Page 4

Thomas

All right, so maybe I’m not as hated as I thought.

At least, not by the women at this party. The two currently hanging off me don’t seem to mind me. In fact, they seem to like me very much.

“You’re such a gentleman,” the one on my left gushes, staring up at me with hearts in her eyes.

After saving her from taking a tumble in the middle of the casino, I’ve become her—and her friend’s—knight in shining armor. I think her name is Rachel…or maybe this one’s Sydney. I wasn’t paying much attention as they introduced themselves, too busy bracing for another possible assault as we made our way through the casino floor and toward the lifts. Getting off the party bus and walking through throngs of people was stressful enough, but so far everything has been fine.

“Genuinely the sweetest,” the one to my right coos, pressing closer as we and ten others cram into the metal box. “I bet everyone you meet immediately loves you.”

If only they knew.

“I’m a fan favorite,” I lie, basking in their smiles and breathy laughs.

They’re both pretty and around my age, if not a little older, but that’s never bothered me before, and I’ll entertain their advances for as long as they’re interested. Other than that, though, I’m not looking for anything to happen.

It’s not that I don’t want it to, but my reputation is so bruised that I can’t risk another misstep. I have to keep myself out of trouble. And no offense to these women, but I’m getting the distinct vibe that any escapade with them—either one alone or both together—would end up as tabloid fodder tomorrow.

“Ladies first,” I say when the doors reopen.

I get more batted lashes and giggles before they step out behind the rest of the crowd, joining the group that’s just gotten off the other lift. We’ve been dumped in what I assume is the high rollers’ room, and I swear I’ve seen the same one in a James Bond movie. There are poker, blackjack, and craps tables dotted around the expansive black-carpeted, mood-lit space. A sleek mirrored bar lines one wall, with intimate booth seating placed opposite it. And I’m sure the wall of glass on the far side of the room overlooks the Strip, but the space is so vast that all I can see out the darkened windows is the glow of the fake Eiffel Tower and top floors of the hotels across the boulevard.

I’m barely in the room before a waitress approaches with a tray of champagne and a gentle guiding hand, leading me to the section of the room where the other men are gathering. It’s a little disappointing to be separated from my two-woman hype squad, but it’s probably for the best.

“Gather round, lads,” Ron calls over the music, which is slightly less headache-inducing than whatever techno monstrosity was playing on the bus. “I want to make a toast before tonight’s debauchery begins.”

Not sure how much debauchery can happen with his bride-to-be on the other side of the room, but all right.

“To my countrymen,” Ron begins, lifting his champagne glass as his eyes dart around to the handful of us also from the UK. “Thank you for making the trek halfway across the world to be here tonight. And to the rest of you, I’m glad to see your ugly mugs here too. It means the world that you’re here celebrating my last night as an unmarried man. Who would’ve thought I’d settle down?”

Certainly not me. When he was a Premier League footballer, Ron was known for having a different woman on his arm every week. Guess that all changed when he retired last year and met the love of his life. I really am happy for him, but I won’t be surprised if his bride gets her heart broken down the line.

It’s a cynical take. And maybe they have a chance of making it now that he’s stepped out of the limelight. But from what I’ve seen before and know of my fellow athletes, being faithful is not their strong suit.

Not me, though. Can’t cheat if you’ve never been in a relationship.

“To Ron and Janelle!” a man standing next to me cheers.

I missed the last bit of Ron’s toast, but I lift my glass and join the chorus celebrating his impending nuptials. Then it’s off to the races.

More specifically, Ron tells us to have the night of our fucking lives and to enjoy the next hour of gambling before we move on to dinner. I’ve never been much for card games or losing money, so this is wasted on me, but there’s no use wallowing in a place like this. I’m safe from prying eyes and cameras, and no one here seems to care about who I am. There are more than enough other stars here, and in the ranking of sports popularity, I’m pretty sure footballers beat F1 drivers—even if the city is about to revolve around us.

Finishing my champagne, I set the empty glass down on a passing waitress’s tray and turn for the bar, ready for something stronger. I don’t typically drink during the season, except for the celebrations after a placing on the podium, but I’m making an exception this weekend. I deserve it.

Janelle must have finished her own toast before Ron, because the women have dispersed around the room. I smile my way past a group huddled around a tray of shots and stop short when another bunch rushes past to get to the closest blackjack table. Once it’s safe, I continue on, but I slow when I spot a woman on her own—the same one I glimpsed on the bus.

Most of them are paired off or in groups, but she’s removed from the bedlam, lingering at the far end of the bar. She sits with her back to it, one elbow resting on the marble top, leaning back enough to put the slender line of her body on display. Her long, rich brown legs are crossed at the knee, one stiletto hooked over the bottom rung of the stool while the other slowly bounces to the beat of the song playing. Each time, the feathered hem of her little white dress inches higher.

She’s holding a champagne flute loosely against her stomach, posture relaxed, but the look in her eyes tells a different story.

There’s no other way to put it: she’s prowling.

