Page 6 of 500 First Editions (The Romantics #3)

AUTUMN

SECOND-HAND SPAGHETTI

P ounding echoed in my ears as my eyelids lifted. Oh my God . I tried to force them shut again, but the carnage of yesterday was too horrifying to look away from.

The seltzers were empty, the cans tossed on the hotel room desk. A box of wine I procured immediately after the panel was empty and tipped on its side. The paper coffee cup I used as a wine glass sat beside it.

My stomach lurched as I shifted on the mattress. Something hard cut into my stomach. I felt around my thighs and ass and realized I was still in the fitted slacks I wore to the Rom-Con panel yesterday.

Falling asleep in hard pants was the worst.

I shifted again and felt the underwire of my bra strangling my boobs.

Saturday played through my mind like some kind of slasher flick montage.

A sharp jab of regret accompanied each cut to a new scene.

Getting up and grabbing coffee with the girls—tea for Whitney.

Crowding in Wander’s hotel room to get dressed and primped for the Rom-Con panel.

Heading to the convention space to mix and mingle with the attendees during the morning workshops and brunch.

Hanging out in the backstage lounge and talking shit about…

Oh God.

I threw the covers back and bolted for the bathroom. I barely made it to the toilet before I lost the contents of whatever questionable takeout I inhaled in my inebriated state last night.

Apparently, it was spaghetti that was eaten in a hotel room bubble bath, if the takeout container perched on the edge of the bathtub was any indication.

Was this rock bottom?

I didn’t have time to consider it before the spaghetti made a reappearance.

There was something to be said about throwing up during a hangover. It was awful in the moment, but it did make me feel the slightest bit better.

I flushed the toilet and elbowed my way up to the sink. My skin was pale and my hair was a pink tumbleweed. I hadn’t bothered to take my makeup off when I started drinking. Streaks of eyeliner, mascara, and smeared lipstick were all over my face.

Suffice to say, I had royally fucked up.

It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.

I started with the room, needing to get the smell of stale wine out. Thankfully, the window opened to let some air in.

I cracked up the air conditioning, collected the trash, and used the brown paper takeout bags as makeshift garbage bins. I would need to tip housekeeping big time.

I was next.

I needed calories, but I needed a shower more. I kept it quick, washing my hair, scrubbing my face, and rinsing off my body. The knocking started the moment I finished brushing my teeth and blow-drying my hair.

I wasn’t surprised. I knew they’d give me space, then show up eventually. I made an ass of myself in front of an entire conference yesterday, and I had to own up to that.

As much as I didn’t want to be confronted by Whitney and Wander, it had to happen.

Time to face the music.

I threw on the complimentary hotel robe and yanked open the door.

“Morning, beautiful.”

My eyes went wide. I shrieked and slammed the door in Ryan Ford’s smug little face before round two of second-hand spaghetti rocketed up my throat.

The knocking started again as I spat toothpaste into the sink for the second time. A reasonable person would have left at the first sound of vomit, but Ryan Ford was not a reasonable person.

I opened the door and slumped against the doorframe. “What?” I groused.

“Morning to you too,” he said cheerily as he stuffed a cup of coffee in my hand, dropped a quick kiss on top of my head, and waltzed right into my hotel room.

I left the door wide open. “You are the last person I want to see this morning. Out.”

But he was already unloading a large brown bag. Flowers were placed on the hotel desk where the boxed wine had died a slow death. The smell of bacon was overwhelming as he pulled out—what I assumed to be—two wrapped breakfast sandwiches.

“You look . . . Uh . . .” He gave me an up-and-down assessment and chose his next words carefully. “Well rested.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I have a headache, I’m hungover, and I’m pretty sure if you don’t leave in the next three seconds, I’m going to throw up on you.”

Ryan reached into his Mary Poppins grocery bag, pulled out a bottle of over-the-counter painkillers, dumped a few into his hand, and offered them to me.

I huffed. “And now you’re trying to drug me.”

That made Ryan’s smile grow even wider. “You and I are going to have fun, cupcake.”

“Don’t call me that,” I said as I took the pills from him and dry swallowed them down before chasing them with the coffee.

I grimaced. “It’s black.”

“I figured cream wouldn’t be too amicable with your hangover,” he said as I rifled through the bag and pulled out sugar packets.

I narrowed my eyes. “How did you know I was hungover?”

