Elle-Lexy:

I don’t know what the fuck just happened.

 

I smirk, typing back.

LukasGriff:

I don’t know what the fuck that was, either. But it was good…

 

Elle-Lexy:

I don’t know. Look, I’ve got to go.

 

I scowl, tapping rapidly on the keyboard.

LukasGriff:

Wait. Didn’t you still want to talk about the DJ?

 

Elle-Lexy:

I don’t know…

Ok, yeah, I guess.

Let’s just talk tomorrow.

 

My shoulders slump. She’s getting weird on me. This isn’t good…

LukasGriff:

Yeah, sure. That’s fine. You know how to reach me.

 

A few more seconds pass.

Elle-Lexy:

Yeah, I guess I do…

I’ll talk to you later, Lukas.

 

But I won’t let it end there.

LukasGriff:

One more thing, Elena…

 

Elle-Lexy:

Yeah?

 

LukasGriff:

Coldplay isn’t crap. Good night.

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 sex with Lukas Griffin last night—or Skype sex, text sex—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-whore—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 shit.

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 sex, and then at some point, I just crack; I break down and try to hump the closest swinging penis.

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 masturbated 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 climax 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, fucking 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 fucking 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 sex on a Friday night—and it wasn’t easy.

Now, it’s Elena’s turn.

We’re in this shit 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 fucking 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.