I keep still when her attention lands on me. She gives me a quick up-and-down glance at first, nothing more than an assessing flick, but it lingers when she reaches my face again. Our gazes meet and hold, and a tense beat passes before her full lips curl into a smile. It beckons me like she’s spoken, commanding me to come her way.

And who am I to tell a lady no?

Sidling up to the empty section of bar next to her, I focus on getting the bartender’s attention, ordering a bourbon old-fashioned before turning to her. She’s even prettier up close, easily the most attractive woman here—sorry to the bride—with flawless skin, wide brown eyes, and a devastating mouth that I’d happily let ruin me.

“Would you like something other than champagne?” I ask. It’s not a great opening line, but I’m not trying to pick her up. I’m here to talk to a beautiful woman for as long as she’ll let me.

Her gaze cuts in my direction, and I get another quick once-over before she nods. “I’ll have the same. But rye, not bourbon.”

I relay her order to the bartender, then slide onto the neighboring barstool, watching her from the corner of my eye. She’s still facing the rest of the room, continuing the hunt, but I’ll consider it my own personal challenge to get her to focus on me.

“So,” I prompt. “How do you know the bride?”

A beat passes before her eyes drag back in my direction. I don’t have her full attention, probably not even half of it, but it’s a start.

“Janelle’s my cousin,” she answers. She could leave it there and force me to keep the conversation going, but blessedly she asks, “How do you know the groom?”

“He’s the son of an old family friend,” I answer, leaving out the part about him being my brother’s friend. “We’re not particularly close.”

Judging by the way her head turns another inch, that’s piqued her interest. She senses there’s a story behind it all. That there might be something a little interesting about me. “And yet you’re here anyway.”

Unfortunately.

“Have to represent the family,” I reply with an easy shrug. “Plus, I have to be here for work next week, so it fit into my schedule.”

She turns a fraction more, shoulders shifting this time. She’s not all the way on the hook, but she’s considering it. “Do you travel a lot for your job?”

“You could say that.”

She waits for me to elaborate, her stare unwavering when I give her nothing else. “You wanna share with the class what it is that you do?”

“You don’t know who I am?” I ask before I can stop myself. But it’s a genuine question, not one meant to make me sound like a prick, even though her coolly lifted brow indicates that’s how she’s taking it.

“Am I supposed to?” she tosses back.

Something loosens in my chest at the lack of recognition on her face. She’s not pretending—she has no idea who I am. Nice as it is not having to explain who I am and what I do, it’s even nicer to encounter someone with zero knowledge of me. Right now, I’m just some bloke at an over-the-top prewedding party chatting her up.

“Have you looked at a single billboard around here recently?”

Something flares in her eyes before she gives a dramatic gasp, champagne glass clutched mock-demurely to her chest. But even though she’s clearly about to make fun of me, I’ve got the outcome I wanted—her attention’s all mine.

“Oh my God,” she says breathlessly, knee bumping mine as she straightens and turns in her seat. “Are you a dancer with Thunder from Down Under? I love you guys.” She leans in conspiratorially before asking in a loud whisper, “Can I see your abs?”

I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. From her polished looks and self-assured body language, I had a feeling she’d be sharp underneath it all, but her humor has me thrown. “Sadly, I’m English, not Australian.” I’d happily take my shirt off for her, though.

She heaves a disappointed sigh. “That’s a shame. I was looking forward to a private show. You probably have a lot going on under that tux.”

She may be taking the piss, but she’s bold. Her dark eyes still haven’t left mine, a challenge shining in their depths, but again, for just a moment, there’s something else in them.

“Wait,” she says before I can tease her back. “Are you part of the reason why the roads are such a mess around here?”

I flash a wry grin. Half of this city is about to be shut down to accommodate the race, and she’s not wrong about it already being a mess. “Guilty as charged.”

Her Mona Lisa–esque smile comes alive in a new way. “So you’re a race car driver ,” she says slowly, putting the pieces together, and I swear she presses her knee a little harder against mine. “I don’t think I’ve ever met one of those.”

I’m in possession of her full attention now, and it’s…potent. Pinning me down. Like I couldn’t tear myself away from her even if I wanted to. I’ve made myself into the perfect prey to sink her teeth into, and now she’s ready to toy with her food.

“Happy to be your first,” I say.

“Mm, I’m sure you are.” Finally, she sticks a hand out for me to shake, having made up her mind that I’m worthy of her time. “I’m Stella.”

I wrap my fingers around hers, the warmth of her soft palm seeping into mine. “Thomas. Pleasure to meet you.”

We drop hands when the bartender sets our drinks down, eye contact breaking. When it does, the rest of the room comes rushing back. I don’t remember it fading away, slowly blurring around the edges, but I have to blink to make sense of it again.

“So, Thomas,” she says, and the way my name snaps off her tongue with the sharp consonants of her American accent is surprisingly sexy. “Are you winning the championship so far?”

That really goes to show she’s unaware of me, because I’m so far away from winning the Drivers’ Championship it’s comical. Seventh in the points isn’t bad by any means, but it sure isn’t first.

