Betting on Bailey (Menage MfM Romance Novel) (Playing For Love Book 1) (12 page)

L
ying
in bed after Sebastian dropped me off, I contemplated quitting the pool team. Then I’d grown angry at myself for thinking about running away. Why should I? I’m not the one who is in the wrong here. That’s definitely Daniel.

Sebastian isn’t much better. Seriously, I want to roll my eyes when I think about Juliette confronting me in the bathroom on Wednesday and telling me to stay away from him.
So much drama.
It’s like I’m in high school all over again, and she’s warning me to stay away from the cute boy that she likes.

The whole thing is ridiculous. I have work to do. I’ve had to spend all of Saturday at school, catching up on grading and my own research. I don’t have time for a moody billionaire and a brilliant chef.

S
unday morning
, I wake up early. I’ve been putting off getting the rest of my stuff from Trevor’s place, and I’m determined to get it done today. It’s not like Trevor can say anything to ruin my mood — Daniel already did that pretty thoroughly Friday night.

I’ve texted Trevor to let him know I’ll be by to grab my things, but because I’m in a spiteful mood, I make it a point to use my key to let myself into his apartment. This won’t be a long visit - I just have my Kitchen Aid mixer, a few clothes and some jewelry to pack.

When I walk in, Trevor’s in the living room eating a bowl of cereal in his boxers and nothing else. He almost drops his spoon in surprise when he sees me. “You can’t just waltz in here, Bailey,” he says angrily. “You should have knocked.”

“Is that what you think?” I’m spoiling for a fight; I’ve been spoiling for one since Friday night. “I’m pretty sure that charging me for rent for the next ninety days means that I still live here.” I smile pleasantly at him. “That’s how my lawyer interpreted it for me. Perhaps you need to have a chat with your own attorney?”

I’d called Wendy on my way over to confirm the legality of what I was doing. She’d sighed over the phone and she’d tried to dissuade me from being petty, but in the end, she’d given up and told me that yes, I could indeed just walk in. I can see Wendy’s point - I should just let this go. However, I’m still furious that Trevor charged me rent. The slimy dirt bag. It would be one thing if he needed the money, but Trevor is rich enough to easily cover the cost of the apartment. He wants to mess with me? Bring it on. The new Bailey, the one who won a game of pool on Wednesday night, isn’t going to roll over and play dead.

Trevor splutters angrily. I ignore him and go to the spare bedroom, where I store all my clothes. They are still there, untouched. Good. I pull out my two battered suitcases from their spot at the bottom of the closet. I took these suitcases on my one year trip to Siberia. I know that everything I own will fit in them.

Trevor stands in the doorway, watching me pack. “Do you want some coffee?” he asks finally.

“Sure.” I follow him, since I need to go to the kitchen anyway for my stand mixer. My anger is dying down. As much as I like this newfound righteous indignation of mine, it’s tiring to be annoyed all the time. I’m not tempestuous enough. Gabby’s better at being fiery.

In the kitchen, he leans against the counter and surveys me with a sly smirk on his face while I unplug the mixer from the power strip. “How’ve you been?” he asks. I’m a little puzzled about his grin, until it dawns on me that he expects me to be attracted to his almost nakedness.

Oh.
Oh.

Poor Trevor. He doesn’t know that Daniel and Sebastian fill my thoughts and haunt my dreams. I only have to close my eyes, and I can feel the scratch of the pool table fabric against my buttocks. The rasp of Sebastian’s stubble against my inner thighs. The feeling of Daniel’s fingers in my most forbidden hole.

Damn it. I’m some kind of sex-crazed fiend. Worse than that, though I don’t really like either of them very much right at the moment, if they told me to spread my legs, I would be seriously tempted. I’d probably obey.

“I’ve been fine,” I answer shortly. “I joined a pool league.”

He snorts in derision. “Oh Bailey, that’s just pathetic. If you want to get back together, just say so.”

“I don’t want to get back together,” I say evenly, holding onto my temper with an effort. Guys. They always think it’s about them. “But you were a shitty,
shitty
teacher, and you made me think I was hopeless.” I meet his gaze squarely. “And I’m not.”

