newly minted millionaires. When WellyNelly survived the recession and started attracting big corporate interest and then looked like it would make him a fortune, she called him up, sweet as an In-N-Out Burger chocolate milkshake.

He had no interest in seeing her now. Even if he had sold WellyNelly to big pharma and cashed in eight figures, which he hadn’t. Maybe it was the write-up in
Businessweek
, when he’d gone into business with Mark, that had renewed her interest.

Speak of the devil
. There she was now, gliding into the room. Stepping behind a potted palm, he took another mouthful of wine and watched her accept a glass from the host and then begin to work the crowd. Long dark hair, smooth as glass, framed her delicate face. Petite, with elfin features that made her seem harmless, Teresa wore a clingy, shimmery gold dress that showed off her slim shape. Her shoes, as usual, increased her height by at least three inches.

She didn’t
look
dangerous. He glanced at the beach entrance again, wishing he hadn’t let Cleo out of his sight. This was the moment he’d need her most, before the auction was underway as a distraction.

“Hi, honey,” Cleo said loudly behind him, a mischievous grin on her face. She lifted a beer bottle to her lips, then leaned closer to him, lowering her voice. “How was that? I called you honey.”

He’d never been so glad to see her in his life, even if she was wearing a ski parka over a bright orange Giant’s T-shirt and mud-caked Chaco sandals. Curving an arm around her shoulders, he pulled her against him and kissed her hair. Something scratchy brushed his lips. “Fantastic, darling.”

Uneasiness flickered in her eyes. Her body went tense under his arm. “Don’t overdo it.”

“You’re the one with plants in your hair,” he whispered. “Lichen, I think.”

A dimple flashed in her left cheek. “Pull it out for me? That would be very romantic.”

“My pleasure.” Gazing deeply into her eyes, he stroked her cheek and caressed the crispy green strands out of her hair as if touching her hair was the greatest privilege of his life.

“Oh, you’re good,” she said, batting her eyelashes.

“You have no idea.”

“She’s right behind you.”

He brushed his lips across her temple to her ear. “I know.” Beneath the plant matter and the beer, he smelled the sweetness of her hair. And he couldn’t help but feel her soft curves pressing against his pelvis. In response, his body began pumping blood a little harder, a little faster, to key locations.

Not again
. He released her and lifted the wineglass to his lips, looking away, concentrating on cooling down.

Teresa was flirting with a guy he didn’t know, those big green eyes of hers pinning the helpless geek where he stood.

Sly reminded himself that he didn’t want to be that guy again. The breakup had thrown him for a long time. He’d convinced himself he’d been in love with her, and maybe he had.

Cleo jabbed him in the ribs with her index finger, as if pressing the button on a candy machine. “You promised me food.”

Plastering a seductive smile on his face to cover the pain, he looked down at her. “Yes, sweetums. Let’s go find it together.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Are you going to feel me up while we eat?”

“Only if you stab me again.”

With a throaty chortle, she took his arm and tugged him toward the buffet table. He tried to walk with her the way he would walk with a girlfriend, but she made it impossible. Giving up on being the manly, dominant one, he let her drag him along.

At the table, he drained his glass and held it out to a passing waiter for a refill. Might as well enjoy himself.

Which is what Cleo was obviously doing as she filled her plate with beet salad, cheese cubes, crab cakes, chicken satays, canapés, and two chocolate chip cookies. Based on the sideways looks she kept giving him, she was trying to get a rise out of him. Did she really think the women he usually dated didn’t eat? Or that he’d be offended if they did?

Of course, eating a beet with her fingers was just asking for it. As was dropping it down the V-neck her orange T-shirt.

In growing alarm, he watched her stick her hand between her breasts, extract the beet between two red-stained fingers, and bring it to her parted lips.

He slung an arm around her shoulders and confiscated her plate. “I warned you,” he whispered in her ear, sliding his hand down her back to the curve of her waist, hauling her against his side. “Honey.”

The wide-eyed innocent looked up at him, then pushed the fallen beet past his lips into his mouth.

He had no choice but to swallow it.

