When it rained, it poured.
After a months-long streak of golden luck, Blake’s professional life started shitting on him as much as his personal one.
His restaurant manager ran off to Greece to chase a girl he’d fallen in love with at a wine tasting and sent Blake an email from Santorini, apologizing profusely but making it clear he wasn’t coming back to New York anytime soon.
There was a plumbing issue in the bar’s second-floor bathroom that cost an arm and a leg to repair.
And Mode de Vie canceled his feature spread because they’d landed a last-minute, exclusive interview with the notoriously press-shy Crown Prince of Eldora and his fiancée—an American flight attendant and newly minted fashion icon whom the prince’s family reportedly loathed.
Blake didn’t care so much about Mode de Vie, although it would’ve been great publicity for the bar. He did, however, care about Farrah, who’d worked herself to the bone trying to pull his apartment together for the shoot. She’d never said it, but he knew how excited she’d been about making her magazine debut. He’d caught her Googling a list of interior designers who’d appeared in Mode de Vie when she thought he wasn’t looking.
Now, he had to tell her it wasn’t going to happen.
“What’s the status on hiring a new restaurant manager?” Blake asked Patricia, who tapped away on her phone as though her life depended on it.
“We’ve narrowed it down to three candidates. You have interviews scheduled with them next week,” Patricia replied without looking up. “I also confirmed an interview with City Style to replace your Mode de Vie shoot. It’s not the same caliber, but it has decent readership amongst our target audience.”
“Is it going to be shot at my house?”
“No. It’ll be in their studio. They never do on-location shoots for personal features.”
Blake sighed. “Okay, thanks.” He checked his watch. Almost eight p.m. He’d been up since five in the morning. Awake since three. His head swam with exhaustion, but he’d promised Landon he’d meet him for drinks at The Egret. He’d been so knee-deep in shit and self-pity he hadn’t seen his best friend in weeks. “Let’s wrap it up. Get some rest.”
“I’m going to send a few more emails first.”
“Patricia.”
“Blake,” she mimicked. His chief of staff rolled her eyes at his glare. “Fine. I’ll leave after I send one more email. Good enough for you?”
“You should be glad I’m such an understanding boss,” Blake grumbled. “Otherwise, I would’ve fired you a long time ago.”
“You’ll never fire me. I’m the best chief of staff you could have.”
Dammit. She was right.
After another reminder about not working too late, which Patricia waved off, Blake exited Legends and took the subway uptown. Since it was a Tuesday, The Egret wasn’t too crowded, and he spotted Landon chatting with Justin at the bar right as he walked in.
“Sup.” Blake plunked his ass on the seat next to Landon and tilted his chin in greeting before addressing Justin. “Why is it every time I see you, you’re not working?”
“Do you see anyone else sitting at the bar, jackass?” Justin whipped his towel at Blake. “Besides, last time you were here I was working. So much so you lasered me in half with your eyes when I was slower than usual to bring you your beer.”
“It had nothing to do with the beer.”
“What did it have to do with?” Justin smirked. “Wait. Let me guess. Asian, long dark hair, lips that look like they’re made for s—”
“Finish that sentence and your face will meet my fist,” Blake growled.
The bartender seemed unfazed. “Maybe not, because you clearly need to get laid. You’re wound tighter than a British lord with a stick up his ass.”
He wasn’t wrong. Blake’s night with Farrah in Syracuse had left him with a cracked-open chest and balls bluer than a Smurf. His right hand helped, but not much. He could go out and find a willing body to sink into for the night, but every time he contemplated the option, it sounded as appealing as sticking his dick in a hornet’s nest.
Farrah had, for all intents and purposes, ruined him for other women.
“One day, J, someone will hand your ass to you and you’ll deserve every second of it,” Landon clapped Blake on the back. “Bring the uptight one here a burger and a whiskey. On me.”
Within an hour, the bar filled up, which Blake didn’t mind. It meant Justin had something to do other than butting into his conversation.
“Everything’s going to shit.” Blake stared at the amber liquid in his glass until it blurred before his eyes. “I swear, it’s karma.”
“For what?”
Blake shrugged.
As usual, Landon read his mind. “That wasn’t your fault. It was an accident. Cleo, the police, your family…no one blames you.”
I do. “Her dad does.”
“Her dad’s a jackass.”
Blake’s eyebrows shot up. Landon almost never cursed. Too uncouth for the $500 million heir.
He grimaced the second the thought crossed his mind. I’m the jackass. Landon may be rich, but he wasn’t one of those stuck-up, my-shit-don’t-stink types. They met when Blake accidentally kicked a soccer ball in Landon’s face when they were seven. Blake’s mom apologized profusely, and Landon’s nanny freaked out, but Landon just laughed and bet Blake he couldn’t beat him in a one-on-one match. Blake did—the first time around. Landon beat him the second time. They’d been best friends since.
“Don’t give me that look,” Landon said. “You of all people know how impossible Cleo’s father can be.”
True. Cleo’s father made Blake’s dad look like a basket of fuzzy newborn golden retrievers. He’d nearly ripped Blake’s head off and fed it to his Rottweiler when he found out Blake had impregnated his only daughter before marriage.
