We’re on the tarmac at McCarran International Airport before she says, “You never shared the second problem with the class.”
I smirk against her hair. “You’re loud. No way we do it all night and the pilots don’t hear you.”
She folds up her blanket. “I’m just incentivizing you. Or giving you positive feedback on your performance.”
“My boss is the best,” I say mock-solemnly.
As we taxi toward the private jet terminal, she sits up and grabs her purse. I watch as she puts herself back together, brushing her hair, applying a red slick of lipstick to her mouth. This is Business Hazel—calm, in control, certain of herself.
She winks at me as the pilots bring us to a smooth halt. “I have the best plans.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THERE’S A DRIVER and car waiting for us when we get off the plane in Las Vegas. Hazel hums something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like a Christmas carol even though the holiday is months away still. I realize my palm is curled protectively around her elbow just in case she trips or there’s a zombie attack, and I drop my hand. “Sorry.”
“Let’s try a compromise,” Hazel suggests.
I slant a glance down at her as we start toward the terminal. Neither Hazel nor I compromise well. One or both of us always insists on being in charge.
On being right.
“Hit me,” I say lightly, nudging her with my shoulder when she veers in the wrong direction. When I bring my fingers to my nose, I can smell Hazel. She wanted to show me some love but we ran out of time, so now I have an IOU that she scribbled on a twenty-dollar bill because neither of us had any paper.
“You’re a dirty boy, Mr. Reed.” Hazel leans into me, her arm brushing mine, and just that simple touch sets me on fire. “But let’s start with something that can be done in public.”
She reaches for my hand, her fingers tangling with mine, her thumb tracing a small, private circle on mine. I look down at where we’re now joined. It feels good.
It feels like we’re a couple.
“Is this okay?” she asks.
As if I could let her go now. I’ve missed this sense of being half of a whole, of feeling connected to another person. “Yes.”
She doesn’t let go until I’ve handed her into the waiting town car. Las Vegas is every bit as loud and colorful as I remember. It’s not a place I come often—I prefer the ocean—but Max, Dev and I used to drive over the mountains and through the desert to spend long, decadent weekends drunk off our asses to celebrate the end of another college quarter. Hazel’s quiet as we drive up the Strip. Walking might be faster thanks to the hordes of people crossing every corner and the never-ending streetlights, but the casinos are all lit up and Hazel seems happy to look out the window. I think about telling the driver to turn off and take the back way, but Hazel already has the window rolled down and is recording our slow crawl down the Strip for posterity.
When we reach the Bellagio, the fountains rocket up into the air. Enormous jets of water rise and fall, exploding across the surface of the lake in well-choreographed bursts. Tourists crowd against the wall that separates them from the lake, jockeying for the clearest point of view.
I booked a Bellagio pool villa. Typically the villas are available only to high rollers, but exceptions are always made for billionaires, and Hazel deserves nothing but the best for having my back. The living room of the villa is done in tasteful creams. Italianate villa but screams money. Two bedrooms, five bathrooms, a kitchen, dry sauna, massage room, fireplace, hot tub and our own private pool. The roar of the fountains almost but not quite drowns out the louder babel that is Vegas. While Hazel disappears, exploring, I tip the butler generously, willing him to disappear.
He doesn’t catch my subliminal message. “Can I do anything else for you, sir?”
Before I can send him on his way with a polite “no thanks,” Hazel bellows out her obscene admiration from another room for “the world’s biggest fucking tub.” I’m not sure if she’s referring to the tub’s proportions or to activities that could be performed within it, but it’s Vegas. Anything is possible.
“Perhaps our romance package?” The butler makes the suggestion discreetly, but I can feel him fighting back a smile. I nod, because what the hell. I’m sure Hazel would enjoy rose petals in her bath or something.
We don’t have much time before the rodeo starts, so I keep my plane IOU for later and we change and head out. I’m not going for the full-on Wranglers, boots and Stetson look, but jeans and boots seem like they would blend better than a suit. Hazel also gets into the spirit of things with a full skirt that stops just below her knees. She’s wearing bright red cowboy boots and a Western shirt that she’s tied up around her waist.
The rodeo is being held down the Strip, in the same venue where the resort usually hosts medieval jousts and dinner shows that serve enormous turkey drumsticks on platters so you can get your inner knight on. The cowboy hats are as outsize as their wearers, although nowhere near as large as the two-story posters of the top competitors lining the walls. This gives me an opportunity to check him out before confronting him face-to-face. Evan Wilson is not a bad-looking man. He’s not as tall as me, which makes him a medium-sized Viking and a big man. Close-cropped brown hair, bad-boy stubble, brown eyes and—fuck me—a dimple in his left cheek.
I nod toward the picture of my replacement. “Do you think he’s hot?”
Hazel’s eyebrows pull together as she gazes up at larger-than-life Evan. If it takes longer than three seconds for her to decide, the answer is yes, though there’s an unfamiliar,
