“Holy shit,” he says flatly.
My reflex is to laugh, but he’s serious. His gaze is slow-burning, working up from ankle to collarbone and back, taking in every inch.
“Turn around.” His voice is raw, not quite a command.
But I obey, turning slowly, feeling the silk pull across my skin. I hear his intake of breath.
“Is it…too much?” I ask.
James shakes his head, but it’s a delayed response, like he had to drag himself back from imagining something else.
“No,” he says quietly. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”
He closes the distance, slow at first, like he’s trying not to spook me, but then his hands are on my waist, spanning the curve and pulling me flush against him.
“If I didn’t want to take you on a proper date, I would tie you to the bed and fuck you until you can’t remember your own name.”
“Mmm, sounds good to me,” I murmur, letting myself sprawl against his chest, feeling the soft drag of the silk and the hard lines of his body.
He tilts my chin up and kisses me, open-mouthed and slow, fingers fanned at the base of my throat. His thumb grazes my pulse, and I feel the answering throb everywhere, more insistent with each second.
He lets out a soft, resigned sigh, then presses his forehead to mine.
“We should go, or we’ll be late.”
James is quiet, gazing out the window as we drive down Broadway. I look out too, at the neon signs lighting every inch of the street. It’s only a few blocks before it hits me. The cosmic joke I’ve been missing all week: Nash’s name is everywhere.
Bachelorette parties upon bachelorette parties wearing sashes that say “Nash Bash,” signs reading “NashVegas”. Everywhere I look, I see his name.
And it makes me think of him. How I’ve missed him this week. Something I’ve been too busy to even think about until now.
Our car comes to a stop and James gets out, rounding the back to open my door. I take his hand, and we quickly cross the street to the restaurant.
Inside is a combination of rustic and modern, with low lighting and sultry country music playing.
James gives the host his name, and we’re directed to a private room at the back of the restaurant.
The room is warm and shadowed, a single pendant lamp throwing a soft halo over our table.
“Wow. How’d you swing this?” I ask, trying not to sound too surprised.
“The owner is a friend of mine.”
“The owner of Whiskey Hollow is a friend of yours? Colt Tucker? Country music singer and owner of this establishment? Is a friend of yours?”
“That’s what I said, yes.”
I stare at him dumbfounded, blinking. “How?”
“Colt and I met in college. We played on the football team together,” he explains as the waiter brings us two glasses of wine.
“Friends in high places, huh?”
“A few. What about your friends? Aside from Mina, obviously. I remember her well from the happy hour interrogation.”
The reminder of that night makes me laugh.
“It’s really just her. I’d say I have more acquaintances than friends,” I say, twirling my wineglass by the stem.
