Jeez. I need to get a grip.
“Thank you.” I attempt to smile, but I think all my lips manage is a slight quiver like I’m about to cry. “I’m sorry about the drinks. I’ll pay for them out of my wages.” If I get paid now that I’m fired.
“No need. It wasn’t your fault.”
“But… I wasn’t watching where I was going.” No, because I was watching him instead. Stop talking, Remy, for God’s sake.
“It was an accident. These things happen.”
He sounds so sure of this that I almost believe him. Almost. Then I recall the look on the pit boss’s face.
“How many times has this happened on your casino floor?” I ask.
Because, you know, I’m not content with cutting my losses while I’m still ahead. Apparently, I’m going to stand here and point out my failings to him until he realizes that I’m not worth fighting for.
“More times than you would believe.”
Is he being kind because he doesn’t want me to report his guest to the cops or does he have his own agenda? Right now, with my wet clothes sticking to me, my sliced hand stinging, and his citrussy aroma playing havoc with my senses, I can’t think straight.
“Glassware can be replaced.” He shrugs. “My guests will still get their drinks. No harm done.”
I nod. “I should go. I need to change out of my clothes.”
I peer down at my stained waistcoat and pants and wonder why I had to mention getting undressed. Because now, my panties are wet too, and in my head, my pussy is already getting naked with my boss between my legs. Seems I’m a sucker for an Irish accent and a little kindness.
Which says a lot about my dating history. One man, who screwed me over for a well-groomed woman with money and connections.
“Band-Aid first.” He keeps his eyes on my bloody palm, reminding my brain that it stings. A lot. “Then I’ll take you home.”
That’s when it hits me. “Shit. I lost my keys.” I glance in the direction of the casino floor. “I must’ve dropped them.”
He must sense my reluctance to show my face on the floor right now. He slides a phone from his pocket and hits the green button on a number that must be on redial. “Terry, did you find a set of keys?”
I hear a whisper of the voice at the other end of the call.
Then, “They’re not on the casino floor.” Bash pockets the phone. It’s final.
“Are you sure? Terry might’ve missed them. The keyring has pink cherries on it.” Ironic really. Ariel bought it for me when I landed this job. For good luck.
He smiles. There’s nothing patronizing about it, and my lips twitch in response. It’s all part of his charm, I guess. One full-on dazzling smile, and he must have women swooning at his feet, begging him to choose them over every other runway-worthy beauty that crosses his path.
And why am I still thinking about this when the missing keys situation is a whole lot more urgent?
“Terry is my head of security; he doesn’t miss a thing.”
He isn’t budging on this, and I remind myself that I don’t have to believe him just because he owns the place.Especiallybecause he owns it.
“Can I check for myself?”
“The floor has been cleared.” Of course it has. “But you can speak to Terry yourself.”
He slides the phone back out of his pocket, taps the screen, and I barely catch the muffled voice on the other end above my thumping heartbeat and the ringing in my ears.“…ash?”He offers me his cell phone.
And I take it, my brain finally waking up and telling me that I’ve caused enough fuss and perhaps I should just let it go.
But instead, I peer into Bash Murray’s green eyes and murmur into the handset, “I can’t get into my staff locker or my dorm room without my keys. There are pink cherries on the keyring. It’s new.” I seriously don’t know when to stop talking. “My purse is in my locker.” I stop short of telling him that I barely have enough cash for my train ticket home.
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” Another Irish accent, a little rougher around the edges but still gentle. “I didn’t find your keys, but my stepson will get you home.”
