“Is that like living in the apartment over your shop?”
I laugh again, something I realize I haven’t done much of in way too damn long. “Funny girl. I’m just here for the year. The suite came as a part of the prize deal on one of my tournaments.”
“Room and board along with cash. Not bad for a day of work.” Her expression sobers. “I know what you do is more than luck.”
“There is skill involved,” I concede. “You have to work hard to be lucky.”
“And you have to be smart.” She frowns slightly. “That’s something my dad used to say. You have to be smart about the risks you take.”
“Was your dad a gambler?”
“Something like that.” She shakes her head. “So, tell me more about what you do in Vegas when you aren’t on a golf course or in a casino.”
“Oh, nothing too exciting. I watch TV. I read.”
“What have you read lately that you loved.”
I tell her about a book on the history of jazz. She asks more questions as if she’s really interested in my insights and not just making polite conversation.
That leads us to talk about a documentary she saw on the history of country music. Which leads us to a podcast I listened to on a famous country artist. Which she follows up with by recommending a documentary series about one of my favorite professional athletes.
We talk on and on, gliding across the dance floor as we do.
We move well together. We know how to carry on a conversation, too. In no time at all, we realize the musical group is finishing its set.
“What now?” I ask. “Would you like to get dessert or maybe grab a drink somewhere.” I brush a lock of hair away from her cheek. “I can get us tickets to a show. Whatever you want.”
“Whatever I want?”
“Anything.”
She chews on her bottom lip. “Maybe you could show me where you live.”
I nearly stumble over my feet, but right myself. “You want to see my place?”
“Is that okay?”
“Yeah.” The single word comes out more like a squawk. Damn, but I’m sounding—and acting—more like a teenager than a full-grown man. “Yeah, let’s get out of here.”
After signing the check and leaving a healthy tip for our server, who watched our table closely while we danced, I guide Tina toward a private bay of elevators that are exclusively for high-roller suites.
Her eyes light in surprise and interest. I press my hand ever so slightly more against her back, just because I can’t seem to stop touching her.
“This is a pretty fancy set-up you have here,” she says as I flash my room key and the door opens.
“Membership has its privileges.” I groan inwardly. “That sounded so much cooler in my head.”
She laughs. “Don’t worry, you’re still cool in my books.” The door slides between us. “And I still want to kiss you.”
We come together like a crash. Our mouths move hot and wet against each other. Her hands tangle in the short hair at the back of my head. I blindly hit the hold button, freezing the elevator, and push her back against the wall.
I tear my mouth from hers to trail hot open-mouthed kisses down her neck, sucking lightly at the tender skin as I do. She moans, music to my ears, and pulls me closer.
I explore her body with my hands, stroking up and down her hips, gliding up to cup her full breasts, earning another moan. I want her more than I’ve wanted anyone in my life.
I want her here. I want her now.
But she deserves better than a quick fumble in an elevator that could start moving again at any moment. Hell, she deserves more than the quickie wedding we had last night.