“It’s like a wedding,” she said brightly. “We can feed each other.”

“I’m going to feed you to the sharks in Monterey Bay if you keep this up.”

He was afraid if she kept laughing so hard, beet juice was going to shoot out of her nose. But after a moment she nodded, took a deep breath, and looked down at the plate in his hands. “Fine, I’ll stop. Can I have my food back? I really am hungry.”

“Sylvester?”

Teresa’s voice. Right behind him.

He handed Cleo her plate as gracefully as he could, then glanced at the woman he’d been avoiding. “Hello, Teresa.”

Either because she was busy chewing or because she took some pity on him, Cleo didn’t do anything embarrassing for a few seconds. He helped himself to the cookie on her plate, gave her a seductive wink, and clamped it between his teeth as he reached for an empty plate.

“It’s so nice to see you,” Teresa said. “Hui Zhong mentioned you were invited.”

He took a massive bite of the cookie and nodded as he chewed. Balancing the fine line between rude and indifferent was going to be a challenge.

Which was why he hadn’t come to this shindig alone. Swallowing the cookie, he moved closer to his outdoorsy girlfriend and smiled politely at Teresa. “Have you met Cleo?”

“Your younger sister, right?” Teresa asked.

Cleo tapped his foot with hers, but Sly knew it hadn’t been an honest question. Unless his sisters were adopted, which Teresa knew they were not, there was no way he and Cleo could be siblings. His mixed DNA—from Mexico, Africa, Scotland, the Philippines, and beyond—was written all over his face, whereas the tiny Scandinavian village from whence all Cleo’s ancestors had no doubt lived for millennia was written all over hers.

He guffawed as if they all knew it was a hilarious joke. “Cleo, this is Teresa Lapham. Teresa, Cleo Holt.” He put down his plate so he could stroke Cleo’s back in a sufficiently intimate manner. She stiffened but didn’t knee him in the balls, for which he was grateful.

Teresa, eyebrows raised, shook Cleo’s hand. “How long have you two been together?”

During the drive down, they’d agreed on a few basic details to their story. Cleo trotted them out now. “We’ve been friends for a long time, but started dating last year.”

“Really.” Teresa didn’t release Cleo’s hand. “How romantic.”

“Yes,” Cleo said. “Very.”

“After being friends, it must be hard finding new things to talk about.” Finally dropping Cleo’s hand, Teresa reached up and fiddled with a tiny pendant at her throat. “You’d be like an old married couple.”

Sly tightened his grip on Cleo’s shoulder, drawing her away. “Not quite. Well, have a nice—”

“And what do you do, Cleo?” Teresa asked. “Were you at WellyNelly too?”

“Teresa,” he said, giving her a hard look. She’d always accused him of sleeping around at work, which he never had.

“I’m a musician,” Cleo said.

“Oh, really?” Teresa’s gaze flickered over Cleo’s body, resting momentarily on her muddy sandals. “How interesting.” Her tone was sincerely curious.

“Lately I’ve been especially interested in the ukulele.” Cleo popped a green canapé into her mouth. Mouth full, she said, “Oh, these are great. Have you had any yet?”

“I’ve already eaten.”

“So?” Cleo shoved another one in her mouth. “I never pass up free food. Isn’t that right, honey?” Resting her head on his shoulder, she gazed up and made calf eyes at him. “Honey bunny?”

Sly tried to hide his annoyance. She wasn’t even trying to be convincing. The most socially obtuse guy in the room—and that was a high bar—could tell she was being sarcastic. Cupping her cheek, he lowered his head and kissed her lightly on the lips. “I love that about you.”

Freezing under his touch, Cleo’s smile fell.

Ha. Not laughing now, are you?
he thought. He rubbed his thumb along her lower lip and felt her cheeks get warmer. “You had a little avocado there.” He bent down and licked the corner of her mouth. “Right there,” he whispered.

If he were being honest with himself, he’d admit that he’d had to whisper because his throat had tightened with a rush of adrenaline.

“Let’s talk later, Sylly,” Teresa said, patting his arm. “Perhaps when you haven’t had a few glasses of wine already. Tomorrow?”

