“I’ve gotten to the point where I kinda wish we could change from the mani-and-pedi date my cousins planned for tonight to reading by the fireplace,” he said. Naked. Post orgasms. Maybe with some Thai delivered from that place around the corner from her building. “One of these would be clothing optional. Both would have champagne and strawberries.”

“As tempting as that sounds, you do have a bet to win,” she said, with a little too much forced cheer in her voice—or was he hearing that because he wanted to? “Are you ever going to tell me what the prize is?”

“We don’t know.” He shrugged at her exaggerated are-you-kidding-me look. “It’s all part of Grandma Betty’s plan. She knew the last thing Dixon, Griff, or I could resist was a competition. The next to last thing we could resist is a mystery. So when she died and her housekeeper Alexandra came to me with a letter from Grandma outlining her plan to get Griff and Dixon to find the women they’d fall in love with, I knew it would work.”

Really, it was perfect. It was what both of them needed. Yeah, he didn’t keep his mansplaining tendencies only to advice. Sometimes he used them for trickery—for the other person’s own good, of course.

“But the thing is, you can’t ever sell those guys on an idea by going straight at them. I’ve known them both my whole life and worked with them for years at Beckett Cosmetics. The only way to sell them on anything is to get them to think they’re doing it because they’re going to win and that they thought of the way to win all on their own.”

“What about you?” Chelle picked up Sir Hiss, who was about as resistant as a bowl of Jell-O, and held him on her lap, stroking him under the chin as the feline purred as loud as a suped-up Corvette without a muffler. “Do you need to win?”

“Usually.”

Her gaze dropped to the cat in her lap. “And this time?”

The correct answer should be absolutely. He had his life figured out. He took care of his family, acted as the responsible older brother. He’d already gotten his cousins to fall in love and get started on their happily ever after. He didn’t need that. He didn’t want it. He didn’t have time for it.

And yet, here he was about to confess that it was already too late for him.

But that’s when Mary and Groucho started growling. His gut sank when he looked over his shoulder to see what had set off the dogs and spotted the photographer from earlier.

“Who’s the girl, Beckett?” the man asked as he snapped pictures. “Guaranteeing you’ll win that bet by picking someone like her. Smart plan. Lucky lady, what’s your name?”