The Dare (The Bet #3)(11)
Author: Rachel Van Dyken

I’d come home from a meeting in DC.

A fire had been lit in the downstairs, and I could smell a roast and potatoes cooking in the oven.

I’d taken the stairs two at a time. Eager to see Kerry, to hold her in my arms and forget about life for just a few minutes. Really, that’s all I ever asked of her. I’d used her to relax and, in return, she’d looked good on my arm.

My time was precious. After dating awhile, we’d joked around that two minutes was like me handing her hundreds of dollars.

To me, time was the most valuable thing we had as humans. I wanted to make the most of every moment.

Maybe I shouldn’t have.

Because if I hadn’t taken two steps at a time.

If I hadn’t come home early.

My life would be different. Granted, I’d be living in ignorance, but still. I wouldn’t be carrying around scars, and I wouldn’t want to run the other way every time a woman smiled at me.

I cleared my throat and snuck a look at Beth. She was reading People Magazine.

What did I really know about her? Good kisser. Nice ass. And a hell of a laugh. Unless she’d somehow turned into a chain smoker, causing her laugh to sound more like a hack. But that was it. For all I knew, she really had been a prostitute at some point in her life. Maybe she had dirty little secrets just waiting to pop out. Who didn’t? Furthermore, how else did she put herself through med school? I didn’t say my logic was sound, but I was also under an extreme amount of stress, which is probably why, as the plane took off, I blurted out, "Are you a prostitute?"

Unfortunately, when they seat you at the back of the plane, what they really mean is they’re seating you next to all the crying and screaming kids that nobody else wants near first class, where Grandma and everyone else was drinking and laughing.

If I breathed hard enough, I could imagine that the shit I was smelling wasn’t from the little kid in front of me, but some sort of —.oh, who was I kidding? I was in hell. And I had five whole hours to wallow.

A few parents turned angry eyes in my direction. I was too tired to care. So what? I’d said prostitute.

"Prostitute?" Beth repeated, louder than I’d initially said it. "And just how did you come to that conclusion Mr. Senator?"

"Okay, if you keep calling me that, I’m going to start calling you cookie monster, and we both know how you feel about that."

"Bastard."

"I’ll take it. Anything’s better than Mr. Senator."

Beth rolled her eyes and looked back at her magazine.

"Are you going to answer my question, or do you want me to see if the flight attendant has any cookies?"

"Do I look like a prostitute?" Beth snapped.

"Well…" If I said she did, that basically meant I was calling her slutty, and if I said she didn’t, I had an inkling she’d take that as me saying she wasn’t attractive enough to be one. Maybe I was overthinking things a bit. I tugged at the collar of my shirt,. "No."

"Exactly." Beth’s face fell, just enough for me to notice. She turned away and looked down at her magazine but didn’t turn the page. Because she wasn’t reading or looking, she was hurt. Somehow me insulting her had turned into me hurting her, and I hated hurting people, especially ones who didn’t deserve it.

"Look," I closed her magazine and whispered in her hear, "I’m not saying you couldn’t be one if you wanted to be. You’re sexy, alright? I’m not asking because I’m trying to insult you, and I’m not trying to be a complete ass**le. I just need to know about your past. If you have any dirty secrets, if you as much as sneezed on your high school teacher and accidently fell over and exposed your pink underwear to a punk in your class and got a detention for sexual harassment. I need to know these things. Because they won’t just attack me, they’ll attack you too."

Beth’s lower lip trembled.

I was fascinated. I hadn’t ever been a lip guy. I was more of a full package type of man. But her lips looked like soft pillows, and I hated myself that I couldn’t remember the sensation of my tongue parting them last night.

"Well, no worries on that end, Jace." Beth’s voice shook a bit. "In high school my nickname was Boring Beth. I had exactly three friends, including the lab rat that I had to train for my AP psychology class and was a pity date for my senior prom. So, sexual harassment? Prostitution? Selling my body or my wares or whatever you call it? Nothing. Not even a freaking parking ticket. Or a speeding ticket for that matter."

What? How was that even possible? She was freaking gorgeous, and even in high school I’d been intimidated.

I shifted uncomfortably and tried to open my mouth to speak, but she kept talking. Was she talking about the same girl I danced with all those years ago?

"In college I made out with two guys. One was a McDonalds’ employee. He smelled like fries. I hate fries."

Mental note: She hates fries. Who the hell hates fries?

"The other had a preference for garlic. He said it kept the vampires away. As you can see, I only dated nerds because, news flash, I am a nerd. I’m a chemist. I like safe. I like white walls. I drink wine and watch Netflix on the weekends, and I already have my eye on two cats to at the shelter. I may as well settle into spinsterhood early. Now can we please stop having this discussion? It was embarrassing enough waking up without no memory of my first time with a guy let alone…"

I tried not to react. My loud inhale mixed with a gasp probably didn’t do well to shield my shock.

"Just forget it." Beth opened the magazine.

"Beth, look," I licked my lips, "I didn’t know. I mean, I didn’t…" Well shit. How in the hell was I going to get out of this one? Or make it better. I did the only thing I could think of doing or maybe it was for lack of thinking that I pulled the magazine out of her hands and pressed my mouth against hers.

Again, let’s revisit the situation. Being under severe amounts of stress can cause a person to make bad choices. Clearly. Because kissing her was probably the worst idea I’d had in the last hour. But she’d looked sad, and she’d basically just told me that she’d given me her virginity, and then her green eyes had gotten all glossy with tears, and I’d panicked. Yes, I, Jace Brevik, US senator, panicked in the face of a woman almost crying.

Her lips were just as soft as I remembered. I coaxed them open and moaned as her tongue shyly touched mine.

"Are you married?" a squeaky voice asked.

I pulled back and glanced up. A girl who looked to be about eight was hanging over the seat in front of us, staring. Her pigtails bobbed on the side of her head as the plane hit a bump of turbulence.

"No," I said, eyes narrowing, body still pounding with lust. I was kissing a complete stranger. Kind of. Well, not really. Damn it.