Dirty Bet Page 23

  He narrows his eyes. “I put generous portions in the potatoes, sir. I--”

  “The potatoes are great,” I say. “Just bring us the basket, though.”

  He nods and disappears back into the kitchen.

  “We don’t have to,” Amber says. “It seems like a waste--”

  I shrug. “I’m curious myself. I want to try it.”

  I’ve done a lot of wasteful and decadent things in my time, but I can’t say I’ve ever bitten into a full-sized truffle.

  Davis laughs. “They used to train dogs to hunt for truffles, but more often than not, the dogs would devour the whole thing as soon as they found it.”

  “Really?” Amber asks. “Since when do dogs like mushrooms?”

  “Dogs will eat their own shit,” Davis says, laughing.

  Claire elbows him.

  “Ah,” Davis says, throwing up his hands. “Sorry! I’m new money I’ve still got a mouth on me!” He leans forward, looking at Amber. “Since the dogs eat the truffles, that’s why they use pigs nowadays.”

  “Wouldn’t pigs be even worse about eating them?” Amber asks.

  “Apparently not,” Davis says.

  “They say the pig has a more sensitive nose, too,” I say. “Can sniff them out from deeper down.”

  Andreas brings out a basket of truffles and sets it down on the table.

  “Let’s dig in,” I say.

  I see shock on Andreas’s face.

  “Andreas,” I say. “Take a few home for yourself.”

  “Are you sure?” he asks, his eyes widening in amazement.

  “Positive,” I say.

  He nods and picks out a few.

  “That was nice of you,” Amber says, smiling.

  “I think he was going to bust a gasket seeing us waste the truffles like this,” I say, watching Andreas disappear into the kitchen. “We might as well give him a few to use properly at home.”

  “Should we put butter on these or something?” my mom asks skeptically.

  I shake my head. “We are trying to get the full natural truffle flavor.”

  We all take a bite at the same time. It tastes just like a mushroom at first, but then all kinds of other flavors explode in my mouth. I’m most interested in watching Amber’s reaction.

  Her eyes widen in shock as she chews. I’m tasting notes of chocolate and rich butter--even though there is no butter on them.

  Then it completely overpowers me. A funky taste explodes in my mouth, like dirt and earth and way too much of some type of spice. The taste fills my nose up with an almost burning sensation, and a palpable musk fills my nose even as it burns.

  I see Amber nearly choke, and my mom is coughing into her napkin.

  We look up at Davis, who is just laughing. He’s laughing so loudly that his face is turning beet red. He starts gasping for air.

  I swallow down the truffle, praying that the overpowering musk will die down sooner rather than later.

  “Were they…” Amber says, gasping, “Bad? Spoiled?”

  Davis slaps his knee and tries to get words out between his laughter. “I never thought you’d actually do it!” he says. “I thought I was the only one in the world dumb enough to eat a whole truffle! They shave small pieces off of it for a reason!”

  I grin at Davis, but my mom shoves him and pouts. “You are unbelievable.”

  “You don’t look surprised, Mom,” I say, resting a hand on Amber’s leg. I feel bad that she got tricked, even if I did, too.

  Mom rolls her eyes. “Davis thinks pranks are funny. I do not.”

  “It wasn’t a prank!” Davis says. “Not exactly! I just wanted you guys to experience what I did!”

  I smile at Amber, but I see her cheeks are burning red, and she’s staring at my hand on her thigh.

  I pull my hand away reflexively, but she looks up at me with glassy eyes. Shit, did she want me to keep my hand there? Too late now.

  “Does Liam ever prank you, Amber?” Davis asks.

  “Uh,” Amber says, her voice cracking.

  Does proposing to her in a pantry with no warning count as a prank?

  “Not really,” Amber says, offering no further details that could catch her in a lie. Then she looks down at her dress. “Unless the Beauty and the Beast dress was some kind of elaborate trick.”

  I laugh. “No way, you chose that one yourself! Out of dozens of dresses!”

