I picked up my right foot and examined the damage done by my stilettos. Stilettos that were uglier by the minute, trotting their pretty selves straight into my trashcan at their current rate of travel. Too bad I didn’t pack many other options. Fancy shoes took up a very small corner of my closet. Sensible black grandma heels dominated the rest of said closet floor. Paired with my tan nylons, they helped to complete the too-sexy-for-a-date vibe that I rocked ninety percent of the year. Maybe I couldn’t pull off the cute strappy heels, sexpot in a minidress look. Maybe that ability set sail at age thirty. Maybe, at thirty-two, I should invest in some ballet flats and sundresses. I saw a lot of the minivan moms with that look. And they looked comfortable. They certainly didn’t have the fire engine red feet that were currently screaming a slow death beneath my fingertips. I gingerly pushed on the bubble on my back heel. Uck. I could almost hear liquid squishing in it.
White fuzziness. It was thrust in my line of vision, interrupting my new fascination with the chipped polish on my big toe. I focused on the white, fluffy soft slippers coming into view. Thick ones, where you’d sink an inch into a pillow top bed of comfort, a brand I’d never heard of embroidered along the top. I looked from the shoes, up a tan arm, my eyes tripping and already drooling over clean nails, a strong hand, a Rolex ten times more authentic than mine, a muscular forearm, rolled sleeves, a jaw I’d nibble to death, and a face that competed with easy superiority against any celebrity I had previously strummed myself off to in recent memory.
He smiled, a rueful grin that may have just burst my heart. I worked my jaw, trying to formulate speech, glancing back and forth from the slippers to his face.
“Would you like these?” His voice. Sandpaper over the hull of a yacht. A combination of roughness and polish.
I swallowed. “The slippers?” Of course the slippers. What else would he be talking about?
A surprised look crossed his face. “You’re Southern. From ... Alabama?”
“Florida. Just south of the Georgia border.” I winced. I couldn’t hide the drawl; it dragged through my words with such ownership, as if the Southern notes were fused through every syllable.
He nodded slowly, still holding out the slippers. His other hand moved, reaching across. “I’m Brett.”
I should stand. It would be the polite thing to do. Stand and shake his hand. But I didn’t. I didn’t think my feet could handle it. I just reached out, shook his hand with a firm grip, like my daddy taught me, and met his eyes. “Riley.”
I didn’t know what about that exchange he found funny, but his mouth widened, and I got another devastating look at his teeth. God, I’d love for him to nibble my skin. Tease my neck, take the other, more sensitive parts of my body and wreak havoc on them. I shivered at the thought and pulled my eyes from his. Took the slippers from his hands. “You carry around slippers?”
“I saw your hobble across the casino. It caught my eye. I wandered out, wanted to make sure a man didn’t take advantage of your ill state.”
“By what? Swooping to my rescue with ridiculously comfortable slippers?”
If possible, his grin widened. “Yes. You should probably avoid me from this point forward.”
Having no intelligent response, I pretended to distract myself from the conversation, working the soft cotton over my injured feet and sighing with relief when they were on. “Where did you get these?”
He tilted his head to the right. “The store next door. They carry matching robes if you’d like to complete the look.”
I laughed. “No, I’m good.”
“I would have offered to carry you, but it didn’t seem appropriate. When I saw that you had sat down ... How far do you have to go?”
“My room.” I waved a hand dismissively in the direction of our room. “Coral Towers.”
He frowned. “A bit of a hike.”
“It was.” I wiggled my toes. “A lot better now. Please sit down.” I gestured to the seat next to me. Pulled open my purse and dug through the chips there, saw him, out of my peripheral, remain standing. Okay. I collected all of the green chips I could find. Six total. Sixty bucks’ worth. I closed my purse and held out the handful, watched Brett eye my closed fist. “Go on, open your hand,” I urged.
He did, wincing when I dropped the chips into his palm. He frowned, rolling them over in his palm and holding them back out to me.
“They’re for the slippers.” I clasped the top flap of my purse, ignoring the insistent press of his fist in my personal space. I batted off his hand. “Take it.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“I don’t want your charity. Please.”
“It’s not charity.” Stubbornness entered his voice, and I fought the urge to smile.
“It’s giving me something for nothing ... that’s charity.”
“I’ve had the pleasure of your company.”
I sniffed in a manner that would, most certainly, make my grandmother roll over in her grave. “For five minutes? Please.”
