Page 42 of It Happened in Vegas

“By the way, thanks for not looking at Starla.” I gazed up into his face. “That meant more to me than I expected.”

“Told you,” he murmured, “my eyes are only on you.”

His hand slid up my back, and tangled in my hair, holding me in place while his mouth moved over mine with slow and greedy purpose. My body melted into his, every nerve ending ignited. I relished in his possessiveness, which took us far beyond pretend. A kiss like this had to mean more.

His whiskers softly tickled my chin, the scent of cedar and lime beard balm titillating. Our tongues and breaths tangled to a feverish pitch, like we depended on each other for survival. With no cameras, no one else around, this wasn’t for anyone but us. And when it broke, I wasn’t sure I could play pretend with him anymore.

15

THE GOOD DATE

KEATON

Vegas at nightlit up like daytime, which to the two of us, buzzed and feeling good, became a hilarious joke. Sophie let loose, laughing and shouting out the moon window, “Good Morning!” to people on the street at midnight. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her.

To make things more interesting tonight, we got all dressed up in the clothes we’d intended to wear to the wedding—because, by her way of thinking, what if there wasn’t a wedding the next day? It would have been a waste of space in our luggage, having brought the garments all this way.

I agreed with her. How’d I get so lucky to end up with her? And why couldn’t she have been a bachelorette on Brewed for Love? Partnering with our brains and her beauty and my brawn, we could have won the show. There was no comparison at all between Sophie and Vanessa. Or Sophie and Cassandra. Or Starla or Melanie—the entire lot of them. Sophie reigned far superior.

But I was entirely biased after consuming so many drinks tonight.

So I wore my suit, the one Richard bought for me to wear to important meetings, and she wore a silver strapless mini dressin a shiny fabric that I couldn’t keep my hands off of all night. Her black stockings had seams up the back, teasing me like landing strips under her dress anytime she walked in front of me.

I vowed to myself to that by the end of the night, my hands would take a trip up those seams, under her dress…

We took full advantage of Richard’s black card status, not that I couldn’t have treated Sophie to a night on the town myself. But throwing around the Buchanan name got us into certain places.

Grand Cru seated us for a 5-star French Cuisine dinner for two without a reservation. At an intimate table, we split a pricey bottle of champagne. I learned Sophie liked to share meals. And by share, that meant sneaking her fork to my plate for a bite of myBeef Bourguignon,although she was generous to do the same for me from her plate ofConfit de Canard.

The Omnia Nightclub let us in ahead of the long line. We danced song after song, or rather I often stood there scowling at every other man who dared come near her. To end our night there, we splurged and tried a Gold Standard Cosmo together.

One sip and I knew. “Not for me. I’ll stick with my brews, thank you.” Although the taste reminded me of a Tequila Sunrise, I preferred malt and hops over sweetened liquor.

“Then you leave me no choice but to drink this entire thing all on my own. Although it’s almost too pretty to drink. Look at the gold flecks floating inside of it. Like little fishes,” her words slurred. It mesmerized her like a tropical fish tank.

I realized my mistake. She was almost drunk. And if I wanted to continue our party for two in our room, if Lady Luck would be on my side, then I needed Sophie fully aware, senses not dulled. To take advantage of her while intoxicated wasn’t my thing.

“You know what? I think you’re right. We don’t drink the rest. We let the gold flake fishes live. But I can take a few photos of you holding it like you own it,” I suggested and held up my phone.

“Yes, yes, please.” Her three words shot right to my groin.

“There you go, boss babe. Work it. Own it.” I snapped multiple photos as she posed and giggled. We agreed unanimously to post the one I took of us, the best of the bunch, onto our social media accounts.

She labeled hers, “Having fun with this man.” I labeled mine, “A night to remember with her.”

We said goodbye to the pretty drink, and we left.

I had our driver stop at a cheap diner on the way back to the hotel. It reminded me of Flora’s at home, but filthier. Didn’t seem to faze Sophie. We sat in a corner booth and ordered cups of black coffee. At the last minute, she begged the server for a cinnamon roll.

“Hm, I think the batch just came in for tomorrow morning. I suppose I could snag you one, hun,” the server drawled. Arguably, this would be the cheapest part of our night.

“The one with the most icing would be fabulous,” Sophie batted her long lashes to get what she wanted. Pretty sure that works on me, too. “When I was little , on rare special occasions, my mom would bring me to a tiny diner like this and we’d split a roll.”

“Is your mom still around?” I asked. She rarely talked of her family and shifted in her seat.

“Yep. At some Italian Villa with husband number three.”

“I see.”

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