Page 22 of A Vegas Crush Collection #2

read to me

Talia

“Have you read any of those?” I ask when I realize Boris is touching my most prized possessions on this earth.

Other than LuLu, of course. But LuLu is not really a possession.

She’s my beloved fur-child, rescued from a dirty alley in San Francisco when I stepped back there to empty the office trash into the bin.

This filthy little ball of fluff came flying out from behind the bin when the trash lid banged closed and scared her.

Obviously starving, she came right up to me when I returned a few minutes later with a can of cat food purchased from the market around the corner.

Thank goodness for pop-top lids. I opened the can, set it down at my feet, and fell into instalove with the little street urchin while watching her devour her first real food in lord knows how long.

I fed her for three days before I caved and brought her home with me.

I gave her a bath in my kitchen sink the first night.

I discovered her fur was pure white once all the filth was washed away, and that she was a female.

Poor baby was very underweight from living on the streets, but otherwise healthy.

The vet told me it was a miracle she wasn’t pregnant when I found her.

He estimated her age to be less than a year old, around six to nine months or so.

The two of us never looked back. LuLu was my cat and I was her mother from that day forward.

And she is also currently hiding from the very handsome Russian in her home.

It would normally bother me what Boris is doing right now. I don’t like people touching my books. Like seriously, that’s a thing with me. Still, he’s looking at them with something akin to awe, so it softens my inclination to be protective of my prized collection of tomes.

“What do you think?” I don’t miss the heavy sarcasm in his tone.

Right. His dyslexia must make it hard to get through a novel. I mean, heck, he can’t get through a contract or an electric bill. It makes me sad for him, though I try not to let it show in my face. I wouldn’t want people pitying me if I were in his position.

“I don’t know what I’d do without books in my life,” I reply from the kitchen where I’m busy filling a cup with ice and filtered water for him and putting the kettle on for my tea.

When I return to the main space and hand Boris his glass, he’s totally focused on me, studying me intently as he thanks me for the water.

“You look sad,” he says softly.

“I do? I’m sorry.” No use denying it. He’s caught me fair and square.

“Please don’t be sad for me. I have dyslexia, but otherwise my life is pretty sweet.” He gifts me with one of his perfected half-smiles; just a small quirk of his pretty lips that contain the power to melt me into a puddle of goo instantaneously.

“I know that,” I blurt out, hoping to smooth over my gaffe.

“God, I do know. You’re an Olympic athlete, for crying out loud.

You’re an eight-figure superstar playing at the very top ranks of the NHL.

I’d say that’s more than sweet, Boris. It’s pretty freaking rare and amazing.

Still, I just really love to read. I love immersing myself into other worlds.

It brings me peace, you know? My mind just goes and goes most of the time, and reading helps me control all the random and crazy flitting through my head on any given day.

I can’t imagine not having it in my life. ”

Boris sips his water and continues his examination of my very-crowded bookshelves. I take the moment to surreptitiously admire his backside, then give myself a mental smack-down for it. You can’t do this with him, fool! You shouldn’t have been dry-humping him at the club either, but here we are...

“There are so many here,” he comments in his light accent. It’s probably a mixture of Czech and Russian with some American thrown in. I can tell he’s lived a lot of places and been around a lot of different people.

“Well, I read a lot.” I feel kind of embarrassed explaining my life but somehow it doesn’t bother me explaining to Boris. “I’m a bit of an introvert. I’d rather hang with fictional people than real people most of the time.”

“Oh,” he says, straightening to his full height and turning toward me. “I can go if you—“

“No!” I put up my hands, then laugh at the way I just yelled at him. I swear I have no social skills. “I didn’t mean it like that. Not that you should go or whatever. I just—“

“It’s okay, Talia. I get it. I like my alone time, too. I’m not much for partying like the place we were at tonight. I just went along with a few of the guys since they invited me to join them, and because we’re still building our team cohesion. Remember I told you about it?”

“I remember.” I nod in agreement before blurting, “You should know I don’t go out clubbing either.

My best friend Parker came in from San Francisco and she made me go.

She put me in these clothes.” I flop my hands helplessly to indicate the super sexy outfit she forced me to wear.