It would be impossible to quickly explain the ins and outs of this season so far, so I answer with, “No, but I did make it onto the podium in the last race.”

“Ah,” she murmurs sagely. “So you’re a loser.”

She’s prodded at a sore spot, but I keep the well-practiced smile on my face. “Some might call me that.”

“You don’t seem like a loser to me.” She eyes me carefully again before necking the rest of her champagne. She sets the empty flute down a little too hard, then curls her fingers around the new rocks glass. “If anyone’s a loser here, it’s me.”

It’s an odd slip in the confidence she’s been radiating, and she flinches when she realizes what she’s said. “God, sorry.” She exhales a wavering laugh. “I’m just a little bitter. Don’t mind me.”

I can feel her struggling to regain her previous bearing even as she shakes out her hair and pushes her shoulders back. Part of me is almost tempted to walk away—I don’t need to get sucked into someone else’s pity party—but the fact that she’s fighting to break free of it keeps me in my seat. And all right, I’ll admit it…I’m curious what could rattle a woman like this.

I wait until she’s taken a long swig of her drink before asking, “Any particular reason for the bitterness?”

She swallows, and to her credit, she doesn’t wince at the burn of liquor. “You don’t read the gossip rags?” she drawls, side-eyeing me. “Check DeuxMoi every morning with your cup of Earl Grey?”

“You’re famous enough for that?” I gently lob back with a crooked smile, though it’s interesting that I’m talking to someone who’s well-known enough to make it into the gossip pages.

Thankfully, it gets her to laugh, and some of the tension in her posture seeps away again. “Way to keep my ego in check.”

“To be fair, you didn’t know who I was either.”

“Touché. Well, if you really want to know my deep, dark story…I got left at the altar two weeks ago.”

It takes a beat before her words hit me, but my jaw quickly goes slack. Someone left this woman on their wedding day? Seems unbelievable having only known her for five minutes, though maybe underneath the good looks and intense charm is a monster. Still, I thought that kind of thing only happened in movies. “You’re joking.”

“Sadly, no.” She flashes a tight smile. “Five years of my life, down the drain in the span of a few seconds.”

“My God,” I exhale, gut-punched on her behalf. Even if she’s some sort of demon, I couldn’t imagine waiting so long to break up with someone that you left it until you were about to say your vows. I may not have any relationship experience, but at least I know better than to do that . “That’s devastating.”

“Yes, thank you for the reminder,” she says with fake cheer.

I shrug, nonchalant, even though there’s a chance I’ve already made her regret her choice to talk to me. But I’m not going to hold back or lie. “I’d say sorry, but it seems you’ve dodged a bullet.”

She freezes, glass once again halfway to her lips. “How so?”

It’s a good sign she’s still willing to entertain me, and I mean it when I say, “Any man who’d leave on your biggest day is a cunt you wouldn’t want to be tied to for the rest of your life.”

Her eyes go wide, a beat passing where I wonder if she’ll tell me to fuck off…but then she laughs. The sound is a rumble in the air. It’s full-throated and genuine, nothing melodic about it. Nothing sweet or put on. And I like it far more than I should.

“Breaking out the C-word . I barely know you, mister.”

“It seemed fitting.”

“You’re absolutely right about that,” she agrees, lifting her glass a little higher. “How about we toast to it?”

I wrap my hand around my drink and bring it up to hers, gently tapping the rims against each other as I catch her gaze. “To cunts,” I announce grandly. “May they stay out of our lives.”

She takes a sip of her drink, her tongue swiping across her vermilion-painted bottom lip as she lowers the glass again. The action has my eyes flicking to her mouth, and if her spreading smile is anything to go by, she’s noticed.

“You know,” she says as she sets her glass down. “I hoped you’d be a little more vulgar with it.”

“Yeah?” I prompt as I move to drink more. I need to catch up with her. I also need a distraction from the sinfulness of her lips. “What did you want me to say?”

“Oh, maybe something more along the lines of The only cunt I’m interested in is the one between your legs .”

I nearly choke on the whiskey. Coughing, I pound a fist to my chest to clear away the errant liquor. “ Christ , woman.”

I could tell she was bold, but this is a level I didn’t expect. It’s not unpleasant or unwelcome—not in the slightest. It’s compelling and downright entertaining. I like women with no filters, the ones who speak their minds and go after what they want. Demureness is boring.

And besides, she wasn’t wrong to hope I’d say something a little more indecent. Under different circumstances, I’d be more than happy to give her exactly what she wanted.

She twirls a lock of hair around her finger, the picture of innocence, but warm amusement rolls off her. She’s playing with me. There’s something else with it, though, something a little hotter, and it’s starting to burn in me as well.

“Was that too much?” she asks coyly.

I already swore I was going to keep myself out of trouble tonight, to be content to just sit here and chat. That was supposed to be enough. But Stella’s mouth—in more ways than one—is about to have me going back on my word.

“No,” I say, almost surprised that it comes out as more than a rasp. “Just enough.”