He dropped his hand, heart pounding, and nodded at Teresa. “Sure. Tomorrow.”

When she walked away, Cleo set down her plate and walked to the bar at the opposite side of the room. He watched her ponytail sway, afraid he’d gone too far.

But she’d pushed him. Sure, they had a bet, but she was cheating. He was doing everything he could to make this enjoyable for her, even booked a deep-tissue massage for her in the morning.

The thought of her soft, deep tissues made his heart pound harder.

Don’t go there
.

But his thoughts didn’t listen. They went there.

What would it be like? The last guy she’d dated had been a guitar-playing, big-bearded hipster without a car. Rode his bike everywhere. Very sensible and eco-friendly, and not unusual in Berkeley, but Sly thought he was just trying to spin his true nature as an underemployed loser into something datable.

Watching Cleo at the bar, he noticed her switch to hard liquor. Not a good sign.

He’d upset her. Hell, he’d upset himself.

Inhaling deeply, he turned away and picked up her abandoned plate. Other than the beet and the canapés, she hadn’t eaten. That drink was going to go right to her head. He added a second cookie to replace the one he’d eaten, then rejoined her in a quiet corner behind an eight-foot-wide aquarium where she’d gone to hide.

He handed her the plate. “I’m sorry I got so physical.”

Her face was blocked by her cocktail glass, which now seemed to hold only ice. “It’s OK. I pushed you.”

“If I forfeit the bet right now,” he said, “will you try a little harder? Or a little less hard?”

“She did ask if I was your sister. Bet won right there.”

“Yes, she did.” He picked up a cheese puff and tried to put it in her mouth. “Even if she was just yanking my chain.”

Cleo lifted a hand to block the cheese puff. “Maybe because it’s still shackled to your ankle.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come on,” she said. “You know.”

“She knew you’re not my sister. She was just trying to annoy me. And you.”

“And she succeeded, which makes me think you might still have a little teeny weeny thing for her.”

He shuddered. “No. Unless that thing is like salmonella.”

“Then why do you care what she thinks? Tell her to screw off.”

“Not my style.”

“No, your style is to stick your tongue in my mouth.” She took the glass out of his hands and strode away.

Well, that clarified that situation. She was angry. She wasn’t curious the way he was curious.

God, was he really admitting that’s what was going on? Couldn’t his body’s reaction simply be basic biology? The instinctive reflex of a heterosexual male who hadn’t been with a woman in a while?

He stared at the colorful fish in the aquarium darting around their plastic seaweed.

It had to be that.

Of course it was that.

♢ ♡ ♤

Almost two hours later, Cleo paused at the hotel room door, key card in hand, her stomach tightening.

How had it come to this? She was nervous to go in. Afraid of a good friend.

She’d left the reception and wandered outside around the resort, climbing over rocks between the cedar and gardens. At one point she tripped over a stone and stubbed her toe, bare in her sandals, and it was bleeding. She had to go into the hotel room to wash and bandage her wound.

Something deeper was stinging too.

It was all a joke. Just fun. She was stupid.

Sliding the card into the door, she limped across the threshold. “Honey, I’m home!” She kept her voice cheerful and light. Not worried and heavy. Or hot and heavy.

Oh, for God’s sake, Cleo, get a grip.

One glance told her the room was empty. She was so relieved she laughed as she walked into the bathroom to tend to her wounds. But then she saw herself in the mirror, and the laughter died.

She looked terrible. Ponytail askew, nose red, dirt on her cheek, jacket frayed, faded, and stained. Was it worth a thousand dollars to embarrass herself like this? No. Well, it would’ve been if he hadn’t been such a formidable opponent. She’d nearly choked when he’d kissed her hair, but when he’d
licked
her…

She was strong, but she wasn’t made of stone. No wonder he was a mogul. He played to win. She played piano. Time to call a truce and enjoy the resort for its own sake. One of the pools overlooking the beach was steaming, obviously well heated. There was that hour-and-a-half massage in the morning. And she still hadn’t eaten a real meal.

Her rumpled, hoboesque image frowned back at her.

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