Waking Up in Vegas(31)
***
“So picking up your car requires a dress and heels now?”
“Shut it, Tack.” Jensen slid into the passenger seat and grabbed the hem of her skirt to give it a sharp tug toward her knees. I didn’t notice any difference, but she seemed satisfied and stopped pulling on it. Or maybe she just gave up on trying to lengthen it. Who knows with women. “I have a date for dinner right around the corner from my car, and it seemed stupid to go home for half an hour and drive back again.”
“Wait—you’re meeting someone there, and I’m the one who has to drive you? I don’t remember signing on to be your chauffer. Why didn’t you just have this guy pick you up and drop you at your car after?” I may have been grumbling, but I still put it in drive and pulled out of her condo parking lot.
Jen pffed and I swear, her nose tilted a little higher in the air than usual. “You owe me the ride, since you’re the one who brought me home. It’s in the rules.”
“What the hell rulebook is that?”
“Besides, we’re not at the he gets to know where I live stage yet,” she said, ignoring my question. “I just met him yesterday.”
I stared a hole into her profile. “You’re not going out with the guy I turned into wallpaper, are you? ‘Cause I refuse to–”
“Do I look crazy to you? I met him at the gym. Give me credit for having a brain, will you?” Jen pushed my chin back toward the windshield with her index finger. “And watch where you’re going. I don’t want to die in this stupid dress.”
I took a quick glance at all the leg she was showing. “Quit fishing. You look fantastic.” And she did. The turquoise blue color accentuated her eyes, the deep vee neckline showed off her cleavage, and the whole works ended at mid-thigh. What was not to like here?
“Ignore me. First date jitters.” She flashed a tiny smile that I would have missed if I hadn’t been looking at just the right minute. “And thanks.”
I pulled up behind her car and wished her an enjoyable evening. She got out and I did the brotherly, co-hosterly thing and—Scout’s honor—didn’t stare at her retreating backside with all that leg flashing as she strolled to her car in (once again) impossibly high heels.
I did peek a few times. But that’s not staring.
And where did you get the idea I’d ever been in the Boy Scouts?
***
Sunday was bliss. No rescuing fair maidens, no taxi service. Not so much as a text from Jensen, which should have made me happy.
Should have. But I kept checking my phone like I was expecting a call from Publisher’s Clearinghouse. I guess it takes a few days to shake off the Knight In Shining Armor complex. Not that I’d have any clue—this was my first trip on the Good Ship Gallantry.
My knee felt normal now, so I filled my afternoon by taking a run in the park with Lita and playing some overdue basketball with my buds. They gave me hell for taking a pass the last few weekends. I endured the inevitable bullshit about how there must be a woman involved, and, of course, denied it categorically. Because while there sort-of is, there really isn’t.
Every last one of them are in some kind of relationship, and for some reason, they think I should be, too. Normally, my friends inclination to express this to me does one of two things (and sometimes both): I’m either pissed off, or I’m thinking they’re the ones who have it all wrong and are actually trying to convince themselves because, frankly, they’re jealous of my life. This time, however, their talk of girlfriends, good times, and group vacation plans left me being the jealous one.
But just slightly.
Then I spotted a leggy brunette laying on a blanket a few yards away, catching some sun. I started over to introduce myself, then thought I felt my phone vibrate in my front pocket. I stopped walking and fished it out, but the screen was serene and blank.
When I looked back at the brunette, she was folding up her blanket and tucking it into a giant canvas bag.
Oh, well.
***
Ring. Ring. What the hell? She’d better get up. I had no intention of pulling our shift all by my lonesome.
Please leave your message after the tone.
I hung up before the beep finished, hit her speed-dial again, and gnawed on a hangnail on my thumb.
What? I had a hangnail.
End of story.
I counted three rings and moved on to the actual thumbnail—still nothing to see here—to get rid of the ragged edge, waiting to hear the Leave a message message again.
Whatever. I’d just keep hitting that redial until I woke her up and–
“Hello?” Her voice was slow and thick with sleep. It was sexy as hell, which of course woke up my dick. A natural response, but I still considered smacking it into calming back down. Then I remembered that it was attached and smacking would hurt.