“Ms. Jones is my guest this evening. We’ll be in my private booth in the casino.”
“Yes, sir.”
Cash guides me through the foyer with one hand on my lower back. Protective and gentle. When he smiles at me, he’s still the man I pushed into the rooftop pool but with subtle differences. Here, he is visible. Respected. He appears to stand taller even though it isn’t physically possible. He fills his designer-labeled suit with uncontained energy but still manages to look at me with large pupils and a smile that makes my body tingle.
“Okay?” he asks, his voice only for me.
I nod, too excited to speak.
The Titan’s foyer is bottle-green walls with gold swirls, gold fronds, taller than me, in huge, burnished pots, and heavy chandeliers dripping opulent crystals. It’s 50s Hollywood glamor at its finest, and I half-expect to see Audrey Hepburn or Frank Sinatra walk through the doors at any moment.
The casino, when we enter, is already humming with activity. I’ve never been on this side of a table before, and I catch the unmistakable vibe of a long night ahead filled with the highs and lows of money changing hands on the spin of a wheel.
A woman who appears to be in her mid-twenties, wearing a floaty gold dress that changes color when it catches the light, comes over and kisses Cash on both cheeks, her lips lingering a little too close to his ear than is necessary for a warm greeting between acquaintances. And is that her nipple I can see through her dress?
She catches me looking and winks conspiratorially, as though we’re in this together.
“Dana, this is Remy.” Cash’s expression is still neutral, his tone neither warm nor cold but just enough to keep Dana happy. “Remy,” he guides me forward with his hand on my lower back again, “Dana is a burlesque artist.”
I offer her my hand to shake and she ignores it, pulling me into a hug instead. “He makes it sound so boring. I take my clothes off for a living, artfully.”
“That’s… amazing.” I don’t know what else to say.
She laughs out loud. “You should come along to one of my performances. Both of you.” Is it me, or does her gaze suggest to Cash that she is being polite in my presence and she would prefer it if he came alone?
“We’d like that.” Cash’s smile is all for me.
I’m paranoid, and it isn’t an attractive quality.
“We would, thank you.”
I get the distinct impression that she sees right through me before she detaches herself and glides away again. I suck in a deep breath and release it with a sigh that gave me no warning.
Cash doesn’t miss it. He leans closer and whispers in my ear, “Stop panicking. You have nothing to be afraid of, Remy. You’re worth a million guests to me.”
Flames burst inside me, spreading their warmth and making me feel a little giddy. Maybe they teach eligible mafia bachelors the right thing to say at charm school, but it feels so right that I can’t fight it.
“I’ll let you in on a secret.” His words tickle my ear and send tingles down my spine. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever invited to the Titan.”
I peer up at him, and he doesn’t look away. All eyes must be on him, on us, and it feels as if we’re the only two people who exist.
We make our way to his private booth on the mezzanine level. It would be easy to let it go to my head. I watched Bash entertaining VIP guests from the casino floor when I worked at the Rinse and wondered how it would feel to be set apart from the rest of the world through connections in all the right places. Now that I’m here, I’m like a teenager at her first concert about to set eyes on her celebrity crush.
Set apart, the luckiest girl in the world because I’m here with Cash.
I rest my arms on the gold balustrade and watch the tables below, the chips sliding across green baize, the men in suits knocking back whiskey, the women in diamonds and pearls flexing their polished acrylics.
A bottle of champagne appears in a silver bucket on the table as if by magic. I know that’s how it works: keep the guests drinking, keep them spending money. But I never understood how easy it is to get swept up in the excitement until Cash half-fills a champagne flute, hands it to me, and clinks his glass against mine.
“Half a glass,” he murmurs. “To calm your nerves. That’s all.”
I sip bubbles and my eyes water as they go down. I don’t ask if he’ll finish the bottle himself or if he intends to share it with another guest. I’m determined to enjoy the moment before I take a selfie to send to Ariel.
Cash’s cheek is close to mine as he takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilts it towards the blackjack tables on the opposite side of the casino floor.
“The gent in the black suit and gold waistcoat.”
My gaze settles on the man with silver hair and matching moustache. He’s smart, his spine straight, his chest wide from years of eating good food. He is how I imagine Santa Claus to look if he took early retirement.