He just shakes his head. “Whatever, Bailey,” he says condescendingly. “This is what you new age chicks called empowerment, right?” He makes air-quotes as he says
empowerment,
and I want to punch him.

As furious with Daniel as I am, neither he nor Sebastian ever dismissed me this way. Instead, they were interested in me. They’d never once made me feel that I wasn’t important.

I consider it a win that I don’t smash Trevor’s stupid ugly vase on my way out. I’m tempted, trust me. I’m
seriously
tempted.

M
onday morning
, I’m at work, snowed under by a pile of essays, when there’s a knock at the open office door. I look up, expecting some undergrad who has come to argue about his grade, but instead, it’s Steve Ashworth, the head of the Department of Anthropology. Uncharacteristically, he has a beaming smile on his face.

“Bailey,” he booms. “Good job, great job. I can’t even begin to tell you how delighted I am. How delighted we
all
are.”

I blink at him, confused. “What’s going on?”

He frowns at me, entering my office. “You don’t know?”

I clear some paperwork off a chair for him to sit down. “I promise you, I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.”

“The endowment, of course,” he exclaims. Then he looks at my expression. “Hang on, you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“Yes, I
have
been saying that,” I agree blandly. “What exactly are we celebrating?”

Sameer, alerted by the noise, appears in the doorway.
It’s a party at Bailey’s, everyone. Bring your own coffee.
“What’s going on, Steve?” he asks.

Steve’s grin stretches from ear to ear. “Our Bailey here has friends in high places. You’ve heard of the Hartman Foundation?”

“Yeah,” Sameer says. “They’re sponsoring Maria Rivera’s trip to Siberia.”

“Oh, did that get approved? Good for Maria,” I say automatically, then I register Steve’s words. Hartman Foundation.
Daniel Hartman
. How did I not connect the dots? And what has Daniel done that has Steve so pleased?

“Right. Well, they were going to fund an endowment to the university,” Steve says. “Of course, I didn’t think twice about it. Most of these grants go to the business school or the engineering school.”

I want to tell Steve to hurry up and get to the point. “And instead?” Sameer prompts, suppressing a smile at my impatience. Steve’s legendary within the department for telling the longest, most rambling stories.

“Instead they gave it to Liberal Arts,” Steve announces, sounding thrilled. He’s almost dancing a jig in his excitement. “One hundred and fifty million dollars over the next five years. The official press conference is tomorrow, but I wanted to thank you personally, Bailey. George told me that Alexa Hartman mentioned in passing that you were a friend of her son.” George is the president of the NYU.

Steve winks at me and leans in, continuing his sentence in a lowered voice. “Good job, Bailey. I won’t forget this when it’s time to evaluate your tenure application.”

When he departs, Sameer looks at me curiously. “What did Steve say to you at the end?”

I swallow back the sour feeling from my mouth. “That he’d make sure to keep in mind at tenure time that a billionaire name-dropped me. You know, because the work I do doesn’t matter at all.”

Sameer shrugs. “Bailey,” he advises calmly, “these are tough times to be an anthropologist. Stop sweating it and use every advantage you have. NYU won’t give you tenure if your work isn’t good enough.”

The feeling of bitterness doesn’t go away. As I think about the situation, I start getting angry. If Daniel wanted to apologize, a bunch of flowers would have done admirably. He didn’t need to spend a hundred and fifty million dollars.

I’ve already dated one guy who thinks that his money makes him better than me. I don’t need another one.

T
hings don’t improve
when I get home. Monday night drinking is at our apartment, and Piper’s emptying a packet of chips listlessly into a bowl. Gabby, Katie and Wendy are due any minute now, and Miki’s going to Skype in.

I’ve barely seen Piper all week. When I’m home in the evenings, she’s working at her restaurant, and in the mornings, she’s still asleep when I leave for work. “Are you okay?” I ask. “Is something the matter?”

She turns to me. Her eyes are red, as if she’s been crying. “Can I talk to you for a second, Bailey?”

“Of course, sweetie. What’s wrong?”

