The Love Wager (Mr. Wrong Number, #2)(50)

Hallie did her hair and then applied some eye shadow for a smoky eye look while half watching a Top Chef marathon. When she was finished, she steamed a few wrinkles out of her dress and put it on.

Her sister, the attention whore, was having all the bridesmaids wear white to the rehearsal, while she wore a scarlet gown, and then the colors would be flipped for the wedding. She’d been obsessed with the idea since Taylor’s version of Red came out, and she’d found a man who was all-in on her theatrical side. It would be amazing for the photos, but since it was her sister, Hallie just considered it annoying and melodramatic.

She did love her dress, though.

It was long and white, a flowy fabric that hugged her body but wasn’t stuck to it. One shoulder had a white ruffle that cut diagonally to her waist, while the other shoulder was bare. Hallie thought it looked like something she’d wear to one of Diddy’s white parties if she were famous enough to be invited, if he still did those . . . and, now that she was thinking about it, if he was even still called that.

She was putting on her pearl earrings when she heard Jack at the door. She was ready for him to make fun of her for looking positively bridal, but when she opened the door and said “Marry me” in her best Maeby Fünke voice, he didn’t crack a smile.

His eyes moved all over her, from her hair to her face and down the length of her dress, before he just said, “Wow.”

“I know,” she said, rolling her eyes. “She’s making all the bridesmaids wear white tonight. It’s so over-the-top, but she’s the bride.”

She turned away from him and went to grab her beaded handbag from the nightstand. “I’m going to go down to Chuck’s so you can have some privacy—”

“No.”

“Huh?” She looked at him over her shoulder, and as he cleared his throat, her eyes dropped down to his neck, his sweat-dampened shirt, and then his legs.

Oh, God, those legs. He had thick, chiseled calves.

She was such a sucker for a good calf.

He had very bitable calves, if that was a thing.

He said, “Just stay. I need ten minutes tops in the bathroom and I’m ready.”

“You sure?” She straightened and turned around, but she was having trouble with words. Out of nowhere, she was zapped with the awareness that he was going to be showering, naked, just through that door in mere minutes, getting all wet and soapy and—oh, my.

“Yep.”

“Okay. Cool.” She walked over to the mirror that hung between the hotel fridge and the desk and leaned a little closer to check her lipstick.

“Don’t move.” Jack walked over and stepped behind her, and they looked at each other in the mirror. “You’re only halfway zipped.”

“Oh.” Hallie sucked in a breath when she felt his fingers on her zipper, his other hand on her lower back, and the heat of his body behind her. Through the mirror, she watched his eyes on her back as he slowly slid up the zipper. She saw the clench of his jaw and the flare of his nostrils, and how his left hand lingered after the zipper reached the top, resting on her lower back. After a moment, he stepped back, cleared his throat, and said, “Okay—how long do I have?”

She blinked, confused for a second, before looking around him in the mirror at the clock. “Uh, fifteen minutes,” she said.

He nodded and walked toward the garment bag that was hanging next to the bathroom. “Easy peasy,” he said, before going in the bathroom and shutting the door behind him.





Jack


He was pretty sure the weekend was going to kill him.

He turned on the shower, but no matter what he did, he couldn’t get the image of Hallie in that white dress out of his head. Her wavy hair, red lipstick, pearl earrings—she looked like a fucking bride.

What was that expression—a man plans and God laughs?

Yeah, someone was cackling at that moment at his idiotic fake relationship plan.

He toed off his running shoes and pulled his shirt over his head before he grabbed his phone and texted Hallie.

Jack: I should’ve said this before, but you look incredible.

He knew she was wrinkling her brow as she read the message.

Hallie: Why are you texting me from the bathroom?

Jack: Because I don’t want this sentiment to get caught up in our games. Your buddy Jack—not fake boyfriend—is telling you in a purely subjective statement that you look absolutely stunning.

Hallie: Well if I’m being honest with my real-life bestie, not my fake bf, I’m having the best time vacationing with you and I don’t want it to end.

Jack: Same.

He put down the phone, shed his remaining clothes, and got in the shower.

He wished he had any fucking clue what Hallie was thinking. What she was feeling.

Because it appeared to him that she was enjoying their little game just as much as he was. But she seemed casual as hell about it—blasé, even, which made him think she was still his wingwoman and just “leaning in” to the weekend of pretend, whatever she even meant by that.

And if that was the case, he couldn’t bare his soul to her and risk losing her as a friend.

He quickly shaved, brushed his teeth, and combed his hair before getting dressed, and when he walked out of the bathroom and looked at her in that dress again, leaning back on the bed and looking at her phone, his necktie felt like it was strangling him.