JACK: Las Vegas Bad Boys(10)

Because, well, those eyes alone. But then there’s the soulful way he takes in a room, a situation. He may have taken a stand and told Ashley off tonight by pretending he and I were a thing ... but I could tell by the way he took a sidelong glance at his buddies, that the real reason he blew her off was because he didn’t want his friends to have to fight his battles.

And the fact that he wouldn’t put up with anyone putting any of us down? Well, I’ve never been up close and personal with a man like that. The guys back home saw me as a piece of meat—an indentured servant, really. But Jack doesn’t see anyone like that.

There’s no doubt in my mind that everyone left at the whiskey bar is talking about my massive hard-on for Jack. And, whatever, I won’t be mad at Emmy and Claire for letting the cat out of the bag ... I mean, anyone could have taken one look at my face and known I had exactly zero hesitation about walking through the casino with my hand in his.

“So, Tess,” he says, as his eyes rake over my body. “Since we told Ashley we were going out, we might as well treat ourselves to a date.”

“A date?” I gulp.

This is actually happening.

I legit wish I’d showered after my shift, and shaved. Dammit. I mean, okay, maybe it’s a tad bit presumptuous to think Jack would be getting his eyes or hands anywhere near the must-shave zone ... but whatever. Being in this inner circle of the Vegas elite has resulted in plenty of my fantasies coming true. Why not my sexual one, too?

Jack shrugs. “What, does a date with me sound bad? Fuck, am I that out of touch with reality?”

I shake my head. “A date with you does not sound bad. It sounds ... wonderful. Just, well, first of all, you have to know I’ve had a massive crush on you since we met? Right?”

He laughs. “Uh, sorry, Tess. I live in my head most of the time.”

I feel my cheeks flush. “Then that was some definite oversharing on my part.”

“I like it. It’s refreshing.”

“Why? Ashley seemed to have no problem telling you like it is, or was.”

Jack stretches out his legs in the limo, his feet propping on the cushion beside me. “Ashley’s a manipulator. She wanted everyone to see us, so long as we used a good filter.”

I grimace, not really into babe-bashing. “Seems a little intense to say she tried to make everything perfect. I mean, I remember at Landon and Claire’s wedding she didn’t even bring a couture dress for the reception, which I found to be very tasteful, to not take away from Claire’s day. Though, to be honest, it was sort of a disappointment. She always looks like she just stepped off a runway.”

Jack smirks. “Yeah, but she didn’t pack a designer gown because she thought the whole thing was beneath her, and she was pissed the whole time because I canceled our trip to Barbados to attend the ceremony.”

I twist my lips, feeling awkward that we keep talking about his ex-girlfriend.

“Maybe let’s not talk about her,” I suggest. “I mean, if you need to like, hash it out, I’m here for you. But it might be more fun to sort of pretend that she doesn’t exist for one little night? If it causes you stress?”

He nods curtly. “You are so right.” He grabs the bottle of champagne that is sitting on ice on the minibar, and pops the cork. Champagne overflows, and we laugh as the sticky sweetness covers the carpeted floor of the limo. He fills two champagne flutes with the bubbly.

Looking at me with an unconcealed smile, he says, “Let’s finish that toast we never got to finish at the whiskey bar.”

We raise our glasses.

“To tonight,” he says with his voice low and gravelly, as if preparing for an epic journey we are embarking on together. As if our toast is somehow sealing this night as some special, untouchable escape from real life.

“To tonight,” I repeat in a whisper, clinking my glass against his.



The restaurant he takes me to is as far off the strip as we can get. It’s nothing like the glitz and glam of the casinos uptown. Jack holds the door for me, and a rush of authentic Mexican flavors greet us.

A waitress leads us through the small, crowed restaurant. its bright blue walls covered in Mexican artwork. Paper banners with cut-outs of sugar skulls wave in the open-air breeze as she takes us to a relaxed outdoor patio complete with twinkly lights and mariachi music.

Once we’re seated and Jack’s ordered us jalapeño margaritas, he leans across the picnic table, his eyes bright in the candlelit.

“Is this okay? It’s nothing fancy.”

“It’s perfect.”

“Good. It’s my favorite. No one ever recognizes me here. McQueen told me about it. They have a food truck that used to hang out near the gym where we worked out before all that shit went down.”