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“Nice pants!” I say when I realize I was right about the flamingos. Never would I have thought I’d find animal print on a man attractive. But, baby, Jackson is wearing the hell out of these shorts.
“I’m killing them, right?” Jackson points one foot forward, striking one GQ-style pose after the other.
“Yes, you are,” I manage through a fit of laughter.
“You look beautiful,” he adds once he’s done goofing around.
“Thank you.” My cheeks warm.
“More than welcome,” he says, his voice soaked with desire.
Jackson peers at me, his eyes caressing every inch of my existence, and my skin burns hot.
“Let’s go,” I manage.
He grabs my hand, leading us away from the casino to an area I’ve yet to explore. I try to think back to the itinerary for today but can’t recall what activities are taking place on the west wing.
“What are we doing?” I ask through hushed breaths as I try to keep up with his long-legged strides.
“You’ll see.” He glances back at me.
Excitement oozes out of him, and I grow nervous. Lord, what is this guy up to?
“You know, it would be great if you could slow down a little,” I huff and start to second-guess my decision to wear these strappy, open-toed heels.
Jackson looks to my feet and flashes his beautifully bright teeth. “Should I carry you?” He smirks.
“No, I’m capable of walking. Just slower strides would be great. My ankles would thank you for sure.
“Of course, sorry.”
He obliges, giving me a chance to relax my breaths. I’m grateful, too. I didn’t spend time getting cute just to sweat it out so soon into the date. We continue our pursuit and are soon met by the loud bass of music. Our pace comes to a near halt when we approach a crowd, all waiting to enter the lounge up ahead. Lights pour onto the deck’s floor when the doors up open, allowing entry to a few at a time. Jackson tightens his hold on my hand, coaxing me forward. I hadn’t realized we were still standing hand in hand until now.
Our stance shifts with him now standing behind me, his hands resting on my shoulders. With each push forward, he squeezes them, softly rubbing my flesh. The sign in front of me reads: Karaoke Night. I step back in protest, but Jackson gently nudges me through the threshold to an empty table a few feet from the stage. Bodies fill every corner of the room as folks climb over one another for a seat or to place an order at the bar.
I observe the area, the aroma of alcohol flooding my nose. On one side of the room is a line of eager participants, while the other end of the space houses those who appear to be just as apprehensive as I am. Don’t get me wrong, I love music, all sorts of genres, but I’m so not about public humiliation—aka karaoke.
“Take a seat. I’ll grab some drinks. Whiskey, right?”
“Yes!” I’m impressed he remembers my drink from the first night.
After several minutes, Jackson returns with our beverages. He hands me mine and sips from his at the same time. Mine doesn’t have a cocktail straw, and I look to the bar, assessing whether it’s worth fighting through the crowd. Deciding to go for it, I push my seat back and prepare to stand.
“Is something wrong with the drink?” he quizzes.
“It doesn’t have a straw. So I’m just going to get one.”
“Here, take my mine, I never use it.”
He slides his glass towards me, and I’m thankful he doesn’t use his hands to give it to me.
“Thanks.” I remove it from his glass. “You should, though. Germs show no mercy.” I lick the bottom, using it to taste his drink before consuming my own.
“Ah, you’re a germaphobe. That’s good to know.”
“I’m just picky about using dishes and utensils in public places. No establishment is allowed to have their water as hot as it needs to be to truly kill any bacteria that may be left behind,” I say then take another swig.
“Why do you know that?” His chest vibrates with laughter.
