The Invitation by Adriana Locke

Ripley

The Swill is calm when I walk in. I find a table in the back corner, nestled in the shadows, and sit with my back to the wall so I can watch for Georgia to arrive. I’m early—not only because I was anxious to get this over with but also because establishing oneself early is the best way to take control of a situation.

And God knows that won’t be easy with her.

I’ve contemplated this scenario all last night as well as today while I worked with a couple of athletes at the Arrows training facility. I’ve gone back and forth about how to approach this meeting. Do I go with the flow, feel her out, and adjust my game plan? Or do I come out swinging with my charm and wit and throw her off her game?

One thing is for sure: she won’t make a fool out of me. Again.

“Hey, there.” A woman with a name tag reading Vanessa slides up to the table. “Can I get you something to drink, or are you waiting on someone?”

Vanessa is pretty with big brown eyes and curly blond hair. Her smile is friendly, too.

“I’m waiting for someone,” I say, noticing the wash of disappointment filter across her features. “But I’ll go ahead and order a whiskey neat for me and a lemon drop martini for my … friend.”

Weird.

“Great,” she says. “I’ll be back with your drinks.”

“Thanks, Vanessa.”

She smiles at my use of her name, a personal touch that always goes a long way with people, and heads toward the bar.

My stomach churns with anticipation as I flip my attention to the front of the building. On cue, as if she were poised outside the door waiting for me to look, Georgia steps into the bar. Her eyes find mine almost immediately.

Every man in the establishment’s eyes finds her.

My God.

She moves through the room as if she’s walking on air. Her hips, wrapped in light denim jeans with strategic holes in the knees, sway sexily with each step. Her shoulders are bare thanks to a corset-style top that highlights the tops of her round tits. The ridge of her shoulder is soft and smooth. If I didn’t know she was a nightmare, I’d make it my mission to get her number.

Get your head together, Brewer.

I clear my throat as she approaches, breathing in her trademark vanilla scent moments before she slides into the booth across from me. Her tits jiggle as she gets situated. Now that I know what they look like without a shirt, it’s hard not to stare.

“Perfect timing,” Vanessa says, placing two drinks on the table.

Georgia looks at me, confused.

“Do you two need anything else?” Vanessa asks.

“No, I’m good,” I say. “Would you like anything else, Georgia?”

She shakes her head, a loose tendril from the pile of hair on top of her head dusting her shoulder.

“Great. I’ll check on you two later,” Vanessa says before scooting away.

Georgia sets her purse on the bench beside her. “I see you ordered for me.”

“I figured a martini was safe.”

“What makes you say that?”

I pull my whiskey toward me. “Well, you had several of them the other night when we were here, so I figured it was safe to say you liked them.” And I finished yours that night just to piss you off.

“Oh.” She brushes the errant tendril out of her face. “That’s fair, I guess.”

“Did you think I just threw a dart at the menu and got lucky?”

“If anyone could do that, it would be you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

She takes a drink, watching me over the rim of her glass. Her lashes are long and thick, and her skin sparkles under the light hanging above us.

All she’s missing are the wings.

“So ground rules,” she says, placing her drink on a napkin. “Let’s get this over with.”

I shift in my seat. “Tate pointed out that we might find ourselves in precarious situations that would make sense for people actually dating but would be more than awkward for us.”

“Yeah, that thought has crossed my mind, too.”

She holds my gaze long enough to make me question which thought she’s referring to, exactly. But I don’t ask. It doesn’t matter.

“Did you get the revised shooting schedule today?” I ask.

She settles back against the seat. “Yes. Thursday is a getting-to-know-you scenario now. I didn’t see where we were supposed to meet, though.”

“It’s at a restaurant called Ruma downtown. Since the crews are filming, they had to get permits and permissions.”

“Ruma, huh? I heard that place is amazing and also ridiculously expensive. Can’t say I’m mad about getting to try it on Canoodle’s money.” She takes another drink. “They have us scheduled for our first official date on Friday. We’re supposed to let them know our plans on Friday morning.”

“That’s what I read, too.”

“Well, seeing as though we got the same email, that would make sense,” she says.

I narrow my eyes as the frustration I’ve tried so hard to bury rises to the top.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she says. “I’m not getting paid to be nice to you yet.”

As much as I want to do this for Jonah and need to do this for my family’s reputation—who doesn’t love a man bending over backward for the woman he’s falling for?—the possibility that Georgia fails to cooperate and this entire production fails becomes apparent.

