Page 3 of Wilder’s Mistake

“I’m heading upstairs.”

“Come on, just one drink?”

“No, thanks.”

I step around him and his hand closes around my elbow.

“She said no.” Wilder’s voice comes from behind me.

The man releases me and turns. Wilder doesn’t raise his voice or move closer. The man looks at Wilder’s face and makes the sensible decision.

“We were just talking.”

“Not anymore.” The man mutters something and walks away.

I rub the place his fingers touched. “I had it handled.”

“I know you did.”

“Then why step in?”

“I didn’t like him touching you.” The direct answer steals the one I had ready. We leave the ballroom and cross the lobby together.

“What now?” he asks.

“Well, I was thinking that I’d take off these shoes and sleep for nine hours.”

“Is that what you really want?”

I look through the glass doors at the Strip, all neon, heat and people behaving as if tomorrow belongs to somebody else.

I have spent four days in Las Vegas doing exactly what I promised. I booked Monday and Tuesday away from work, arranged coverage for the hospital project and planned the trip down to the last transfer. Nora is married. The schedule worked, and I should feel satisfied. Instead, I feel as though I came all this way without letting the city touch me or properly enjoying myself.

“No,” I admit. Wilder stops beside me.

“Then don’t go upstairs.”

The invitation is quiet. He doesn’t smile or make the decision for me. Instead, we turn toward the casino.

“Okay, just one drink,” I say.

His hand settles at the small of my back. “Sure.”

The first drink happens at the hotel bar. The second comes in a narrow place off the Strip where the bartender pours tequila with no concern for our flight home. By the third, my shoes are hanging from Wilder’s fingers and the knot between my shoulders has finally loosened.

We find a table near an open wall where hot night air pushes through the music. Wilder sits with one forearm resting across the back of my chair, close enough that his knuckles graze my shoulder whenever somebody squeezes past.

“Why do you keep bringing those men to Nora’s dinners?” he asks.

I know exactly which men he means. “Because she invites me and I occasionally date.”

“They all look the same.”

“They do not,” I protest, while quietly admitting to myself that he has a point.

“Clean shoes. Soft hands. Talk too much about work.”

“You have met three people in six years.”