He chuckled. “Because you peeled out of the ballroom like your ass was on fire as soon as the panel was over. Can’t say I blamed you.

” He glanced at his watch. Seriously, who still wears wristwatches?

“But I’m down to eleven weeks, six days, and twelve hours.

So we need to get this show on the road.

Falling in love takes time. So, how do you usually take your coffee? ”

I snorted. “I appreciate the hangover breakfast, and I’m sorry for putting you on blast on stage, but you can go.”

Ryan lifted an eyebrow and crossed his thick, tattooed arms over his chest. His t-shirt stretched tight with the motion. The silence thrust us into a standoff.

I stole the moment to take him in.

Ryan’s dark hair was messy, like it had been styled this morning, then became mussed throughout the errands he ran.

He was in a clean t-shirt that molded to his arms and torso, showing off the tattoos that had been so conveniently hidden on Friday night when we met in the checkout line.

His gym shorts were tight around his ass and thighs.

Well-worn running shoes were on his feet.

I made my way back up to his face and noted that he had his glasses on today.

It was a no-nonsense look that was panty-melting and infuriating.

No one should look that good as a default. That kind of attractiveness should take some serious effort. It wasn’t fair to the rest of us mortals.

I swallowed my pride, but crossed my arms in a move of self-preservation. “I appreciate you coming up with the dating game to get me out of the hole I dug. It was clever. But we don’t actually have to do it.”

There was a flicker of defiance in his eyes that cut through the sunshine.

“You called me a fraud, Willow. Whether you like it or not, my subscription program, one-on-one coaching, and podcast are my livelihood. And now I have to defend that because you called me a con-artist in front of a hell of a lot of people.”

“I’ll bet no one even remembers this morning,” I countered.

“Oh, they remember.”

Ryan and I turned and looked at the open door. Whitney and Wander waltzed in, phones in hand.

“You should stop making bets,” Wander said. “You’re great at a lot of things, but gambling is not one of them.”

Alona, Whitney’s scary security detail, lingered in the hallway.

I massaged my temples, trying to will the headache away. “What are you talking about?”

Whitney handed me her phone. The screen was open to a forum for all the attendees from the conference.

I watched in horror as hundreds of people debated whether my showdown with Ryan had been a publicity stunt, an actual snafu, or a legitimate rivalry.

I handed Whitney her phone back and grabbed my own.

The forum conversations had gone public and were bleeding into every social media feed I was on.

My inboxes were being flooded with messages.

My notification count rolled like a slot machine as I was tagged in video after video of Ryan and me going back and forth on stage.

“Oh my God,” I groaned as reality sunk in.

I had really fucked up.

I could feel Ryan’s gaze boring into me, as the weight of it all settled between the four of us.

“What if you went on a few public dates, then made a mutual post on your social media accounts that, while the bet was fun, your schedules aren’t compatible enough to pull it off for three months?” Whitney suggested.

“Like a divorce post where they say they have love and respect for each other, but everyone knows it’s bullshit?” Wander asked.

I looked at Ryan. “I’m good with a divorce post.”

“I’m not,” he countered. “And I’m not cleaning up your mess on my own. You called my reputation into question.”

Wander grimaced. “He has a point.”

“I don’t care if he has a point!” I shouted, then immediately regretted it when the hangover hammered my head again. “I am not dating him. I am not kissing him. And I am not having sex with him.” I let out a caustic laugh. “Sorry, programmed sex.”

“Don’t worry, cupcake. I won’t touch you like that. Well, not unless you beg for it,” Ryan said with a smirk.

I seared him with a glare more intense than the summer sun.

Ryan raised his hands in defense. “I’m serious,” he said, much more gently. “My program has nothing to do with sex.” I opened my mouth to argue, but he cut me off. “Or kissing. Nothing physical.”

“Dammit,” Wander whispered.

I gave her a sharp glare.

Whitney offered me a forlorn look. “You kind of owe him, Wills.”

I growled.

Wander nodded. Her phone rang, and she patted her pockets to find it.

“Hello?” There was a pause. “Hey. Yeah. I’m actually with both of them right now.

” Another heavy pause as her gaze flicked from Ryan to me.

“Uh—we’ll see. They’re figuring out . . .

logistics.” She smiled. “Yeah, I’ll let you know what happens.

All right. Talk to you later.” She laughed as she hung up.

