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“The heiress will take one look at you all gorgeous in that dress and get jealous,” He eyes me appreciatively. “She’ll toss pointed shade in your direction and speed text her plastic surgeon for an emergency appointment.”
“The heiress can stand in line behind the rest of the chicks who throw shade at me.”
“You’re not going to sleep, the room’s cold, you’ll be breathing recycled air,” he says leaning closer to me. “The internet connection is blocked, the food is impossibly healthy, and you might die of boredom.”
“Perfect.” I look up into his gorgeous face and shiver. “Sounds like my average Friday night.”
“God, I like you.” He takes my hand, squeezes it, and intertwines his fingers with mine. My stomach flip-flops and I can’t help but wonder what it would be like if he kisses me. What if the elevator grinds to a halt, we are stuck between floors, he just leans in, puts a hand behind my head, pulls me to him and kisses me. Lips soft on mine at first, until he becomes more insistent, tangling fingers in my hair, his tongue exploring my mouth.
But the door slides open, rudely interrupting my fantasy, and he gestures. “Shall we?” We walk down the hallway, our shoulders grazing and I’m a little high from his touch. It feels like I’ve known him forever. It feels like I want to know him longer than that.
He raises his hand to knock on the last door at the end of the hallway and pauses. “Last chance to fold, Lucky Charm. Call it a night before you even start. I won’t even ask for my money back. I haven’t had a chance to tell the frog story in a few years. That was cathartic. Kind of like therapy.”
“Hell, no, I’m not leaving.” I’m standing on a tall cliff ready to dive off into choppy, white-capped waters far below. “I’m all in.”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d say.” He leans in, and kisses me on the lips. Finally. Yes.
He is kissing me and his lips are soft, but firm. There’s a hint of tongue and all the breath leaves my body in one spectacular whoosh.
And I’m diving…
***
5
Baby Teeth
BABY TEETH
Dylan McAlister, tycoon, former church baby, gorgeous player, kisses me in the hallway of the penthouse floor in this five-star hotel. It’s a soft kiss, a sweet kiss, but the heat’s been building between us since the moment I met him in the hotel bar.
A pretty woman opens the door, interrupting our moment. “Oops, sorry,” she says and starts to close it.
“That’’s okay.” Dylan reluctantly pulls away from me. “No worries.”
“Great to see you, Mr. McAlister.” She flashes us a toothy, million-dollar smile.
Breathe, Evie, breathe, I remind myself, and we walk inside. Technically, Dylan and I met on an arranged engagement about forty minutes ago. This is a work gig. I’m not here on a real date. I’ve known him for under an hour.
And yet I feel like I’ve known him forever. We enter the sleek penthouse suite –a confident, comfortable couple – that move in vaunted circles such as these with ease.
A pristine poker table is set up at the far end of the living room. Mostly men gather around it, chatting in that passive aggressive way white collar rivals do when they’re revved up and ready to rumble, albeit in a civilized way. Right before they draw blood.
I recognize a few of the players from newspapers and magazines. The middle-aged man with the lean face and hawk nose owns Chicago’s professional soccer team. His fortune was built from great granddaddy’s newspaper empire. He parlayed those millions into an even larger domain. The beefy, red-faced short guy stars in TV commercials for his string of popular fast food restaurants across the Tri-State area. He has to be the Fast Food King with the lizard tongue Dylan warned me about. The sole, elegant, thirty-something woman standing next to the table has a few million followers on Instagram. Dylan wasn’t kidding. She’s the heiress to an elegant department store chain.
Yikes. This is a far cry from a 25th high school reunion at a VFW in the suburbs. This crowd is big money, big attitude, and I’m just a rental date wearing a borrowed dress.
“I need to be polite, civilized,” Dylan says. “Go say hi to the crew before things get ugly. Before I figure out who are the Christians and who are the lions. It changes with every game. You need anything?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m great.”
He leans in, kisses me on the cheek, and whispers, “Cast your lucky charm spell for me, Evie. I need this to be a good game.” He pulls away and looks at me as if for a blessing. “A very good game.”
I rub my hands together theatrically and blow on them.
He winks at me, turns, and heads to the table.
“McAlister,” the beefy guy says. “Wasn’t sure you’d make it. Thought you were still at church. Praying.”