  “You do look beautiful,” Davis says. “Liam is a lucky man!”

  Amber blushes again, and smiles. “Thank you…”

  After we finish the main course, Andreas brings in dessert. After the overpowering truffle experience, the decadent chocolate dish feels like a bit much for me, but Amber devours it.

  After dessert, we are served coffee and brandy in the lounge, and Davis excuses himself to use the restroom.

  “So,” my mom says, as soon as Davis is gone. “Why did you do it?”

  I cock my head. “Do what?”

  “Fake this engagement,” she says.

  Amber’s eyes bulge, and she looks at me, hoping I’ll know what to say.

  I lock eyes with my mom, trying to feel her out. I might be able to deny it, but if she knows, she knows. It might be safer to just reason with her.

  “Why do you think that?” I ask.

  “Oh, come on,” she says. “First of all, I found out about your contract with Cynthia Frost years ago. You are a dumbass by the way, for signing that.”

  I glare at her.

  “And besides,” she says. “You have never been able to keep a secret, Liam. Let alone for eight months. So how did you rope this poor girl into doing this?”

  Amber is staring at the floor, but I stand up beside her, put an arm around her, and pull her against me.

  “I paid her off,” I say.

  My mom scoffs and rolls her eyes. “This is going to blow up in your face.”

  “Not if we keep it airtight,” I say.

  “I won’t tell anyone,” she says. “Not even Davis.”

  “Mrs. Lions,” Amber says, finally looking up. “I don’t want you to have to lie to your boyfriend for us…”

  “Us?” my mom asks. “So there is an ‘us?’ You are invested in this beyond whatever my son paid you?”

  Amber bites her lip, then says, “Well, he’s been very nice to me. I want him to win.”

  My mom laughs. “Well, that’s sweet. But no, I won’t tell Davis. When this is all over--however it ends--I will call it a prank. He’ll get a kick out of that.”

  “Do you have any advice, Mom?” I ask.

  “You’re asking me for advice?” she says, putting a hand on her chest. “That’s a first!”

  “You saw through it,” I say. “We obviously have to get better at selling it.”

  “Don’t sell it then,” she says. “I see the way you two look at each other. Make it real. More of that,” she says, pointing to my arm around Amber. “Make it real.”

  I laugh dismissively, but I have to admit I like the idea. Why not just give it a real shot? Even if it doesn’t end up working out between us, at least it will appear more believable than with both of us trying to pretend.

  “That’s up to Amber,” I say, “because--”

  “No,” she says. “I think Claire is right. Neither of us are good enough actors. So if we can’t act, we can…”

  My mom laughs, smiling ear to ear. “This is great. It’s stupid as hell, and I can’t believe my dumbass son got you into this, but just maybe you two have a chance!”

  I wouldn’t mind having some fun with Amber, but I didn’t dodge marrying Cynthia just to marry someone else. Staying free and unchained was the goal all along.

  But why does that idea of freedom not appeal to me like it once did? I look down at Amber in the bright yellow dress, and I feel her warm skin beneath my hand. She’s just another woman, selected nearly at random, so how could she so drastically change what I want out of life?

  16

  Amber

 
When Liam’s mom and Davis are gone, I suddenly feel this horribly awkward tension in my chest. I’m still wearing the goofy Belle dress, and I’m a little bit flushed from the brandy. Mostly, though, I’m nervous as hell about what I am pretty sure Liam and I agreed to in front of his mom. That we were going to “make it real?” Yeah, I’m pretty sure we both said that.

  What does that even mean? Are we going to start dating, taking it slow like I usually would? Or are we going to suddenly act like we’ve been dating for eight months?

  The real question on my mind now? It’s if I am going to sleep with him? And when?

  He kissed me--no, we kissed--one time so far. He’s touched me a few times, mostly as a comforting and somewhat intimate gesture, but nothing overtly sexual. But if we are going to make things real, I can only imagine that means sleeping together.

