Because deep down, I already know this woman’s about to turn my entire damn world on its head.
As we weave through the crowd toward the exit, I glance back and catch her falling a step behind—her petite frame no match for my longer strides. So I slow, reach my arm back without thinking.
She takes my hand—no hesitation. And like that, I lead us out of the club, her hand steady in mine. When we hit the sidewalk, lights flashing, The Strip alive around us...I don’t let go.
And we walk. No plan. No destination. Just her hand in mine, the two of us moving through the night like we’ve got nowhere else we’d rather be.
“You mentioned your friends ditched you in there?” I ask, breaking the quiet between us—not awkward. Just easy.
She jumps a little, like I pulled her from some thought. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Sorry. My friends are here for a girls’ weekend, but I’m not the type to spend all day doing touristy crap just to get dressed up and do more of it at night. So...they left without me.”
I smile. “Forgive me for saying so, but I’m kind of glad they did.”
She squeezes my hand—just a little tighter. “Yeah... I’m kinda starting to feel the same.”
“You know, being from New York, I’d normally punch you in the face for being so presumptuous about holding my hand.”
I chuckle, giving her fingers a playful squeeze. “And why haven’t you punched me yet?”
She flicks those gorgeous brown eyes at me, then turns her gaze back to the path ahead. “I don’t know, Mister. Something about you...feels good.”
“I bet a lot of things about you feel good,” I shoot back.Way too fast,before my brain catches up to my mouth.
Her lips twitch. “Easy there. You’ll have me believing you’ve got ill intentions.”
I lean in just a little closer, voice dropping. “Trust me...if I did, you’d know it.”
“Well, if you do,” she says, all smooth. “I certainly hope you let me in on those intentions before the night is over. Lots of things I could do with you.”
I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “Please. Don’t say things like that.”
“Like what?”
“Things that make me want to discover whatlotscould entail. I’m actually trying to behave.” This woman has no idea the danger she could be in.
She throws her head back, laughing. A rich, warm sound hitting me straight in the chest.
“Pity,” she teases, shaking her head, eyes sparkling with nothing but trouble.
We walk a few more blocks, her hand still tucked in mine, when she suddenly lets out the loudest squeal.
“O.M.G. Shut up!” she shouts, yanking me by the hand toward...Jesus Christ. Avan. And not the sleek, professional kind either. There are likely no nice watches in there, no knock off Gucci bags or even Nike’s spelled with an M—no, this thing looks one broken taillight away from being featured onDateline.
Across the side, some half-faded letters read:Psychic Readings.
“You cannot be serious,” I say, staring at it like it might bite.
“I amabsolutelyserious,” she beams.
“I don’t believe in psychics.”
“Neither do I!” she fires back. “That’s why it’ll be fun! Come on, let’s just do it for the fun of it.”
I just told her I was enjoying getting to know her, but this is taking things in a direction I didn’t intend.
I pictured us finding a quiet restaurant, slipping into a booth, spending the night wrapped in candlelight and confessions—soft smiles, shared stories, slow, dangerous chemistry building with every glance.
Not this.
