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“There’s something about Mase,” Chrissa muses as she refills the champagne glasses.
Realchampagne, not the sparkling wine I stock in my fridge.
“Is that like something about Bruno? We don’t talk about Mase?” Demi asks with a laugh. She is the complete opposite of Chrissa—open and honest; add in her way of speaking without thinking, and I’m sure her blue-eyed prettiness gives blondes a bad name.
“That song is so over, but we should definitely talk about him.” Chrissa smiles archly. “If I was still into guys, he’d be exactly my type: sexy and sinful and forever single. Irresistible, but so bad for me.”
Definitely not a rival for Grayson’s affections then.
“Like a Twinkie,” I suggest. “Or those chocolate moon pies.”
“Twinkies are so bad for you,” Demi agrees. “Full of preservatives and trans fats and sugar, and such an unhealthy amount of sodium.”
“But very tasty.” Chrissa winks at me.
“With Mase’s outward physical appearance, family wealth, plus his talent as a professional athlete, it’s no wonder he’s so popular,” Biba pronounces in her serious way.
“What’s this about his outward physical appearance?” David protests.
“Whoever is paying, I’m so excited to be here,” Demi says before draining her champagne. The little I know of Demi, I’ve yet to see her excited. Happy, yes, cheerful all the time, but she has one of the most laid-back and even demeanors I’ve ever come across. Maybe it’s from the yoga, or the crystals, or maybe she pops a handful of edibles every morning; I have no idea, but I wish she’d bottle some for me.
Already, the knot in my stomach is pulling tighter.
Las Vegas—Sin City, the City that Never Sleeps—is not the best place for a gal with an anxiety disorder. But I’m here for Bexley and because of her, I’ll pretend there is no place I’d rather be.
So far, we’ve gone on a quick tour of the city, hit the slots at a couple of casinos, and enjoyed a far-too-filling dinner at a nearby buffet. Now we’re back in our suite to get ready for tonight.
I am now as glamourous as I’m going to get—which is pretty glamourous in my vintage green shirtdress that hugs all the right places, with my unruly strawberry blonde curls straightened and hanging past my shoulders, red lipstick intact, and special-event false eyelashes pasted on—while toasting my best friend with very nice champagne before we head out on the town.
It’s a far cry from my quiet life back in Toronto. If I were home, I’d be curled up on my couch with my cats—pet tortoise blinking at me from his terrarium—watching the latest rom-com on Netflix, with a bowl of cinnamon popcorn and a big mug of tea.
Change is good, though, isn’t it?
Mase
Ineedahair-cut.
I can almost pull it all back into a man bun high on my head, which I won’t do tonight, because I have good hair and it needs to be seen. Hair that begs women to run their hands through it, curling the too-long strands at my collar around their fingers.
Hair I usually hide under a baseball cap when I’m playing, but not tonight.
Tonight is all about looking good for the ladies.
Slim, trim black pants with Italian shoes, a must for sliding across a dance floor. Shirt, also black, of some thick but breathable fabric, tucked in with sleeves rolled up to mid-forearm. It’s tight enough around the biceps and shoulders but not too tight to pull at the buttons. Since I’ve been playing with the Twins, I’ve upped my workouts, which makes finding clothes more difficult. Luckily, Dad having a personal tailor helps with that.
My cheeks are as smooth as a baby’s bottom; I prefer a bit of stubble, but lately, it’s coming in reddish, which the ladies also love, because who doesn’t like a ginger? But too much stubble shows that, at twenty-seven, I still can’t manage a full beard due to the scar on my chin.
The ladies also love a scar.
Ladies love me.
At least they like my last name, and my prowess on the baseball field. I never really know if they like me for me.
Along with a haircut, I also need something more to eat. I missed dinner; not surprising since flying always makes me queasy. Grandfather sent me with a list of things to “accomplish” while I was in town—people to see, things to check on. Every year, just before spring training begins, he always starts in on me taking more of an active role in the business, and this year is no exception.
The thought of settling down to a life of one of Grandfather’s minions also makes me queasy. I managed some toast when I got back to my room—four pieces, each a perfect pale brown, brought to me with a collection of jams and jellies—but couldn’t stomach more than a few mouthfuls of the eggs.
My phone chirps as I take one last look over. I give my reflection a wink before I pick it up.