“I would have chosen something a lot less…slutty.”

“No. Not at all. You look lovely tonight, but I’m sure you would have looked just as stunning in anything else you chose to wear.”

I feel my cheeks flush with heat at his compliment. I’m not used to attention and compliments from men, and certainly not from men who look like him. He’s downright dangerous when he’s throwing out phrases like “you look lovely tonight” in my direction. Jesus.

Boris turns back to the books and asks, “Which one is your favorite?”

“Ha! That’s like asking which kid is someone’s favorite. There’s no way to choose just one. I have a long list of favorites. I love classics and fantasy and young adult and romance and contemporary and poetry—“

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Boris says, cutting me off with a laugh. He grabs a random book from the shelf and hands it over. “Read to me?”

Is he for real? He wants me to read to him right now.

I’m about to protest or make a dumb joke or something when the tea kettle screams. This gives me a minute to process his request. I turn off the burner, remove the outer wrapper from my teabag, and put everything into a mug, spending too much time fussing with the sugar and the milk probably.

But the whole time, I’m going over this strange request in my head.

Yes, Boris is my client. Furthermore, it would be kind of strange to do story time with a client.

Wouldn’t it? But then if I’m being totally honest, there is something brewing between us, or we’d never have done all that sexy grinding together on the dance floor.

We wouldn’t be here together right now. And I wouldn’t know what the touch of his hands on my skin would feel like either.

And then there’s the part where I feel bad for him.

He doesn’t know the magic of books because his disability has kept him from experiencing it.

That, more than anything, makes me comfortable with this whole deal.

I can read him part of a book, even a whole book, because it might be a life changing realization for him to discover the awesomeness of the literary world.

Finally, I take a deep breath and turn, my steaming cup of tea in hand. But Boris is right there. And I’m me so…my hot cup of tea spills. This time not on me, but on Boris’s nice white shirt.

He yelps—because, you know, it’s freaking hot—and immediately pulls his shirt up over his head.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” I yell, dashing for the kitchen, grabbing a dishcloth and running it under cool water.

Racing back over, I reach out and dab the cool cloth onto his chest and abs where the hot tea made contact.

It takes a second or two for me to realize I’m touching the bare skin of his well-defined chest and abs.

I back away, the cloth still in my hand, my hand still halfway between him and me, and apologize again, feeling helpless. “Shit. I’m such a klutz. I am so damn sorry for hurting you.”

Boris takes the hand with the cloth in it and catches my gaze.

I look away, licking my lips. But looking away from the intensity in his eyes means taking in the rest of him.

Powerful shoulders, washboard abs, bulging biceps.

There’s a patch of dark hair on his chest, a thin happy trail that leads down underneath his jeans.

And that big, beautiful dragon tattoo snaking up one arm.

He looks sexy and fit, with just the right amount of naughty and nice.

Christ. I might pass out. This guy is…he can’t be real.

“It’s okay,” he says quietly. “Accidents happen and I shouldn’t have startled you like that.”

I gulp, giving him a weak nod in response. He lets go my hand and returns the dishcloth to me.

“Well, now I have to read you that book, I suppose.” I make a half-hearted attempt at a joke.

“Thank you.” That’s all he says before we wander over to the chaise. I sit in my favorite spot, my feet curled under me as I pull my favorite chenille blanket up over my lap. This is a cue for LuLu, who’s been hiding who-knows-where, to jump up on my lap with a loud greeting.

“Hello, my sweet girl.” I focus all my attention on petting her fluffy, white fur. She purrs and rubs on me, happy to have me at home.

“Who is this?” Boris asks.

“This is LuLu, my spoiled fur-child.”

He reaches over to offer his hand for her to sniff. “Hello LuLu. You are as beautiful as your mother.”

Captivated yet again by another one of his compliments, I feel myself blushing. “You’re quite good for our ego, sir. Maybe we’ll invite you over more often.”

“I only speak the truth, Talia,” he says with a serious look on his handsome face.

My God, how can he look at me like that?

I glance down at the book. Iain Cooper’s, Leaving Area 51. It’s a sci-fi with a strong female lead and a heavy dose of romance. It was good. Not one of my top ten, but I can see a dude liking it.