“We had a deal!”
“That didn’t include cutoffs!” I stretch my fingertips at my sides. There is no hem. Only frayed edges of jean shorts that are three inches from showing a coochie lip.
I don’t know what Antonio was thinking buying this outfit. Half of it is still at the store.
“Doe,” my sleazy stylist begs from the other side of the door I pushed him out of before squeezing myself into these scraps. “Please. I have your hard hat.”
“A hard hat?” I snicker.
“You wanted to try something new, right? We do this every year. I promise we’re dressed alike.”
I doubt it.
Try something newwas today’s motto. Antonio kept his word by tagging along to the haunted museum, where we promptly made a U-turn for the front door. He stuck it out at the Pinball Hall of Fame before I agreed to an open-air leap eight hundred-plus feet in the air.
Yes, there was a cable attached.
Yes, I still peed a little.
We made good on our vow not to let the uncertainty of the Steel’s future thwart our weekend. The man is living his best and fearless life, whether on the 108th floor of a building or in the living room getting ready for a night on the Vegas Strip. The only “strip” I’m interested in is peeling off this ridiculous outfit and showing the shower jets every angle of my body. This suite is a beautiful mix of modern amenities in a soothing color palette of blues, gold, and cream.
I have no business being outside dressed like I’m responsible for street repair.
Antonio taps on the door. “If you really want to stay in, I’ll leave. I’m not taking any photos tonight. Promise.”
My toes sink into plush navy carpeting on my way to the full-length mirror. The shorts are short, but they’re not awful. The high waist keeps me tucked in, but my thighs threaten to swallow what little material stretches across my legs. At least the sleeveless white body suit covers my breasts, though I’m showing more cleavage tonight than I have in years.
“Yes to new experiences,” I tell my reflection through a shaky breath. How many people can say they flew to Vegas on a whim with a professional rugby team?
Fine.
I toss on the orange work vest that came with the outfit and open the bedroom door. It takes a miracle to defy the laws of gravity and keep my tongue from rolling out of my mouth.
Antonio is in a pair of jean shorts that match mine. Large, carved thighs protrude from the tiny material, flexing cords of muscles that reach all the way down to those Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles calves. His chest is bare underneath a construction vest, immaculately sculpted and teasing dark nipples. Do they match—
Don’t think about his nipples!
I open my mouth, but the heat in his gaze melts the words. He hasn’t said anything either, just stares with an unreadable expression.
This would be the point in a horror movie when a jump scare occurs. For the record, I don’t like to jump or be scared.
“Should I change?” I ask, second-guessing if a night out is worth it.
He blinks. “No—no. You, uh, you look…” His eyes stall on my hips. “Damn—I mean. You look nice.”
Nice is good.
“You don’t think it shows too much?” I spin around to show the back. The vest covers the top half of my butt. One wrong dip or bend, and the good people of Las Vegas are seeing my peach.
“Antonio?”
He’s in the kitchen with a glass of water to his lips. Is his hand shaking?
I frown. “Are you sick?”
The glass slams to the counter. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Nope. Just hot.”
“It is a little warm in here,” I say on the way to the thermostat. “I’ll set it a few degrees lower so it’ll be cool once we return.”