  He’s...definitely a guy I’d like to sleep with, that much is for sure. So why am I feeling so incredibly nervous about it?

  “Sorry about the dress,” Liam says, breaking me out of my worried daydream.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “I used to love the old Disney movie.”

  He smiles. “I think my mom really liked you.”

  I nod absently.

  “The thing we talked about,” he says. “We don’t have to, unless--”

  I look up at him, locking eyes with him. We’re standing in the foyer, and he’s towering over me, as usual.

  “I don’t know exactly what I was agreeing to,” I say.

  “I know,” he says. “I don’t either actually.”

  “What do you think it meant, though?” I ask.

  This is a ridiculous question. Am I asking him what he thinks his mom meant, or what he meant? Or maybe even what I meant?

  He lets out a dry laugh. “I haven’t really dated anyone in years, Amber. I think Cynthia was the last person I was at all serious about. Though, that was…complicated.”

  “You slept with a lot of women, though,” I say, just wanting to get it out there.

  He nods. “Yeah. So what does it mean? To make it real? It’s not just sleeping with you.”

  I feel my cheeks burning. Not just sleeping with me implies that it will include sleeping with me.

  “Maybe we should just get it over with,” I say.

  He laughs. “Get it over with...like ripping off a band-aid?”

  “Liam,” I say, feeling like an idiot. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Why don’t we go on a date first,” he says. “See if we really even like each other.”

  I already like him. I don’t think I need to go on a date with him to figure that out, but I won’t turn down the opportunity to go out on a date with a billionaire.

  “Okay,” I say, nodding. “So tonight’s dinner with your mom and Davis didn’t count?”

  He shakes his head. “Of course not, trying to get you to lie to my mom isn’t exactly romantic or what I’d consider a date. This will be a real date, relaxing and with no pressure. Sound good?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “That sounds really good.”

  There’s a quiet knock at my door, and I can barely open my eyes. The room is still dark, with only the slightest hint of sunlight streaming in through the sheer curtains.

  “Yeah?” I shout out.

  “Time to wake up.” It’s James’ voice.

  “What for?” I ask.

  It’s the weekend, why would I wake up at the crack of dawn?

  “Your date,” James says.

  What the hell kind of date starts before the sun comes up? Maybe Liam really isn’t right for me if he thinks waking up this early is fun and relaxing.

  I stretch resignedly and get out of bed. “Okay, I’m coming.”

  “Pack a bag for two days,” James says. “And be ready to go in an hour.”

  Pack a bag? So we’re going on some kind of trip? And telling me to get ready in under an hour? That is anything but fun and relaxing.

  I open a suitcase and then shift into the closet to stare at my wardrobe. What the hell am I supposed to pack?

  “James!” I shout, and open the door.

  I’m wearing pajamas, but James is gay, so I don’t really care if he sees me.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “It’s a secret,” he says.

  I sigh. “If we’re going on a skiing trip, I need to pack one thing. If we’re going to the beach, I need to pack something different. Help me out here. Give me a clue.”

  “Everything you need will be there,” James says. “Clothes included. Pack only extra things you might want.”

  “Like what?” I ask.

  He points to the desk and my stack of textbooks. “If you have homework to do over the weekend, for example.”

  “So I don’t need to pack any clothes?” I give him a questioning look.

  “Wear something comfortable,” he says. “I suppose if you have a favorite dress, you could bring it…”

  I roll my eyes at him, thinking of his cousin’s Beauty and the Beast costume.

  “No favorites.”

  “Alright then,” he says. “Just get ready to go. Liam doesn’t like being late.”

  17

  Liam

  “Tell me,” she says.

  I shake my head.

  We’re sitting next to one another in the back of the limo riding to the airport. Not that Amber knows even that much.

  I considered taking her out on my yacht, but I decided to save that for another time.

  She crosses her arms across her chest and pouts. She seems just as annoyed at me as she does excited.

