Tie and shirt and dignity mostly intact.
I pull at the base of my thin, black tie. That’s it.
I merely tug on it, and the women lose their goddamn minds.
I blink.
The last guy was down to his slacks unzipping before they moaned like this, and he looked like a Hemsworth stunt double.
My lips twitch in the hint of amusement. Just a hint.
I firmly stand by my statement that this is one of the dumbest things I’ve ever agreed to do.
Again, I blame Noah. And maybe the shots we did with the bartender at the casino before this. Sly little minx.
Using both hands, I unravel the knot of the tie so both ends are hanging down my chest.
The women act like they’re going to have an orgasm.
The O shape on some of their mouths makes me wonder if some of them already came.
And I gotta admit, the fact that this is too easy is entertaining as hell.
Several of the girls in the front row are literally hopping in place, their breasts bouncing with the movement.
They’re all dressed to the nines, as girls do in Vegas. It doesn’t matter what day of the week it is. It could be a Tuesday, and women are going to act like it’s prom night.
My eyes sweep over the crowd at all the pretty faces. Some of them are mediocre. Most of them have too much makeup. A few of them are attractive, but my standards have never followed that of social media, and they sure as hell don’t align with the majority opinion of people in my line of work.
I work with celebrities and millionaires, and the women that parade through the office have more plastic in their bodies than a recycling bin.
Luckily, I am not looking to go on a date.
I am looking to go to bed, catch an early flight and get back to life. Three days in Vegas is two days too many, in my book.
Still, I play the game. The ego stroke doesn’t suck.
I reach up to loosen a button.
And then I stop.
Right in the middle of the crowd is a cocktail table full of girls that are clearly here for a bachelorette.
I know because one of them– a too skinny blonde with sharp features and enough Maybelline to stock a drug store– is donning a pink satin sash with the word Bride written in cursive.
But that’s not who I am looking at.
Even if I am in Sin City, I’m not the type to ogle at a taken woman.
No, the one that has my mouth dry, my hands frozen and the screaming and music fading to a staticky white noise, is the one to her left. My right.
She’s wearing a red dress that compliments her red hair. Wine, not ginger.
Her features are much fuller, softer, and more feminine.
The way the fabric of her burgundy dress pulls tight around her shape gives the illusion it was painted on by Leonardo Da Vinci himself.
And even from a good fifty feet away, I can see her eyes.