“You know, if it pains you that badly to pretend to like me, you need to rethink this,” I say, clenching my jaw. “If you walk away now, little time and money has been spent. If you wait and let this blow up in your face, it will be expensive. That’ll make Sutton look even worse.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” I fire back.

“Don’t try to talk me out of this. Yes, it will pain me to be nice to you—even if it’s fake. But I signed a contract, didn’t I?”

I shrug. “You signed a contract to be professional about this, but you’re acting like an asshole.”

“Coming from you, that’s rich.”

We sit across from one another, each holding a proverbial white flag under the table. We both know we can’t do this and make our agreement work. Yet neither of us is willing to raise the flag first and surrender.

I fold my hands on the table. “I’m no happier about this than you are, Peaches.”

She rolls her eyes.

“I’d rather listen to Gannon talk about stocks and bonds than do this with you,” I say. “And, if you want me to be honest, I don’t know that you can do this.”

“Oh, really?”

“Really.” I pin her to the seat. “You’re too busy pretending to be a bad bitch to even allow me to be remotely nice to you. Why is that, Georgia? Are you scared it’ll taint whatever fucked-up version of yourself that lives in your head?”

She leans against the table, anger rolling off her in waves. “Fuck you, Ripley.”

“Does the truth hurt?”

“It hurts about as much as your ego is going to hurt when you realize that I’m not melting at your feet when we’re alone, and I sure as hell won’t believe every word that comes out of your mouth.”

I withdraw a bit, studying the guard that just slid across her eyes. I’m unsure if this is a new thing or if I’m only noticing it now. But it doesn’t matter because I don’t have time—or the energy, or the desire—to figure it out.

“I’m approaching this like I would any business contract,” I say, my voice unwavering.

“Same.”

We’re not getting anywhere … I sigh.

“So ground rules?” she asks. “You go first.”

I glance at a table of men in suits by the bar who keep glancing at Georgia. “We shouldn’t date other people until our contract is up. It’s just to maintain the integrity of the job.”

That doesn’t even really make sense, but that’s what I get for thinking on the fly.

“What happens if I fall madly in love with someone mid-shoot?” she asks.

My teeth grind against each other. I know she’s just fucking with me—her lips pressed together in a faux pout give her away. Still, I can’t give in.

“We’ll address it if it happens,” I say. “I want to keep my options open in case I meet the future Mrs. Brewer, too. But even though we’re fake-dating and this is just a job, I think having a real-life significant other could cause problems, and we’re both dedicated to helping our friends succeed.”

“Fine. Deal.” She flashes me a fake-ass smile. “I also have a demand of my own.”

“What is it?”

“I know this is supposed to look as real as possible when we’re filming, but I don’t want anyone to think we’re actually dating in real life.”

“You think I want people to think I’m dating you? Funny.”

Her features sober, and all levity has left the building. She picks up a small amethyst stone hanging from a chain around her neck and toys with it between her fingers.

I can’t help but notice how vulnerable she is at this moment. Her caramel-colored eyes shine with a soft defenselessness that changes everything about her. I’ve only seen her like this once before, which was so long ago that I forgot about it until now.

“I mean it, Ripley. It’s important that no one thinks this is really happening, okay? And if for some reason you’re picking me up and I tell you not to come to my house, you can’t. All right?”

Huh? “Fine, but why?”

My mind races, coming up with a multitude of reasons she wouldn’t want me to come to her house unannounced. Not that I would’ve anyway, but her determination about this single point makes me curious.

She takes a long drink and then licks her pink lips. Her glass touches the table with a soft thud.

“I don’t know why I feel awkward talking to you about this, because it’s not like I did anything wrong, and you might know already, anyway,” she says.

“I might already know what?”

She sits tall in her seat. “After my parents divorced, my mother dated your father.”

What?

“And, if you do the math, which is what you’re probably doing right now, your father was married to your mother at that time,” she says.

“That motherfucker,” I say in disbelief. “Are you serious? How do you know this?” I shake my head. Why am I shocked that the sonofabitch could surprise me from inside a prison?

“I know because my mom told me. She didn’t know your dad was married. I’m sure there are two sides to the story, but she claims she saw him on television with your mom under his real name and realized she was being played. She ended things immediately.”

“Did my mom know?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I have no idea. I only know because …” She looks down at her lap. “I found out when I started at Waltham Prep, and she realized you guys went there, too. I think if she’d known that before, she wouldn’t have made me switch schools. She avoided every PTA meeting and school event like the plague for fear of running into your mother.”