“Then let me accompany you the rest of the way to your room. Just to make sure you arrive safely.”
I sighed. A big dramatic one—one that gave no hint to the fact that I hadn’t got laid in almost two years, hadn’t been on a date in almost half that time, and had never looked into a face as gorgeous as this man’s. “Just to the door?”
His mouth twitched. “Just to the door. Then you will have properly compensated me for the slippers and will be forced to accept your hard-earned chips back.”
White fuzziness. It was thrust in my line of vision, interrupting my new fascination with the chipped polish on my big toe. I focused on the white, fluffy soft slippers coming into view. Thick ones, where you’d sink an inch into a pillow top bed of comfort, a brand I’d never heard of embroidered along the top. I looked from the shoes, up a tan arm, my eyes tripping and already drooling over clean nails, a strong hand, a Rolex ten times more authentic than mine, a muscular forearm, rolled sleeves, a jaw I’d nibble to death, and a face that competed with easy superiority against any celebrity I had previously strummed myself off to in recent memory.
He smiled, a rueful grin that may have just burst my heart. I worked my jaw, trying to formulate speech, glancing back and forth from the slippers to his face.
“Would you like these?” His voice. Sandpaper over the hull of a yacht. A combination of roughness and polish.
I swallowed. “The slippers?” Of course the slippers. What else would he be talking about?
A surprised look crossed his face. “You’re Southern. From ... Alabama?”
“Florida. Just south of the Georgia border.” I winced. I couldn’t hide the drawl; it dragged through my words with such ownership, as if the Southern notes were fused through every syllable.
He nodded slowly, still holding out the slippers. His other hand moved, reaching across. “I’m Brett.”
I should stand. It would be the polite thing to do. Stand and shake his hand. But I didn’t. I didn’t think my feet could handle it. I just reached out, shook his hand with a firm grip, like my daddy taught me, and met his eyes. “Riley.”
I didn’t know what about that exchange he found funny, but his mouth widened, and I got another devastating look at his teeth. God, I’d love for him to nibble my skin. Tease my neck, take the other, more sensitive parts of my body and wreak havoc on them. I shivered at the thought and pulled my eyes from his. Took the slippers from his hands. “You carry around slippers?”
“I saw your hobble across the casino. It caught my eye. I wandered out, wanted to make sure a man didn’t take advantage of your ill state.”
“By what? Swooping to my rescue with ridiculously comfortable slippers?”
If possible, his grin widened. “Yes. You should probably avoid me from this point forward.”
Having no intelligent response, I pretended to distract myself from the conversation, working the soft cotton over my injured feet and sighing with relief when they were on. “Where did you get these?”
He tilted his head to the right. “The store next door. They carry matching robes if you’d like to complete the look.”
I laughed. “No, I’m good.”
“I would have offered to carry you, but it didn’t seem appropriate. When I saw that you had sat down ... How far do you have to go?”
“My room.” I waved a hand dismissively in the direction of our room. “Coral Towers.”
He frowned. “A bit of a hike.”
“It was.” I wiggled my toes. “A lot better now. Please sit down.” I gestured to the seat next to me. Pulled open my purse and dug through the chips there, saw him, out of my peripheral, remain standing. Okay. I collected all of the green chips I could find. Six total. Sixty bucks’ worth. I closed my purse and held out the handful, watched Brett eye my closed fist. “Go on, open your hand,” I urged.
He did, wincing when I dropped the chips into his palm. He frowned, rolling them over in his palm and holding them back out to me.
“They’re for the slippers.” I clasped the top flap of my purse, ignoring the insistent press of his fist in my personal space. I batted off his hand. “Take it.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“I don’t want your charity. Please.”
“It’s not charity.” Stubbornness entered his voice, and I fought the urge to smile.
“It’s giving me something for nothing ... that’s charity.”
“I’ve had the pleasure of your company.”
I sniffed in a manner that would, most certainly, make my grandmother roll over in her grave. “For five minutes? Please.”
“Then let me accompany you the rest of the way to your room. Just to make sure you arrive safely.”
I sighed. A big dramatic one—one that gave no hint to the fact that I hadn’t got laid in almost two years, hadn’t been on a date in almost half that time, and had never looked into a face as gorgeous as this man’s. “Just to the door?”
His mouth twitched. “Just to the door. Then you will have properly compensated me for the slippers and will be forced to accept your hard-earned chips back.”
