I line up the green ball, send it spinning into the corner pocket. Then I get a few more shots in before I miss. And, sure enough, the lady runs the table and pockets the eight ball. Bet she’s waggling her brows in victory behind that feathered mask. She blows on the end of the pool cue. “Every woman should have a special skill,” she says, then rubs her thumb and forefinger together. “Hand it over, Gatsby.”
I reach into my wallet for a bill to slap into her palm just as Spencer’s wife, Charlotte, speaks over the bar’s mic, calling the patrons to attention. “And now, it’s time for the costume contest. We’ve got zombies and dragons, belles and gentlemen, cowboys and cowgirls, and more.”
Moments later, Charlotte sashays into the games room, wearing a slinky skirt, a tight white blouse, and glasses. She’s a sexy librarian, no doubt, especially when she claps a hand on my shoulder, then glances at the woman next to me. “Jay and Daisy, you really should enter the couples’ costume contest. A thousand-dollar cash prize goes to the charity of your choice.”
As Charlotte continues to the small stage in the games room, I turn to the pool shark, meeting her gaze through the feathered mask. A competitive spark lights her brown eyes even as she protests under her breath. “We’re not Daisy and Jay.”
“Give in tonight, Not-Daisy.” I reach for the black feather boa draped around her neck and run my fingers along the soft fluff. I continue the trail down her arm and her breath hitches. “For tonight, we could be that doomed literary couple.”
Her lips part silently, but her eyes say she’s considering my offer. Her body says she likes the skim of my fingertips along her skin. “C’mon. What’s your favorite charity?”
“Literacy for Youth.”
I bring my face inches from hers, whispering, “That’s . . . hot.”
Then, I back up an inch or two and flip her feather boa around her neck, watching her closely. Her eyes widen behind her mask, tracking my hand as I let go. Goose bumps rise on her skin. She’s as affected by our chemistry as I am.
“Daisy’s still a jerk,” she mutters.
“And Jay doesn’t get the girl. But really, all we have to do is be who everyone thinks you are, and who no one thinks I am,” I say. Our eyes lock through our masks. “What do you say? Let’s give in for a few minutes.”
She takes my arm, and we sign up for the contest.
3
Affairs of the Dick
Spencer bounds to the stage, mic in hand, the lemons bobbing against his shirt.
“And let’s give it up for Bonnie and Clyde.” My cousin claps loudly, drumming up a round of applause for the outlaw couple traipsing off the small stage. “Audience vote determines the winner.”
The crowd claps loudly for the outlaws. “They look good, Daisy,” I tell my partner from our spot at the edge of the stage.
“But we’ll look better,” the woman says, all brazen confidence.
She goes from breathless one second to kickass the next. Who is this woman behind the feathered mask?
As we wait for the next couple, I wrap a hand loosely around her wrist, enjoying that touch. Her name. I need her name. “Are you going to tell me—”
But I stop there.
There’s something so deliciously sexy about her.
About us.
About this night.
Why break the spell? She is whoever she is, and that’s all I need to know.
She lifts her chin expectantly. “Am I going to tell you . . . what?”
“Tell me if you’ll ever come to one of my grand parties? I’m throwing them for you after all.” I channel Leo-as-Gatsby, leaning into our roles, but I’m telling the entire truth. I would love to see her at one of my very own Carpe Diem fêtes.
“Maybe I am. You did buy the house to stalk me,” says Daisy-For-Now as she adjusts my bow tie.
While she fiddles with the material, I stare shamelessly at her lips, red and slick. I bet they taste like cherries.
I could stare all night, but the iron spike in my tux pants wouldn’t be a good look on stage.
I focus on the contest. Two men dressed as the Blues Brothers bound up the steps. After Spencer introduces them, they kiss each other, earning thunderous applause.
Next are Beyoncé and Jay-Z lookalikes. Spencer plays a mashup of both the artists’ songs as the couple struts across the stage. Their applause is solid but not enough to take the lead from the guys.
Now it’s down to the flapper and me.
Before we go, I grab her hand. “You want to win?”
“Always,” she purrs.
I lean close to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Kissing seems to work for the audience,” I whisper.
“All this for a kiss?”
I run my knuckles along her jaw. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with if you think I wouldn’t move heaven and earth just to kiss you.”