I tell her I have laundry to do, which is not a lie. I've got sheets to wash before I can start cutting them up.
"You're not getting fired, relax."
This tidbit of wisdom comes from Payton. I've been home for a couple of hours, washing and drying sheets. Payton returned from the pool to find me ironing them and just about lost her shit. She attempted to institute a roommate rule banning the ironing of sheets on a Friday night. Or on any day that ends in -day. I explained that I needed to iron the sheets as the story of my terrible, awful, very bad day tumbled out of me.
"I'm so getting fired. I work in human resources and I propositioned the general manager." My cheeks still get hot when I say it out loud. Or think about it.
"You likely made his day." Payton has showered and changed into yoga pants and a tank. Her blonde hair is still wet as she sits on a barstool at our kitchen island and watches me work. I've taken over our dining table with my cutting mat and sewing supplies, neatly lined up beside me as I work. I don't look up as I slide the rotary cutter across a layer of fabric, making a perfect cut on what is soon to become a pair of pajama shorts.
"Made his day? I don't think sexually harassing him made his day." I remove the pattern from the material and stick the pins into my pincushion, ensuring none of them go rogue and end up on the floor.
"Simmer down. You did not sexually harass him. Also, I still don't understand what is happening here," she says, waving a hand at the table. "You're turning old sheets into pajamas?"
"Yes. You want a pair?"
"Err, not really." Her eyebrows come together and her expression is all doubt.
"You will when I'm done," I assure her.
"If you say so. Now let's get back to Rhys."
"There's nothing to get back to. I've told you everything and I'm getting fired on Monday. I should be packing, not making pajamas."
"First of all, you're not getting fired. Second of all, you're not moving even if you get fired."
"You just said I wasn't getting fired!" I screech.
"You're not. But I know you like to think about the worst-case scenario, so let's do that."
That's true. I do enjoy thinking about all possible options. "Okay," I agree, sinking into a kitchen chair. I fiddle with the pincushion to keep my hands busy and wait for Payton to start.
"Okay, so let's say you walk in on Monday and you get fired." She gets up as she talks and walks to our pantry, returning with a box of Cheez-Its.
"Yeah." I nod. I've already visualized at least four different ways it could happen.
"So you'll walk back to your car, drive home and cry. I'll pick up pizza after work and we'll cry some more. Then on Tuesday you'll get a new job." She pops a Cheez-It into her mouth and shrugs one shoulder as if this solves everything.
"Payton." I groan and roll my eyes. "It doesn't work like that."
"It works exactly like that. We're in Las Vegas. There are jobs everywhere," she says, flipping open the lid of her laptop. "There are three hundred and thirty-four job listings on this job site using the keyword 'human resources.' Let's assume that two hundred of them are relevant, and assume you're qualified for fifty of them. That's fifty jobs you could apply for tonight!"
Well. I shrug. "It doesn't mean I'd get any of them."
"No, it doesn't," Payton agrees, snapping her laptop shut. "But you could waitress. You're a hot twenty-two-year-old with a great body, you'd kill it in tips. You'd probably make double what they're paying you at the Windsor."
"You think so?"
"I just talked to some girl at the pool. She said she quit her job teaching because she makes twice as much as a cocktail waitress at the Wynn."
"Shut up."
"It's true."
"Are you sure she wasn't a hooker?"
"She wasn't a hooker. But that's always a backup option for you." Payton says this with complete sincerity and it makes me burst into giggles. "Are you okay now? I can't go to bed until I know you're not going to stay up all night making sheet pajamas."
"I'm still mortified, Payton." I groan and drop my head into my hands, my hair falling in a curtain around my spread fingers. "I just stood there babbling about how good the kissing thing was and then I offered—I don't even know what I offered. I think I offered him carte blanche, because what does the word 'whatever' even include? It sort of implies anything and everything, doesn't it? I might have offered spanking and anal for all I know."
"Oh, you definitely offered spanking and anal."
"Argggh," I groan from behind my hands.
"You made his day, young grasshopper. Trust me on this. Besides, I saw the guy, you cannot be the only woman who's ever propositioned him. He's hot as fuck."
"So perhaps he's so used to women coming onto him that he won't even remember today?"
"Totally." She nods seriously and pops another Cheez-It.
"Doubtful, but I appreciate you lying to me in order to talk me off the ledge."
Six
RHYS
Whatever else you want.
I drum my fingertips on the conference table and try to focus on the meeting Canon is leading about security, but I can't. I can't because my mind is on Lydia.
This pisses me off because I'm not the type of man to be distracted by pussy.
Especially not good-girl pussy.
Goddammit.
This girl makes me feel something. Irritation mostly, because I'm thinking about her instead of this meeting.
Whatever else you want. If you're interested.
I must groan out loud replaying those words in my head because Canon shoots me a look before refocusing his attention on the president of the company we purchased our surveillance equipment from. They're discussing a technology package that uncovers connections between people—connections that could be used to fraudulently game the house. The moment you appear on one of our cameras the image will be fed into the data mine and begin making connections, meaning when a customer takes a seat at a table the system will immediately attempt to draw a connection between the customer and the dealer. It also checks all known databases for mug shots, missing persons, and registered firearm holders. Social media sites, of course. Yearbooks, any photo uploaded to a public database. If the security system can't identify who you are within fourteen seconds an alert is sent to the security team because it means there is no recorded image of you anywhere on the Internet. And that's questionable as fuck.
Lawson interjects with a string of legal questions, questions I should be thinking about as well, but I'm not. Good thing Lawson is adept at his job.
My attention is shot to hell. It's on a sweet twenty-something who makes my dick hard. Harder than it should be based on the limited interactions we've had. Way harder than it should be for a girl like her. Yet my mind drifts to the memory of how her lips felt on mine, so soft, so eager. The way she smelled of sunshine and tasted of peppermint lip balm. The way her eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks before she turned her big green eyes on me, looking at me like I hung the moon. Her pupils softened with arousal as she blinked when I broke off the kiss, holding her steady so she didn't topple over. So I wouldn't be tempted to press my hard-on into her stomach.