“I don’t want to talk about Cleo’s father or anything related to Austin,” Blake said, even though a ticket confirmation for his flight home was burning a hole in his inbox. He’d caved and bought a flight home for his dad’s birthday after all—not because he had a particular desire to see Joe, but because he owed it to his mom and sister. “I have enough present shit going on without digging up past shit.”
“Fair enough.” Landon twirled his glass on the counter. “Speaking of present shit, how’re things with Farrah?”
Blake cracked a half-hearted smile. “Shitty.”
“Tell me what happened.”
Blake hadn’t planned on detailing his humiliating night to his friend, but the whiskey loosened his tongue, and before he knew it, he’d spilled everything.
Landon listened while a kaleidoscope of surprise and disbelief played across his face. He didn’t say anything after Blake finished, but maybe that was because a certain bartender butted in before he could.
“You turned down sex with her?” Justin’s voice sliced between them. “What is wrong with you?”
Blake turned to see his friend-slash-royal-pain-in-the-ass staring at him with his mouth agape as he wiped the same spot on the counter over and over, apparently too stunned by Blake’s bad decisions to notice the water ring two inches to his left.
“How are you back already?” Blake demanded. “The place is packed now.”
“My shift ended ten minutes ago. I’m staying for shits and giggles.”
Blake grimaced. “Please don’t say ‘shits and giggles’ ever again. You’re a grown-ass man.”
“This grown-ass man will say whatever he wants.” Justin tossed his towel aside and winked at his replacement, a curvy redhead with a pierced lip and no-bullshit attitude. Two minutes later, he was up in Blake’s face again from the other side of the bar.
“We need a new go-to bar until Legends opens,” Blake told Landon, who smirked in response. “Preferably somewhere with bartenders who keep their nose out of other people’s business.”
“Having my nose in other people’s business is my business.” Justin yawned. “Anyway, since I’m off duty, I’m speaking to you as a friend. You’re an idiot. You should’ve had sex with her.”
“I don’t want a friend with benefits. Actually, not even a friend with benefits. She said, ‘one night.’” Nausea churned anew in Blake’s stomach. He hadn’t bothered answering Farrah’s ultimatum. He couldn’t. Instead, he’d put on that ridiculously small shirt the B&B owner’s son lent him, walked downstairs, and drowned his sorrows with wine. Not his first choice, but that was what they had, and at that point, he would’ve drunk rubbing alcohol to forget what happened in their room. He didn’t return to said room until well past midnight, when Farrah was already sound asleep.
“Uh, yeah. That’s your golden ticket, man.” Justin groaned at the confused look on Blake’s face. He turned to Landon. “You get it, right? Back me up here because our man is thicker than a concrete wall. I can’t believe he’s a successful businessman.”
To his credit, Landon tried to stifle his laugh. Too bad he failed.
“I think what Justin is trying to say is, Farrah didn’t say she wants nothing to do with you. She said she only wants to have sex with you. There’s a difference.”
Blake frowned. “I don’t follow.”
Twin blankets of exasperation fell over Landon’s and Justin’s faces.
“Why do you think friends with benefits relationships never work? Because someone always ends up catching up feelings. Personally, that’s why I never do them.” Justin smiled at a gorgeous passing blonde, who smiled back. “One-night stands for me only. But I digress. You can tell Farrah you’re down for just sex, then work on turning it into more. You can’t do that if you shut down your only hope of seeing her on a regular basis.”
“What he said.” Landon jerked his thumb at Justin.
“Turn it into more after one night?” Skepticism coated Blake’s words.
“Yep. If you can’t do it, that’s a problem I can’t help you with,” Justin said, oozing sympathy. “Sucking in bed—figuratively, not literally—is a common affliction amongst ninety-five percent of the male population. Excluding yours truly, of course. I gave you the strategy; I can’t give you the tools, too. You’re either born with it or—fuck!” He cursed when Blake’s fist slammed into his arm.
“Screw you,” Blake said. “I’m ten times better at fucking than you are.”
“You wish, Ryan. I’ve sampled every zip code in Manhattan and most in Brooklyn, and I’ve had no complaints.”
“Classy,” Landon said, tone dry. “But unless you both want to whip out your dicks for a measuring contest in the middle of a bar, I suggest we keep the conversation on track. Blake, J’s right. It’s easier to turn something into something than nothing into something.” He frowned. “That made sense, right?”
It did, in its own twisted, screwed-up way.
Blake’s friends were hardly Dear Abby material, but they made good points. Besides, their earlier advice of playing hard to get—as juvenile as it had been—worked. Sort of. At least it broke down enough of Farrah’s walls for her to admit wanting him.
Hazy memories from the past curled around Blake. The heat, the passion, the breathy screams as Farrah fell apart in his arms. Hell, their make-out session in Syracuse almost set the room on fire, and they’d only hit second base.
For all the years, confusion, and secrets between them, Blake and Farrah’s chemistry could still blow the doors off a nuclear lab.
Turn one night into multiple nights.
Blake could do that.
He hoped.
