Page 58 of Paging Dr. Hart
The breakfast is spread over a long table covered with a white tablecloth. Baskets of appetizing pastries, toast, and bagels are interspersed with bowls of fresh fruit and yogurt. At the end of the table is a self-service coffee bar.
I choose a chocolate croissant and make a cup of coffee. I’m adding in three packets of sugar when Ethan catches up to me.
“Are you going to survive without your favorite coffee this morning?” Ethan teases as he hands me an extra packet of sugar, which I gladly accept.
“Don’t kid yourself. We’re totally going to a real coffee shop later.” I swirl the coffee and sugar together with a small wooden stir stick, thinking about how nice it is to be with someone who knows you, who remembers all your little quirks and preferences.
“Of course we are,” Ethan agrees affably, balancing his overloaded plate in his hand. He has so much food piled up that it looks like he took one of each item.
Gingerly biting into my chocolate croissant, I ask, “Did you do your Karate Kid routine at the gym this morning?” I wipe a spot of chocolate filling off the corner of my mouth with my napkin. Ethan’s eyes follow the movement and linger on my lips. I notice where he’s looking and remind myself that I want to work on my flirting skills today. To test my power, I use the tip of my tongue to lick the rest of the chocolate off. His eyes darken at the sight.
Ethan drags his gaze away from my mouth. “Yeah, I did my usual morning warmup.”
“Must have been quite the show. I’m sure everyone at the gym enjoyed seeing that.” I’m trying to tease him, but picturing Ethan so tall, and handsome as hell, stretching out his long, lean body in the gym makes my voice come out low and raspy. My breathing has sped up. I’m not thinking about the over 100 other radiologists at the conference.
All I can think of is him.
“I don’t remember you complaining about it,” Ethan says with a smoldering look. He steps closer to me. So close that I can see the rise and fall of his chest as his breath quickens. The way his full lips part with a soft exhale and his eyes grow heavy-lidded as they stare down at me.
We’re standing in the middle of the lobby, staring hungrily at each other.
Geez.
I pull at the neckline of my blouse, suddenly overheated. I’m trying to seduce Ethan, but nowI’mthe one hot and bothered. A chiming bell sound rings out, signaling the beginning of the conference. People start moving into the ballroom.
Hoping that the burning flush on my cheeks isn’t too noticeable, I take Ethan’s hand and pull him toward the room. “Come on. Let’s go find a seat.”
He intertwines his fingers into mine, startling me, but I don’t pull away.
That’s how we walk into the conference together.
Holding hands.
49
Past, Las Vegas, Nevada, Age 18
Johnny Stralla?! That’s who you want to steal from? Are you crazy? The owner of the Luxor? No way.” I look from Shelly to Rafe with my mouth hanging open in shock. “We can’t do that. We’re just a couple of kids. You think we can outsmart a man who is reportedly a mob boss? That’s sheer lunacy.”
“Not all of us have a mom like yours, Tiffany.” Shelly can’t hide the bitterness in her voice. “We’ve been taking care of ourselves for as long as we can remember. We aren’t kids. I don’t think we’veeverbeen kids. We haven’t had that luxury.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter. There’s still no way we can get past Johnny Stralla. I can’t believe I’m sitting here listening to this.” I put my fingertips to my temples, rubbing where a stress headache is growing.
Rafe breaks his silence. He holds up his hand as if to quiet me. In a low voice, he says, “Calm down. Stralla will never know it was us.”
Incredulous, I ask, “Oh yeah? How exactly will that work?”
He leans back casually, unruffled by my agitation. “Because we’ll be wearing masks.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure that once he sees you wearing a mask, he’s going to know that you’re there to rob him,” I say sarcastically.
A satisfied smirk lifts Rafe’s mouth. “Not ifheasks us to wear the masks.”
“And why would he do that?” I demand, outraged that we’re having this conversation.
Rafe pulls a yellow piece of paper that, judging by its dingy creases, has been folded and refolded many times, out of his back pocket. He wordlessly slides it across the table to me.
I carefully unfold and examine the paper. It’s a photocopy of a smaller invitation that reads:
