Page 110 of Just The Way You Aren't

I take her hand, and we step into the lion's den together. Five heads turn as we enter, conversations halting mid-sentence.

"Well, well, well," Wyatt Reed drawls from his position by the bar. "Look who finally decided to grace us with his presence."

"And he brought reinforcements," adds Brad Hayes, raising his glass in Willow's direction. "Hello, Willow."

“Hi,” she says, nodding in greeting to all of my friends.

Alec Beckett, sprawled in what has always been his chair at the table, regards us with a calculating expression that doesn't quite hide his amusement. "Damien. We were starting to think you'd gone soft and retired to some tropical island like Mason."

"Not yet," I reply, guiding Willow further into the room. "Though I did spend a very enjoyable weekend in the Catskills. I highly recommend it."

I glance at Willow just in time to catch the slight blush that sweeps into her cheeks.

Finn Bardot, the youngest of our group, rises to his feet with a broad grin. "Willow, lovely to see you again. Can I get you a drink? I already know what Damien will want."

"Whiskey, please. Neat," she answers without hesitation.

"A woman after my own heart," Gabe Sinclair saysappreciatively from his place at the table, where he's methodically sorting poker chips. "Damien, you might have found the only woman in Manhattan who doesn't order a vodka soda or some pink abomination."

"I'm full of surprises," Willow responds with a smile, accepting the glass Finn hands her. He’s poured the same for me, which I take from him with a nod of thanks.

I guide Willow to an empty spot at the table, pulling out a chair for her before taking my own seat. From my pocket, I withdraw a folded document and place it on the green felt surface alongside a cashier's check.

"What's this?" Alec asks, leaning forward.

"My formal withdrawal from our bet," I announce, pushing the check toward the center of the table. "One million dollars, as agreed."

A charged silence falls over the room as my friends exchange glances.

"Well, shit," Brad finally says. "He's actually doing it."

I clear my throat and glance at Willow to explain. "The night our friend Mason Steele announced his elopement with Lucy Pembroke, a woman he fell for after having just met her, we all made a wager. Last man standing—or more accurately, last man to fall in love—takes the pot. Six million dollars."

Her eyes widen slightly, but she recovers quickly. "And you're... withdrawing?"

"I am." I meet her gaze steadily, aware of my friends watching us with astonishment. "Because I've known almost from the day I met you that I was going to lose this bet. And do so gladly."

The flush returns to her cheeks, but she holds my gaze.

"Damn, Langley," Wyatt murmurs, chuckling. "You've got it bad, my friend."

"Worse than bad," I agree, not looking away from Willow. "Terminal, I'd say."

Alec reaches for the check, examining it with exaggerated scrutiny. "Well, that’s one man down, five to go. That leaves more for me when I’m the last one to fall."

His boast earns a round of chortles and ball-busting from the other men at the table, myself included.

After a moment, Brad raises his glass in my direction. "To Damien, then. First official casualty of the Last Billionaire Standing."

"To Damien," the others echo, raising their drinks.

I shake my head, pivoting to the woman seated beside me. “To Willow.”

“To Willow,” they all agree in unison.

We sip our cocktails, then Willow glances between me and the other men. "A million dollar penalty for falling in love? That's quite a price to pay."

"It's just money," I reply, surprised to discover I actually mean it.

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