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“Too late now, it's stuck in my head. Josie's on a vacation far away…” Who was this person singing in a bar? Even his own mother wouldn't recognize him.
Not that he didn't want to flirt, because Josie was gorgeous. She must’ve been almost six feet tall with legs that went on and on like an epic poem. She'd changed out of her cocktail outfit, but he couldn't stop picturing the intricate, tattooed curving vines and flowers that twisted into the shape of an infinity sign spanning from one bare shoulder to the next. He'd been so busy watching those vines while he played poker, he'd folded on a royal flush. Only a moron did that, which, apparently, included him tonight.
The plain white T-shirt she wore now covered that tattoo, along with almost all of a tiny pink princess slaying a kelly-green dragon on her right biceps. Only the dragon's curled tail extended below her sleeve.
“What'll you have?” The bartender in a tight black shirt winked at Josie.
“Another gimlet, thanks, Mike.”
“You got it, kitten. How 'bout you?”
“Scotch, neat.”
Mike wandered off to make their drinks, leaving Josie and Sam in the middle of an awkward silence. His shirt collar felt tight. He undid the top button. After all, he was in Vegas—he might as well live a little.
“What do you do, Sam?”
“I'm a history professor.”
“Oh, I love American history. I just read the most fascinating book about Cleveland's assassination.”
He'd yet to get to that new release, which was sitting on a stack of books on his nightstand. “Really?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Why? Do you think drink fairies with big tits only read the tabloids and TMZ?”
“That's not what I meant.” His cheeks flamed. This was why he never flirted. Foot in mouth seemed to be his specialty outside of the lecture hall.
“Uh-huh.” She took her gimlet from Mike, the ice cubes clinking as she sipped. A red copy of her lips stayed on the glass when she put it down. “So are you at UNLV?”
“No, Cather College.”
“Where's that?”
“Dry Creek, Nebraska.”
Her face darkened and her spine stiffened.
What the hell had he done now?
Desperate not to sink into silence again, he grasped for a conversation topic. The black ink script on the inside of her left wrist caught his eye. “What does it say?”
Her brows squeezed together in a question before she smiled softly and held out her wrist to him.
Sam brushed his thumb across the blue veins visible under her porcelain skin. Electricity jolted against his fingertips, tingling its way up his arm. His lungs tightened and his cock stirred. From his position, the words were upside down. Without letting go of Josie's wrist, he stepped down from his stool and turned so that they faced the same direction, with her directly behind him.
They were so close, her breasts rubbed against his back. “Sam…”
The single syllable brushed against the back of his neck and his body reacted as if she'd caressed his dick instead of only speaking his name. He wouldn't, couldn't, let go of her until he read the tattoo. He had to know what it said.
Adventure is worthwhile in itself.
“Amelia Earhart.” He lifted her wrist to his mouth, kissing the words as her pulse jumped under his lips. Surrounded by her amber scent, touching her soft skin, tasting her warmth on his lips, the out-of-character action seemed perfectly logical.
Josie slid her arm from his grasp and he reluctantly returned to his stool. But she didn't leave or scoot farther away.
“How did you know?” Her long fingers stroked across her wrist.
“My dissertation was about Earhart's impact on Midwestern women's perspectives of early twentieth century feminism.”