  “I’m an early riser,” I say. “You might have to adapt to that.”

  “I’m not,” she says. “Why do I have to adapt to you? Why isn’t it the other way around?”

  “Because,” I say, grinning, “I’m in charge.”

  She scoffs, but I know she knows I’m right.

  “I’ve seen you stay up way past midnight before,” she says. “I assumed you were more of a night owl.”

  “I only need a few hours of sleep,” I say. “I guess I’m both.”

  “So where are we going again?” she asks.

  “Not telling you,” I say, looking back down at my laptop.

  “You know,” Amber says, “if this is a date, you shouldn’t really be working.”

  I glance over at her. She’s wearing form-fitting jeans and a t-shirt. Her hair is pulled up into a messy bun, and she’s still got some gunk in the corner of her eyes from waking up too early. She looks good despite it all.

  I smile and look down at the suit I’m wearing. “You’re not dressed for a date.”

  “James told me to wear something comfortable!”

  “The date hasn’t started yet,” I say. “We’re just traveling to it. So I’m still working.”

  I’m actually in the process of writing an email to my lawyers telling them not to publicize and spin this trip. As much as it might help things out, I want this to be a real date as much as possible. Just for one weekend. I want Amber to be able to relax and be herself around me.

  Amber looks out the window. “We’re at the airport, aren’t we? We’re flying somewhere?”

  “It’s the airport,” I say.

  She kicks my shin. “Asshole. Where are we flying to?”

  I shrug and go back to drafting my email.

  “We missed the terminal,” she says.

  “You really think we’re flying coach?” I ask.

  We soon pull up to my private jet, which is prepped and ready to go.

  “No security check, no crying babies, no connecting flights, no waiting,” I say, pointing at my jet sitting alone on the tarmac.

  “I’d be more impressed if I knew where we were going,” she says.

  “You really don’t like surprises?” I say. “Just imagine the wheels touching down and having no idea where we are.”

  She bites her lip. “Okay, that is actually kind of exciting.”

  “Good,”
I say. “So stop asking me where we’re going.”

  My flight crew takes our bags, and I take Amber by the hand as we approach the plane. She squeezes my hand back, and I help guide her up the stairway into the cabin.

  “Holy crap!” she says, boarding the plane. “This is insane. There’s a freaking dining table in there!” She says, pointing.

  “You expected tray tables?” I ask.

  The jet has a dining table, plush leather couches on either side behind the table, and then there are two separate bedrooms behind that.

  Amber jumps onto one of the couches and sprawls out, stretching. “I’m lying down on a plane!”

  “If you’re tired,” I say, “the bedroom on the right is all yours.”

  “Bedroom?” She says, jumping off the couch and rushing over to pull the door open. She gasps. “Oh my God!”

  I can’t help but smile. When was the last time I saw anyone get excited about a private jet? Everyone I know is rich, and we’ve all come to take this kind of thing for granted. Having a private jet has come to feel normal for me--it’s nothing special, just what’s expected. Amber is making me realize how lucky I am to have what I have and be who I am.

  I walk into the bedroom and see her stretched out on the bed. “I don’t even want to sleep,” she says giddily. “What’s the point of having a fancy jet if you just sleep through the whole trip? I want to fully enjoy it--” Then she yawns.

  I grin. “Sounds like you need the rest. And being able to sleep on the plane is part of the reason for having a nice jet. You can get fully rested instead of having a big knot in your back from sleeping in coach.”

  She smiles wide. “You’re going to work instead of sleep, aren’t you?”

  I nod.

  The plane takes off less than ten minutes after we board, and shortly after, Amber collapses onto the bed and leaves me alone to work.

  I take a call from one of my lawyers, Emilio.

  “What?” I ask. “I told you not to--”

  “This is something else,” he says.

  “Great,” I say.

  “That kid you got in a fight with is suing you,” Emilio says.

  “What kid?” I ask. “I wouldn’t fight a kid--”