Waking Up in Vegas(64)

I’d tortured myself all night, wanting to spill the secret to Jen, who’d opted to not spend the evening wading through her stuff. I wasn’t sure if she was finally satisfied with her sorting or was just tired of doing it, and I didn’t ask. Her answer might’ve burst my bubble of hope.

So when she cozied up to me on the sofa during a Clint Eastwood western, it was hard to keep my hands and my thoughts to myself.

She’d plunked down on the far end of the sofa with a container of Greek yogurt, tucking her pajama-clad legs up to her chest. She made cotton-knit Hello Kitty print sexy, and trust me, that’s no easy feat.

I don’t know what it is about that cartoon cat that women love so much; the staring, mouthless kitty face kinda freaks me out.

But whatever.

I still wanted to jump her.

And I wanted to tell her that the object of her college crush would be in-studio the next morning, his only purpose to play her an acoustic serenade with songs I picked out myself. But it was supposed to be a surprise… the grand gesture-thingy that would change her mind and have her falling helplessly (and lustfully) into my arms while she declared that the job in Phoenix could go to hell because she was staying by my side.

And until she does that, I have to repeat my no-touchy vow like a mantra. Last night it took forever until my fingers uncurled and relaxed. I was so damn tempted to slide my hand up over the soft knit of her pajamas and let it travel to the Promised Land.

Even if that trail to paradise was covered in mutant kitty-heads with pink bows.

My poor TV remote has finger-dents now.



At five minutes ‘til zero hour, Carmen poked her head into the studio and told Jen that the boss wanted to see her in his office, pronto.

Shit fuck damn.

The Slanker Knox guys’ arrival was geared to be a shocker. I couldn’t wait for the look on Jensen’s face when they breezed through the broadcast booth door.

Instead, chatty Carmen would surely be alerting my co-host as soon as humanly possible—as well as telling everyone else in the building. Probably by pounding on doors and screaming.

And since BK didn’t intimidate the receptionist in the least, his oak door would not be immune.

I guess the impact setting of my Act of Desperation-atron would have to be downgraded from stun to amaze, but there was nothing I could do about that. She’d still be astonished and happy, and that was the point.

Well, one of them, anyway.

My palms started to sweat as the minutes ticked by. At ten after nine, just as I was beginning to worry that something came up and they weren’t going to make it, JT and Paul strolled through the studio door with acoustic guitars strapped to their backs.

JT popped a brow. “Where’s the beautiful runaway?”

I rolled my eyes. “The boss called her away fifteen minutes ago. I have no clue why. He generally doesn’t keep anyone in there too long, though, so she should be back any minute.”

“Gives us time to grab stools and set up then, yeah? We’ll just gobsmack her when she returns, instead,” said Paul as he glanced around and didn’t see any extra seatage.

“I’ll snag you some chairs,” I said as I took a quick look at the currently playing song’s remaining minute-and-a-half. “I couldn’t exactly have them in here ahead of time.”

I didn’t mention the guys’ presence on-air during a break in the tunes, since the intended recipient of the surprise still wasn’t in the broadcast booth. A few people dropped by to stare through the open studio door—I was amazed that there weren’t more, knowing how the folks around here will use any excuse to stop working—so I kicked the wedge that held the door open and let it drift closed right in their faces.

This was a very private favor that would just happen to be broadcast at a hundred-thousand watts across the Las Vegas valley. I didn’t need the added distraction of the local peanut gallery out there in the hall. I was already nervous as fuck.

We drank a pot of coffee and they did their best to entertain me with touring stories while the songs and commercials played on, waiting for the lady of the hour to arrive.



“I hate to break it to you, but we’re running out of time,” JT said.

He was right; it was twenty minutes ‘til ten. “I wish I knew what the hell was keeping her. And we’re overdue for her traffic update.”

Paul fiddled with the tuning keys on his guitar, and, growing restless, JT snatched up the stacked papers on Jen’s side of the counter and flipped through them. “Can I do the traffic report? I’ve always wondered how I’d do as a news reader.”

“Knock yourself out.”

“First, you have to learn how to read,” Paul interjected.