“It’s a good thing Dad is in prison because, if he weren’t, I’d beat the fuck out of him right now.”

She smiles sadly. “I’m sorry for telling you that. And, again, there are two sides to every story.”

“Not this story. I believe your mom.”

“Well, believe me when I say that she still carries absolute disdain for your father to this day.”

“She can join the club. But what does this have to do with me?”

She laughs nervously. “I might have taken a blood oath that I’ll never date a Brewer. And although she didn’t specify, I’m pretty sure the vow I repeated covered fictional situations.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Afraid not.”

I raise my glass to my mouth to try to hide my bewilderment.

The air between us is awkward. The silence is heavy. It’s unusual for us to sit in the stillness without trading barbs, but here we are.

Vanessa swings by to see if we need anything. We both decline quietly.

“So …” Georgia says, adjusting the bottom of her top. “How real is this supposed to look?”

“What do you mean?”

She looks up and catches me staring, and sighs. “I’m not talking about my boobs, Ripley.”

“Trust me. I know they’re real. I’ve seen them, remember?”

Her cheeks flush, turning the same color as her lips. The memory of her topless rushes through my mind—because, unfortunately, Georgia Hayes has a fucking spectacular body—making me hard instantly.

Fuck, you better not think about her tits when you’re in front of the camera, Brewer.

“I mean this relationship while we’re filming,” she says, giving the top a final tug. “Is our connection supposed to be immediate? Is it supposed to be a slow burn?”

“A slow what?”

She sighs like I’m a fool. “A slow burn. Meaning it’s immediate chemistry, but it takes a while for it to burn. We’re coy with it. We make the audience crave it.”

Don’t think about her tits. Don’t think about her tits.

“Jonah said it’s a strangers-to-lovers kind of thing with an instant connection. We’re supposed to demonstrate the best-case scenario when people are matched based on their internet search history.”

“I’m not showing them my searches,” she says emphatically. “I told Sutton that. We can get a fake phone, and I’ll look up some random stuff for the sake of the show, but my phone is off-limits.”

“Oh. Something to hide?”

“Come on. Don’t act like you’d let someone near yours.”

I shrug. “I’m an open book.”

She grins like she’s caught me in a trap. “Give me your phone then.”

“Only if I get to see yours.”

“That’s so mature of you.”

“That’s called a fair trade. What would I gain by letting you see mine without getting something out of the deal?”

“Speaking of seeing my stuff,” she says, pressing her lips together. “I assume we’ll have to hold hands and touch a little. Keep your hands in respectable places. No touching my ass.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Any more than I already have. “If we kiss, no tongue. Try to control yourself.”

She snorts. “I think I’ll be able to manage.”

“I hope so.”

“So no dating anyone else while filming without the other’s consent, no touchy-feely crap, and no tongue.” She wrinkles her nose at me. “No showing up unannounced or spreading the word outside of our friend circle that we’re doing this with each other. Is that it?”

“That’s all I have,” I say, finishing my drink.

“Me, too.” Her eyes shine despite the dim light hanging above our heads. “Then, if you don’t mind, I need to go.”

I sit back, taking her in one final time. “Have plans?”

“Something like that.” She giggles, sliding her purse on her shoulder. “This all goes into effect on Thursday night. That means I have tonight and tomorrow night to”—she scoots to the end of the booth—“you know. Do whatever I want.”

I cross my arms over my chest and study her. She’s too happy—too compliant.

Georgia is just trying to rile me up. She’s not going anywhere but home.

“Have fun,” I say, smiling smugly. “Sitting at home on the couch all alone eating white chocolate and macadamia nut cookies.”

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t particularly care,” I say casually, knowing it’s eating at her that I called her out. “I just know I’m right.”

“Well, you’re wrong. But you can think whatever makes you happy.” She gets to her feet. “Thanks for not drinking my martini this time.”

She makes a show of threading through the bar to the door. I can’t take my eyes off her hips as they sway in those jeans. Damn.

They say the devil is in the details. I laugh. Not tonight.

Tonight, the devil is in denim. And the only way to beat the devil is to outwit her.

Despite years of animosity between us, I know if I focus my charm on this woman, I’ll achieve what I need to win this challenge. Because I’m on a mission.

The ultimate victory over Georgia Hayes is to make her fall for me … and admit it.

I truly am an asshole.