I laughed. “That’s your question? Our marital status?”
“I’m curious. You all seem so…coordinated. Like you’ve been operating as a unit for so long you forgot how to be individuals.”
Perceptive. Damn, she was excellent at reading people. Made sense for marketing, I supposed.
“Our parents died when we were twenty-five,” I said. “Car accident. Drunk driver. One day we had a family, the next day we had insurance money and each other. We made a pact—business first, family first, us first. Everything else was secondary.”
“Including relationships?”
“Especially relationships. We’ve dated. Had girlfriends. But nothing stuck because nothing could compete with the three of us. We built this hotel from nothing. Turned our parents’ death into something that mattered. That kind of bond doesn’t leave room for much else.”
“That sounds lonely.”
“It was practical.” I swirled my wine. “Until recently.”
“What changed recently?”
You, I wanted to say.You showed up and sent us a photo that made us all forget why we agreed to stay single. You walked into our hotel, nearly died, and suddenly practical doesn’t seem as important as keeping you safe.
But I couldn’t say that. Not yet. Not when she was still figuring out if kindness was a trap.
“Let’s just say we’re reassessing priorities,” I said instead.
Dessert arrived—chocolate mousse with fresh berries. I’d triple-checked the ingredients personally. No allergens. No risks. Just sweet and rich and exactly what she deserved.
Tashi took a bite and made that noise again. The one that made me want to hear it in very different contexts.
“This is dangerous,” she said.
“The mousse?”
“All of it. The food, the view, you.” She met my eyes. “I could get used to this. And that terrifies me.”
I reached across the table and took her hand. She didn’t pull away.
“Good,” I said. “Comfortable is overrated. Terrified means you’re alive.”
“Is that your marketing pitch? Choose terror?”
“My marketing pitch is to choose what makes you feel something. Even if that something is scared.” I ran my thumb over her knuckles. “You feel something right now?”
“Yes.”
“Good or bad?”
“Both.” Honest again. “Definitely both.”
We sat there as Vegas hummed below us, her hand in mine, the fairy lights casting shadows across her face. She looked young and old at the same time—someone who’d been hurt but hadn’t let it break her. Someone who cried over kindness because she wasn’t used to it. Someone who made me want to rewrite every rule I’d made about keeping business and pleasure separate.
“Here,” I said, pulling out a portfolio from under the table. “Here are some marketing pitches. Maybe you can do something with them to appeal to a younger audience?”
On cue, a waiter cleared away the dinner service, and I spread the portfolio out on the table. Tashi pulled her chair closer to look, and her perfume reached my nose, and the heat of her body seemed to warm my heart, and her hand strayed to point out different elements of my sketches—what worked and what didn’t, but honestly, I lost track of anything she said.
As she pointed out something else, my hand bumped into hers.
She sucked in a breath as I gazed into her eyes. “Leo,” she said softly. “What are we doing?”
“Talking business,” I said huskily.
