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“Do I look like the fedora type?” I grimace.
“You could pull it off, but I’m not sure of the leopard print. It’s a bit much.” She pulls it off with a wistful smile. “My dad wore fedoras. I think of him when I see hats like that.”
“Then I’ll wear it all night.”
“Oh, no. I’ve got better choices for you.” She giggles as she reaches on her tiptoes to put on the next hat—a gold-coloured toque with LUXOR in shiny black letters and a 3-D pyramid sticking out of the top. “You look like a unicorn.”
“I was going to say something a little more phallic. Hard no for that one.” I wait for her to pull it off because I like her touching me. “This is more me.”
Her third choice is a trucker hat—rainbow camo-coloured with a green hemp leaf on the front. “Sold. I’m getting the floppy one for you, too.” I quickly slide off the counter without giving her a chance to jump back, so I end up standing very close to her.
Almost touching her. She doesn’t move away.
“You havin’ fun?” I ask in a low voice.
Fiona nods, biting her lip as her cheeks flush a becoming shade of pink.
“Next stop then.” I pay for the hats despite Fiona’s protests and we’re back out in the mall. Las Vegas is loud. Even though there are few people around, the sounds of the streets are still evident underground. “Go in here,” I instruct, brushing my hip against hers.
“No!” she cries. “This is a jewellery store.”
“I know. It’ll be fun. And it’s my turn to choose. But first—” I brandish the half-full bottle of champagne. “We should finish this. It’ll make shopping easier.”
“It’s not that hard to begin with.” But she still accepts the bottle and takes a healthy swallow. We pass it back and forth until it’s empty, and I can’t help but notice Fiona doesn’t wipe it off before she drinks.
Promising? Everything Fiona does is like a promise right now.
“You need something to go with that hat,” I tell her, opening the door for her before she can continue to protest.
I’ve never gone shopping with a woman. I’ve never wanted to. The women I get involved with don’t like me to buy them prettylittlethings. The pretty things they would demand aren’t in my budget—my pro baseball player budget.
My grandfather could pay for the entire store if he wanted to.
The rules are the same—Fiona wanders around while I scan the display cases. But this time I’m not going for shock value. I watch as she lingers over the brightly coloured faux jewels and statement necklaces.
I just watch her and then I send her to look out the window while I make my selections.
“Ready,” I finally say.
Fiona claps a hand over her mouth when she sees what I’ve picked, and I know I’ve done good. “Mase, you can’t...”
“Try.” I reach for her hand and tug her forward. “I didn’t get you a tiara because it would be hidden by your hat.”
“So pretty,” she coos, picking up the necklace with five hammered silver disks. I help her put it on, my fingers lingering at the back of her neck just a little too long.
“You like?”
“I love. How did you know? This is exactly something I would pick out for myself.”
I smirk with satisfaction as she exclaims over the stack of bangles ranging in colour from jet black to a creamy pearl colour, and the ring with the square cut red stone the size of my knuckle. “I don’t think that’s a real ruby,” I whisper.
“I wouldn’t wear it if it was.”
“You would if I asked you to.”
An expression flits across her face. Hesitant? Wary? And then—bold.
“Maybe,” she admits.
