The Palms.
I have to stifle the laugh threatening to bubble up because as luck would have it, I’ve just agreed to dinner with Max Cruz, the man who has zero recollection of our one-night stand that happened right here in Las Vegas.
A night that, in stark contrast, has been forever burned into my memory.
What a time to be alive.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Sutton
Our taxi pulls to a stop in front of a small restaurant behind the strip. I lean toward the window to take it in, then look over at Max, who just grins as he swipes his card through the card reader and pays for the ride. He hops out of his side and I open my door warily, stepping out into the lingering heat of the day.
The sign above the building readsBattista’s Hole in the Wall, and I have to give them credit where credit is due: they’re not lying. Behind this strip mall building is the parking garage for the Flamingo, and to my left, a large casino hotel.
Beside thishole in the wallis a liquor store, so… great.
He’s really pulling out all the stops tonight.
Max steps up beside me and slips his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he takes in the view. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to judge a book by its cover, Ms. Hart?”
I scoff, then motion toward the building. “I mean…”
Hetsks, then extends his elbow. “May I?”
Rolling my eyes, I step forward, then open the front door of the building, instantly surprised by the amount of people gathered inside the small waiting area. The noise level is much higher than I’d expected, and I’ll admit that the crowd is a good sign. If the place was as empty as I’d anticipated, I’d be worried about food safety.
“You were expecting something else?” Max says, joining me just inside the door. “Maybe a chef’s tasting menu by José Andrés for our first date? Or a Japanese Omakase, perhaps?”
“This isn’t a date.”
“Sure it is. I asked you to dinner, you said yes, and now we’re at my favorite place.”
“Max!” someone calls from deep within the crowd of people, and all heads turn in unison to gape at us.
Max leans down as he links his fingers with mine. “Smile, gorgeous, you’re about to get the best hug of your life.”
Tugging me forward, Max strides through the crowd, and they part for him like the water of the Red Sea once did for Moses himself. Some whisper to one another, eyes wide as they realize who he is, while others stare in confusion, clearly not football fans, and others give us looks of annoyance, which I can understand. It would appear that we’re about to be on the receiving end of preferential treatment, something I’d normally be opposed to, but when my stomach rumbles hungrily, I allow myself to go with the flow just this once.
We stop in front of a woman not much older than we are, maybe early fifties at best, with a broad smile and a mess of wild black and silver curls twisted into a massive bun at the nape of her neck. She lights up when she reaches for Max, and I find myself smiling as he scoops her into a massive bear hug, lifting her off the ground as he hugs her.
When he sets her back onto her feet, she swats at his arm and adjusts her dress, straightening her apron before looking at me expectantly.
Extending my hand, I say, “Hi, I’m—”
Oh!I’m pulled into a hug before I can finish my introduction, wrapped up in her subtle lavender scent, her soft, warm arms, and her ample—and I meanample—bosom. She squeezes me like we’re long-lost friends, and after the initial shock wears off, I wrap my arms around her to return the hug.
Max wasn’t lying; this woman canhug.
Even though she’s not much older than me, it feels like the kind of motherly hug I wished for all my life.
When she pulls back, she holds my shoulders, studying my face for an uncomfortable amount of time.
I lick my lips, “Um…”
“Gloria,” Max says, breaking the awkward moment, “this is my friend, Sutton Hart.”
Her eyes narrow, then she smiles slowly, a sly, knowing smile. “Friends.”
