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“So did you move here to Vegas, too?”
I shake my head. “No, I’m visiting for the weekend. I’m still in San Diego.”
“Well, look me up when you’re in town. Always happy to leave my children at home to meet a new friend for a drink.” She winks at me, and I chuckle, though knowing she has kids at home makes me feel like there’s a pretty big difference between the two of us.
She’s a mom, and I don’t even know if Iwantkids—never mind the fact that I don’t know a man who I’d want to knock me up with said kids.
“Will do,” I say warmly, and I see it before it happens.
She offers me a wide smile as she turns to walk away, and just as she turns, a waiter carrying a tray filled with champagne flutes walks by.
She crashes into him.
The tray drops to the floor, and champagne bounces everywhere, soaking the bottom of Ellie’s beautiful black dress. A bit of the liquid splashes in my direction, too, coating my feet with the sticky drink.
“I’m so sorry!” Ellie groans, and she asks the waiter, “Are you okay?”
He nods, apologizing profusely as he bends down to pick up what must be ten glasses of champagne. She turns to me and asks the same question since she doesn’t seem to be able to bend down in her dress that’s now wet.
“I’m fine,” I say, and I move over to help the waiter pick up the mess.
“No, ma’am,” he says to me. “We don’t want you to cut yourself.”
“It’s fine,” I say, though the second I pick up a piece of glass, sure enough, I cut my pointer finger. “Fuck,” I mutter.
It’s not bad—no worse than a paper cut, really. I straighten and excuse myself for the bathroom to wash my hands and feet.
Or, I try to.
This is one of those bathrooms with no paper towels and only hand dryers, so I grab some toilet paper and scrub at my feet the best I can as I hold another piece of toilet paper around my finger to get the bleeding to stop.
When I emerge from the bathroom fifteen minutes later, all I can do is hope nobody saw me walk in there, spend fifteen minutes, and walk out looking flushed. I can only imagine what they’d think.
I hear the announcement before I even walk back into the ballroom. “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. Dinner will be served shortly.”
My mom and dad are up front at table four, and I swing by to say hi on my way to the bar to grab one more drink before dinner.
I’m not the only one who had that idea, though. The line is ten people deep, and by the time I turn around with my drink in hand, I see the servers clearing plates after the first of the seven-course meal, an amuse-bouche consisting of a cheese puff with truffle butter.
Damn. That sounded good.
I practically run to my table, and I grab the only open seat. I see the cheese puff thing still sitting there, and I slip it into my mouth just as someone comes to clear my plate.
“Perfect timing,” I say triumphantly, holding my fist up in the air.
And then I glance around my table.
It appears I’m sitting with a bunch of football players and their spouses. There are ten chairs, and it’s a big enough table with enough noise surrounding me that there’s no way I can hold a conversation with someone across the table from me. I glance at each couple, and they all smile and wave, and finally I look at the man sitting to my right.
Our eyes connect, and…
Holy shit.
It’sAsher Nash.
I’m a huge football fanatic, and of course I know the Nash family. Who doesn’t? They’re household names.
And whoa.
