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The corner of his lips curves into a grin that’s a little skeptical but a lot happy. “Yeah?”
“Absolutely,” I say, then I drop a kiss onto his nose. “Let’s get out of here. Stop distracting me with all this talk of hot sex.”
I want to make him feel as spectacular out of bed as he made me feel in the shower. When we go our separate ways, I want him to remember me as the guy who was good to him for one fine night in Las Vegas.
I stare at the pile of disappointment in my suitcase.
I don’t have anything casual yet cool enough for a concert. I have work clothes for, well, work. And workout clothes. Nothing that screams I’m worthy of a date with a hot athlete.
I dismiss a navy blue, short-sleeve button-up.
Why the fuck did I bring navy blue? I should have brought a tight tank, or a snug T-shirt that shows off the fact that, while I’m not a pro athlete, I have met a few pieces of exercise equipment before.
“Bugger,” I mutter.
From the other side of the room, Nate chuckles. “You okay, handsome?”
“I should have grabbed a shirt at Union Square this morning,” I grumble, annoyed with myself.
“What? You wish you went shopping?”
I gesture wildly to my clothes. “You look fit in that maroon polo that hugs your chest and your arms. But I have nothing for going out. I’ll look like a wanker. Or worse. A banker.”
Nate snort-laughs. “One, you won’t. Two, who cares?”
Has he gone mad? I care. “I was in such a rush to make it to the airport that it didn’t occur to me that I’d only packed for Webflix meetings and dinners.”
I hear Nate chuckle behind me, and then the sound of his footsteps across the plush carpet before his hand travels up my back. Hmm. That’s nice but I still feel foolish. “Hate to break it to you,” he says, “but your TV producer clothes got my attention at the pie toss way back when.”
The day I met Nate at the carnival, I’d come from a work meeting. I was dressed in trousers and a button-up. But still.
I turn around and level with him. “Nate,” I say carefully, “someone is going to see us tonight. You’re a ten. You’re a sports star. I don’t want to look like…well, like a six to your ten. Or a wanker banker,” I say, trying to keep the mood light.
But he doesn’t laugh. Tilting his head, Nate studies my face, like he’s suddenly not sure what to make of me. “You’re acting like you’re not good enough, Hunter.”
I look away, my jaw ticking. I wish he weren’t so fucking on the nose. “All I meant was I wish I had a clubbing shirt rather than a work shirt,” I say, covering up, trying to sound breezy and adorably self-deprecating.
Don’t want to flash the I have issues sign.
He just shrugs, then squeezes my shoulder. “You’re a ten. And it’s all coming off later, anyway, so wear what you want.”
Fair point.
I go back to the suitcase, and two minutes later, I’m dressed in the navy button-up and jeans. I look like I’m heading off to a business lunch, but it makes Nate happy.
Tonight, that’s my only plan.
No wonder Nate missed hanging out with his mates. They are seriously fucking fun.
And so is this game of poker. Nate’s friend Tanner nabbed a private VIP room at The Extravagant for our pre-concert cards.
Besides having fun, I am killing it so far.
When the dealer asks who’s in, I up the ante, then slide another chip across the table. “I’m all in,” I say.
I’m feeling pretty good about this hand. The bourbon I’ve been drinking thinks I have a great hand too. Smart, this liquor. But hey, that’s Woodford Reserve for you.
“Ooh big spender,” Luke says from across the table, whistling as he sees my bet.
Nate rubs a hand down my back, and I feel even warmer. “Hunter’s a card shark, I tell you. But I’m out,” he says, folding. Then he smacks a kiss to my cheek.
Damn, his PDA is nice…
Everything is just so nice.
Tanner hums, studying his cards with stormy blue eyes. Then he matches my bet. The baseball player leans back in his chair, crosses his arms, all bravado. “Go ahead. Try to beat me.”
Luke snorts, shaking his head of blond waves. “I’m out,” he says, folding his cards.
Nate’s longtime friend Bryan smiles, the kind of smile that says he’s got all the aces up his sleeve. He slides in a few more chips. “I’m in,” he says.
“That’s what you said last night, isn’t it?” Luke tosses him a gotcha look. “’Cause the guy couldn’t tell, right?”
Bryan rolls his eyes, then takes off his glasses—reading glasses, I think. “Luke, when you have to explain your punchline, maybe go back to clown college.”
