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I double up on the deodorant, call valet, and check for my wallet, phone, and keys before I head to the lobby. I arrive at the restaurant ten minutes early. It’s actually more of a diner, which means my flashy car stands out like a sore thumb in a lot full of Honda Civics. The place has a fifties-style vibe, red vinyl seats and Formica-topped tables with laminated menus that function as place mats.
It seems to be a seat-yourself establishment, so I slide into one of the booths facing the door, set my phone on the table, and peruse the menu while I wait for Cosy. A server approaches my table, popping bubble gum, pen poised over her pad, looking bored. “Welcome to Shakey’s, home of the best shakes in Vegas.” She punctuates the sentence with a chest shimmy. “Can I get you something to drink?” She taps the menu in front of me.
“I’ll take a Heineken, please.”
“We’re not licensed, sir.” She stabs at the DRINKS heading on the menu. “We have a wide variety of shakes and floats.”
I don’t know how a burger joint can survive in Vegas unlicensed. “I’ll take a club soda then, please.”
“Sure thing.” Gum popper flips her ponytail over her shoulder and flounces off.
I keep checking my phone and watching the time, crossing my fingers that Cosy doesn’t stand me up. At six thirty-three the tinkle of the bell draws my attention toward the door. As well as the attention of every single damn guy in the entire restaurant, and possibly half the women too.
My mouth goes dry and my palms start to sweat, which is not my normal response to women. I might be a little awkward, but I can generally hold my own when it comes to the opposite sex. I don’t think it hurts that I’m easy to look at—and I’m not being conceited. I won genetic roulette, as did my brothers.
But as I take in Cosy, standing in the doorway, the sun creating a halo around her, I have to question what the hell I’ve gotten myself into. Cosy looks somewhere between delicious and scandalous. Her long dark hair hangs loose around her shoulders, perfectly straight and gorgeously thick. Her lips are glossy and pink, and her eyes are lined with black, making the sky-blue iris shockingly vibrant.
While her face alone is magnificent, it’s not the only thing drawing a lot of attention. She’s wearing a pair of cutoff denim shorts. If she turns around, I have a feeling I and everyone else might get a peek at some ass cheek hanging out the bottom. As it is, I can see an inch of pocket at the front. She’s wearing a butter-yellow tank, the black straps of her bra visible along with about two inches of bare midriff.
I sincerely hope she’s of legal drinking age, considering the number of highly sexual thoughts turning my mind into a very dirty gutter. I run my palms over my thighs and slide out of the booth while Cosy scans the restaurant.
Her eyes flare when they catch on me. I wonder if she’s as shocked that I showed as I am that she did. Her hips sway with every calculated step she takes in her insanely high heels. I’m still trying to figure out her fashion statement when she tosses a knapsack onto the seat—a fucking knapsack covered in patches and buttons—and drops into the booth across from me.
I take that as my cue to sit. “You look summery.”
She glances down and adjusts the thin strap of her tank. “Uh, this was pretty much the only clean thing I had left that wasn’t sweat pants and gym shirts.”
“So, you’re telling me you put in as little effort as possible?” I ask with a grin.
She tips her head to the side and regards me with something like embarrassment. “I usually do laundry every other Friday, so I’m down to slim pickings, which means I ended up in this.” She motions to her top.
“I like it.”
She props her cheek on her fist and motions to me with her other hand. “I’d tell you you look nice too, but I’m not sure you need me to bolster your confidence. I have a feeling you could wear three different plaid patterns and still look good.” Her gaze settles on the band logo stamped on my chest. “Oh my God! You listen to Ben Howard? I love him! I saw him in concert last year when I was in Colorado. He’s amazing live. Have you ever seen him play?”
I run a self-conscious hand over my chest. It’s just my luck she knows the artist. “I haven’t seen him live. I’m sure it’s quite the experience.”
Cosy nods enthusiastically. “It really is. Do you have a favorite album? I think their first was the rawest.”
