ME: Again? Covered.
I scoop up my snack pile and then text him a picture of my loot. It’s not a sexy look, but I’m nervous about taking the next step with him.
VIK: Looks small. The snack, not your tits ;) Perfect mouthful right there.
ME: Girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
VIK: Hear you.
We sign off, and I sigh with relief. I haven’t said or done anything too incriminating, like beg him to come over and express his appreciation for my boobs in person. Since the fountain show is scheduled to go off in five minutes, I camp out by the window. The Bellagio has the best furniture—I seriously want to load it all into my car when I check out and take it with me.
The fountains explode, and I hold up my phone, making a video. I’ll bet Vik could come up with a dozen different dirty innuendoes for all that water jetting upward. I’ll have to challenge him.
The knock on my door comes just as the fountains shoot their final load sky high. After checking through the peephole to make sure it’s not a serial killer (bad) or a wayward biker (bad but oh so good), I open the door and let the room service guy in.
“Got a special delivery for you, Ms. George,” he says before I can point out that I haven’t ordered anything tonight. “Compliments of a Mr. Vik.”
And then bless the man, he wheels in a trolley, whips off a half-dozen silver domes and reveals the entire dessert menu. It’s like a multiple choice test where you’re supposed to choose which plate of decadent goodness is your favorite, A, B, C, D, or E—all of the above. This is clearly a vote for E.
Guess I do get to have cake for breakfast after all.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Harper
THREE DAYS AFTER the dessert incident, I stagger back into the Bellagio clutching a foot-long sub in a bag. Work sucked the big one, and my evening plans consist of mainlining carbs and greasy sandwich meat until I burst. Pepperoni, salami, cheese and banana peppers—what’s not to love? Sure, tonight’s dinner packs 940 calories and forty-eight grams of fat, but those details are on my to-ignore list for tonight. It would take hours to burn them off on the elliptical machine in the gym downstairs, but I’ve already decided that they’re welcome to take up permanent residence on my hips.
I really need to invest in a place with an actual kitchen, but the last place I looked at was a complete nightmare. The zip code was great, offering a rental in one of those tall, sleek high-rise buildings full of chic condos. New Me liked the white and chrome—it made us feel sexy and sophisticated. Turned out I wasn’t the only one feeling the Fifty Shades of Grey vibes. From the moaning and thumping echoing through the small space, the neighbors to the left were going at it. The Realtor and I both started giggling so hard that I was afraid I’d interrupt the guy’s rhythm.
So now here I am, just me, my sandwich and I. A foot-long dick or margarita sounds like more fun, but I’ll have to make do with carbs. When I reach my room, however, the door is ajar on the latch. Since I don’t see the housekeeping cart, I ease the door open and peer inside, ready to jump back if there’s an assailant hiding in the bathroom.
Nope.
No bad guy—other than the six feet, three inches of biker sprawled on my bed. Vik grins lazily at me as I hover in the doorway.
“You’ve got four porn channels.”
“That cost twenty dollars each.”
I step inside and shut the door behind me. I’m not entirely certain what to do or say, but since Vik has made himself at home without an invitation, I figure he has some kind of plan.
“How did you get in? Just out of curiosity?”
He lays his finger beside his nose and winks. “Trade secret, babe. I brought you something. Guess.”
I’m sure it’s no surprise that I suck at games. “An exercise bike so I can work off some of the calories you had delivered the other night?”
His gaze slides down my body. “We need to be clear on one thing. I don’t have to hold back, do I?”
I roll my eyes. “As if you would.”
“True.” He nods. “So I’m just gonna say that you look amazing. Guess again.”
“Flowers.” I should be exasperated, but he’s so fucking cute. He bounces on the bed, his eyes gleaming with mischief. Whatever his present is, I doubt it’s as tame as a florist’s bouquet.
He rolls his eyes. “Only roses I do are ink.”
He leans over the side of the bed and lifts something up. “Voilà!”
He’s brought me a cat carrier. No, better. He’s brought me my cat carrier and that means—
“You stole my cat!” I’m pretty sure I shriek the words, but Bing’s already meeping his own hellos and demanding that some human spring him from the carrier now. Bing has zero patience and isn’t a fan of waiting. If he ever had to live in the wild, he’d starve within a week because he’s not the kind of cat that could lay low, stalking its prey for hours on end. Like me, Bing prefers his food hot, tasty and delivered.
“Technicalities. I sprang your cat. Set him free. Reunited him with the one love of his life because I’m such a fucking romantic.” Vik flops back on the bed dramatically, arms splayed out on either side of him. Whatever point he’s trying to make is lost on me because his T-shirt rides up, exposing a chiseled stomach that demands licking.
I err on the side of caution and fly around the side of the bed to spring Bing from prison. Bing’s all over me, too, like we’ve been parted for months and months. He rubs and purrs, and I try to pretend I’m just
