Waking Up in Vegas(67)

Which, wonder of wonders, I actually was.

“Gotcha.” I glanced at my watch before I went on. “Do you think we could end the session early today? I’ve got to make some calls if I’m going to pull this off tonight.”



I knew the perfect place. Not that I’d ever been, because my kind of dates don’t require wining and dining and second mortgages to pay the dinner tab, but that didn’t mean I was an uninformed cretin.

Fortunately, the spot I had in mind was not attached to where my mother worked. But unfortunately, it just might take pulling some strings to get a reservation on such short notice.

I sat in the clinic’s parking lot with the air conditioning going full blast, wishing the few spots under the trees were vacant. The conversation I was about to embark on would be trying enough without blisters forming on every part of my skin that touched the interior.

With a sigh, I hit the tiny Wicked Witch of the West photo on my phone and put it to my ear.

And went straight to voicemail. Dammit. The one time I actually wanted to talk to the woman and she had her phone off.

“Hey, Mom. Can you call me back as soon as you get this? I really need your help.”





I ended up circling the block five times on the way home. My mother returned my call and, though she did her best to pry them out of me, I didn’t share many details. She finally quit trying and told me she’d call back when she had it all squared away.

I gotta hand it to her; not ninety seconds later, my phone chimed an incoming text. I stayed at a stop sign a little too long, garnering a honk from the impatient minivan behind me, to read the two words she’d sent.

It certainly wasn’t amazing that she got it set up so quickly—because that was just how she operated—but it sure was handy. When I told Jen I wanted to take her someplace special for dinner, she camped out in the bathroom and I didn’t see her for over an hour.

I was just beginning to get antsy, glancing at my watch every ten seconds while simultaneously keeping Angus from sneaking into my lap, when I heard her bedroom door open. The hushed sound of her feet on the carpet brought me to my feet, ready to take her in.

I wasn’t prepared when she came around the corner into the living room.

And I absolutely wasn’t worthy.

My mouth dried up and I struggled to breathe. I’m pretty sure my jaw was scraping the carpet.

She was staggering, and I don’t mean that in a way that would imply she could barely stand upright. Me, on the other hand…

She did a little twirl to reveal a flash of very low-cut back, the skirt on her electric blue dress flaring slightly before settling back down to just above her knees. Her right hand was mercilessly twisting a strand of hair by her cheek and she seemed to be studying the fiber pattern in the carpet.

Guess I wasn’t the only one feeling like all the air had been sucked out of the room.

“My God, Jen. I have no words to describe how exquisite you are.” I didn’t mean just her appearance, either. I actually glanced down at her feet to make sure she was real and found her sparkly silver high heels sinking into the heavily padded beige Berber.

Okay then.

My eyes traced slowly back up her curves, lingering just a split-second longer on the hint of cleavage in the modest u-shape of her neckline. Desperately fighting the urge to pull her to me and sketch a journey over her skin with my lips, I swallowed hard over non-existent saliva and took in the blush creeping up her cheeks.

“I hope I didn’t embarrass you.”

She said, “Not really.” But when her eyes met mine, I could see that I had.

“This just feels… weird,” she finished after a moment.

“Weird-bad, or weird-good?” I don’t remember stepping closer but I found myself near enough that if I leaned down just a little, my lips could be on hers.

I wanted that more than my next breath.

“Weird-weird. I mean, you see me in my bathrobe.”

“All the more reason to see you out of it.”

Her eyes flashed and a tiny smirk danced at the corners of her mouth.

I groaned. She was seriously trying to kill me.

“Ordinarily, I appreciate a dirty mind. But we have reservations.”

And did I ever; reservations about keeping my hands off her like I promised myself, reservations about changing her mind, and reservations about what I would do if she actually did stay. For now, I focused on the one penciled into the maître d’s calendar at Bellagio’s Picasso restaurant.



I am completely candy in her hands. Case in point:

In the glow of a nearly-full moon and about a million underwater spotlights, we were leaning on the wrought iron railing that outlined the wide walkway, watching the fountains dance to ‘Hey, Big Spender.’