“That was Lucia. She wants the dirt on what happened yesterday.”

I groaned. If Wander’s agent knew what had happened at Rom-Con, that meant the tall tales of the onstage showdown were moving faster than I could attempt to contain them.

I dropped down to the edge of the bed and flopped back onto the mattress. “I have to do this, don’t I?”

“Yep,” Whitney and Wander said in tandem.

Ryan chuckled. “Cheer up, cupcake. I’m a great boyfriend.”

“If that’s so true, then why are you single?” I snapped. “If you’ve got the magic love spell in twelve easy steps, how come you aren’t married with a house full of kids?”

His expression turned stern. “Because all the methodology in the world doesn’t mean jack shit if it’s not with the right person.

I give people the skills to make connections, but chemistry and desire have to be mutual.

” His face lightened, and that playboy smirk was back.

“So cheer up. That gives you a fifty-fifty shot at beating me in this little game.”

“Have you decided where you’re moving to next yet?” Wander asked.

“No,” I groaned as I grabbed a pillow, held it over my face, and then screamed into it.

“Are you from around here?” Whitney asked Ryan while I was mid-scream.

I crossed my fingers for him to live on a different planet.

“My mom lives in Queens,” Ryan said. “It’s where I stay if I’m not out doing speaking engagements on the road.”

Dammit.

Whitney peeled the pillow off my face. “You can come up to Rhode Island and stay with Miles and me. It’ll put you a few hours apart from each other.”

I loved Whitney and Miles, but the last thing I wanted was to live with her and her happily-ever-after husband while my personal life got put on hold for the next three months.

“I have this room booked for a few more days. I wanted to crash in the city for a bit before I start writing my next book.”

“Looks like you’re out of luck, Wills,” Wander said as she grabbed my hand and yanked me up to a sitting position. Renovating a house with her now-husband had made her freakishly strong. “I hope you and your fake boyfriend are very happy with each other.”

“Or at least don’t murder each other,” Whitney said.

“I can help hide his body,” Alona called from the hallway.

I glanced at Whitney. “Can we keep her?”

Ryan’s phone chimed. “I’ve gotta bounce. I have client meetings.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets and stopped when he was standing in front of me. “Better watch out, cupcake. I don’t play fair.”

“You have to follow your program or I’m out.”

He nodded in agreement and offered a handshake. “I’ll follow it to a T. No deviation. If you want, I’ll send it to you for free so you know I’m playing by the rules.”

I slid my hand into his. Ryan’s palm was warm as it enveloped mine. Goosebumps raced up my arm, peppering my skin.

And that motherfucker noticed.

His grin was devilish as he let go. “Have a good day, beautiful.”

When Ryan slipped out, Alona took his place and closed the door, locking him out. “I can have his body back at headquarters in an hour,” she said.

“Providence is three hours away,” Whitney said.

Alona’s face was stone-cold. “I can use the helicopter.”

I looked at Whitney and pointed to Alona. “Why do I have to fake-date Ryan Ford ? Why can’t I fake date her ? She has a helicopter.”

Whitney rolled her eyes. “Are you going to keep whining, or are we going to game plan?”

My phone chimed, and I glanced at the text on the screen:

Unknown

Remember when I said it was a nice night to meet your future husband? I’m a man of my word, cupcake. Game on. But I’ll give you a peek at my playbook.

The next text was a download link for The Ford Method that bypassed the paywall.

Fine. I wasn’t giving him my money. I clicked it, then looked up at Whitney and Wander.

“Who’s the dirty traitor who gave him my number?” I snapped.

Wander immediately looked guilty. “You can’t fall in love if he can’t get in touch with you.”

“I’m not falling in love with him!” I shrieked. “I want to tie cinder blocks to his ankles and push him into the Hudson!”

“The Hudson is a decent option,” Alona said with absolutely no emotion in her voice. “Low visibility in the water and a strong current, but there’s too much marine traffic. You should dispose of a body by?—”

"We're not killing Ryan,” Whitney said.

Alona looked the slightest bit disappointed. I shared the sentiment.

“What we are going to do is reverse engineer this little wager,” Whitney said. “You have his plan, and he has to stick to it.”

“I don’t follow,” I said.

She grinned. “What do you do when someone’s trying to copy your paper in school?”

I raked my hand through my hair. “Tell the teacher?”

She shook her head. “You give them the wrong answers.”