“Sebastian Ardalan ate at my restaurant on Saturday,” she says. Her voice is oddly flat. I would have thought that she’d be squealing and dancing a little jig. A two-star Michelin chef eating at Piper’s restaurant? That’s huge, and her lack of excitement is conspicuous.

”Why aren’t you more excited?”

“I was waiting on his table because Kimmie didn’t show,” she says. “And I overheard a little bit of his conversation.” She doesn’t meet my gaze. “Sebastian Ardalan said that Aladdin’s Lamp wouldn’t last six months. A year tops, he said.”

“Oh honey,” I put down my laptop bag and envelop her into a hug. “He doesn’t know that. Don’t listen to him.”

“No,” Piper’s voice is muffled into my shoulder. “He’s right. His words hurt because he’s absolutely correct. And I don’t know what to do to prevent it.”

I love Piper. She’s like a sister to me, but she’s at her best in the kitchen, comfortable with her herbs and spices, combining ingredients and enjoying the creative process. Unfortunately, it takes more than creative genius to run a successful restaurant. You have to formulate a menu that’s familiar, yet exciting. You have to find and hire attentive wait staff in a city where it’s hard to find good talent. You have to know how to get reviewers to review your restaurant, and how to create buzz. There’s so much more to it than just cooking and the New York restaurant scene is a cauldron. It will burn you.

I wish there was something I could tell her, something I could do to make this better. She was there for me, readily and without question, when I needed her after I left Trevor. She’s always been there for me. It kills me to see her hurting like this.

“What can I do?” I don’t know what else to say. I wish I could wave a magic wand and make this better.

She sighs and pulls away. “I don’t know, Bailey,” she confesses. “Sebastian Ardalan loved my food. Once upon a time, that would have been the highlight of my month. Now, all I can do is stress about what he said.” Her expression turns wistful. “It used to be so much simpler.”

“You are doing a great job,” I say loyally. “You had the place dumped on you. You are doing fantastic.”

She shakes her head. “No,” she corrects me. “He was right. I’m going to fail.”

A sudden flash of anger runs through me at the power of careless words. Trevor’s corrosive words convinced me I couldn’t play pool. Daniel’s warning about the press on Friday night had sent me into a tailspin. And now stupid, gorgeous Sebastian Ardalan has hurt my friend with his throwaway words.
Guys should not be allowed to talk, ever. Their only use is to look pretty and open jars with too-tight lids.
“Listen to me. You cannot let some stupid arrogant celebrity who probably hasn’t been inside a kitchen in months knock you off your game. You are a fucking excellent chef, and everything’s going to be okay.”

She nods, unconvinced at the start, but as I stare into her eyes, willing her to believe me, she nods with more faith. “Okay,” she giggles, “If I agree with you, will you stop staring at me? It’s getting creepy. Oh, by the way, there was a FedEx slip on the door. They tried to deliver a parcel for you.”

I let her go, barely registering her words. I’m angry with Sebastian and this time, I’m not going to run away.
I’m going to do something about it.
“I’m not expecting anything,” I tell her, going into my bedroom to grab my coat.

“Where are you off to?” Piper asks me. “Everyone’s going to be here in a few minutes.”

“I am going,” I say grimly, “to find Sebastian and Daniel, and give them a piece of my mind.”

“What did Daniel do?”

“He told me to keep our threesome out of the tabloids, then gave our department millions of dollars to make up for being a dick.”

Piper looks confused at my brief explanation. “I know it doesn’t make any sense,” I say over my shoulder, walking toward the front door. “I promise I’ll explain everything tomorrow. I’ll swing by the restaurant.”

“Hang on,” she grins, “are you dropping out of Monday Night Drinking so you can get laid?”

“Are you even listening to me?” I ask in exasperation. “I’m really pissed off with them. I’m going to kick their asses.”

“Sure, Bails, whatever,” she says. Her eyes twinkle. “Somebody's going to get laid. I can’t decide if I should sing
‘bow-chika wow, wow,’
or tell you to
‘go forth and fornicate.’
”

“There’s going to be no fornication,” I insist weakly. “You have the situation all wrong.”

But the words feel like a lie as they leave my mouth, and judging from the amused grin on Piper’s face, I’m not doing a very good job convincing her.