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“What was your plan?”
“You’re going to laugh.”
“Probably,” I agree. “I’m in areallygood mood right now.”
“Do you want your dinner?”
I shake my head. “Don’t try to distract me. I want to hear the plan.”
Collins flushes. “You’d have to sit down for it.”
I arch an eyebrow, even more intrigued.
“Since all the strip clubs in Vegas were closed … I was going to give you a lap dance.” Her gaze drops deliberately. “Let me know when you’ve recovered.”
I grin. My slacks are still unzipped. She can see I’m still hard. Getting harder by the second, since she’s naked and suggesting she ruball over me.
Guess I need to remind Collins she came four times the last night we hooked up.
So, I scoop her up and carry her down the hall toourbedroom.
40
Plink. Plink. Plop.
I make a face as I hit the notes in rapid succession. I haven’t set up my keyboard, despite there being plenty of space in the penthouse. Playing it seems silly whenthisis available. But the Steinway that sits in the corner of Kit’s living room, overlooking Central Park, deserves much better than this lackluster performance.
I haven’t played piano—justplayed, not to practice for a performance or to get paid—in a long, long time. So far, it’s going terribly.
I rest my elbows onthe music stand and groan.
“You’re improving.”
I groan again, then turn to face Kit.
He’s leaning one shoulder against the doorway that connects the living room to the front hall. And he’s wearing a tuxedo.
Panic spikes in my chest as soon as that detail registers.
I push the bench back and stand, scowling at him. “Is this a joke?”
“What?” he asks innocently.
“You’re not actually wearingthattonight, are you?”
He glances down, then nods. “I was planning on it, yeah. This is my favorite tux.”
“Kit!” I exclaim, exasperated. “I’ve been asking you all day—allweek—what we were doing tonight. Precisely so I could figure out what to wear, and you …”
He twirls the tie he just pulled out of his pocket around like a lasso. “Maybe Ishould’vebeen a cowboy instead of Indiana Jones,” he muses.
“I’m not wearing these”—I gesture to my striped pajamas—“on our date if you’re wearing a tux. I don’t care if you blindfold me so I can’t see.I’llstill know what I’m wearing.”
He chuckles as he walks closer. “That’s not what the blindfold is for, Monty.”
“Then what’s it for?”
“You’ll see,” he says, spinning me around, then knotting the tie behind my head.