“As it happens, Ms. Adler,” I told her, “I am.”
“Terrific. You have an excellent reputation in the industry. Do you have a few minutes to answer some preliminary interview questions?”
I blanched, checking the time on my nightstand clock. “Right now?” Ugh. I was already falling flat in the brilliant answers department.
“Yes. If that’s okay,” she said, giving me an out. But I needed to be in if I wanted to seize this opportunity.
And honestly, I did. I had to. It was perfect.
The Cartwright had an excellent reputation, and such a high-profile job at the New York site would be quite the gold star on my résumé.
Sure, the call had come out of the blue—well, so was my firing. And hadn’t I just said I wanted a change? I’d been thinking Colorado, not the East Coast, but still.
If I was going to shake out the rug of my life, maybe I should go all in. Go for the scary roller coaster and not just the merry-go-round. I wouldn’t know anyone in New York, but there was Skype, and there were frequent-flier programs. And there, I wouldn’t be running in place while my friends forged ahead into new life stages. My whole life could be a new venture.
Also, I did have time to chat, because I was ready early. I just needed to slip on my shoes, which I did as I moved to a more businesslike place than my bed, settling into a chair at the kitchen table.
“This is fine, Ms. Adler,” I said with impressive—I hoped—composure. “And I’d love to answer your questions.”
The sign beckoned in flashes of ’50s-style neon.
The Purple Zebra was off the Strip, a bar known mostly to locals, and it wasn’t crawling with Columbos. That was how John had put it when he’d texted me the info earlier, which I took to mean it wasn’t a cop hangout, or maybe just that it was free from other detectives who would buttonhole him with “just one more thing.”
It was a perfect spot to talk. To swap stories. Maybe to have a heart-to-heart.
As much as I wanted to fast-forward to whispering sweet nothings—and, oh yes, I did want that—I also was bursting to share my news.
As I opened the door to the bar, I took an inventory of my emotional state, which had been doing a good imitation of a pendulum for the last twenty-four hours. Tonight, I was excited and nervous, and nervous and excited.
But as soon as I stepped inside, scanned the room, and spotted him, I was simply ready.
Ready for my date with the sexiest police officer in Las Vegas.
I’d seen him in gym clothes, in plain clothes, in a suit. Tonight, though, was my new favorite look on John Winston—dark jeans and a storm-cloud-gray Henley that hugged his chest in all the right places. Dear God, did it ever show off his biceps as he rose and walked toward me, his eyes on mine the whole damn time.
The hungry way he stared at me sent a shiver down my spine.
He set a hand on my arm and brushed my cheek with a kiss.
Who knew my cheek was an erogenous zone? It must have been, the way this man turned me on with the simplest of kisses.
“You look amazing,” he said.
That word.
It was tossed about until it didn’t mean much. It could describe that sandwich, this hairstyle, that nail color.
But from John, that word felt wholly real and powerful, and a little bit dirty too.
Which I liked.
“So do you.” I wasn’t prepared for how good it would feel to say that aloud. To finally give voice to all the attraction that had been bubbling for months.
For more than a year.
He set a hand on my back. It felt possessive as he walked me to a booth and gestured for me to sit down.
None of this was strange to me. I understood restaurant booths and was familiar with manners, had even experienced them in similar situations.
But not with John. This felt like a whole new side of him.
A part of him he was letting me see at last. That he wanted me to see.
He didn’t want to be John, the kickboxing buddy.
He wanted to be John, the man I was going home with.
Because I was sure that was where this night was headed.
“Martini?” he asked.
“That sounds perfect,” I said. “Especially since I have exciting news.”
He lifted a brow in curiosity. “Martinis go well with news. Good news, I trust?”
“I think so.”
He signaled the bartender, placed our order, then turned to me and prompted, “So . . .”
“I got the craziest call about an hour ago . . .”
Without moving, his expression shuttered, like he was locking things down for a sudden storm. It was his work face, and I realized that “craziest call” probably meant something different to a detective, and rarely something good.
“A surprising call,” I amended. “An opportunity.”
He relaxed, even looked rueful at his reaction. “Now you have me curious.”
I told him everything about my conversation, and he watched me closely as I shared. We polished off our drinks while he asked questions about the job, the hotel, and the type of work I’d be doing. The bartender brought us another round before I was done.
And the entire time, the energy between us hummed like a live wire. The same energy that had been there since we’d met, amped up by this shift in our status quo and my own residual high from the phone interview for the job in New York.
After so long without any changes in my life, now I had two giant ones competing for my attention.
John and New York, each tugging at me in different ways.
John’s invitation to drinks tonight had upended my entire view of our relationship.
The New York phone call could upend my entire life.
John gave me butterflies and tingles around my heart and between my thighs.
New York made my pulse pound with possibility.
Tonight was thrilling and terrifying, that roller-coaster ride taking another loop.
“And then there’s the fact that I like hotels.” Hotels whisked you away from home and chores. They offered an escape. A private retreat.
“Big fan of hotels too,” John said wryly when I took a deep breath to refuel.
Oh. I’d been rattling on while my mind spun and whirred, working on my dilemma. No wonder I’d stated the painfully obvious. I like hotels? How profound.
Except not.
John sipped his drink then nodded to mine. “You’ve hardly touched your second martini.”
I let out a giddy laugh. It was probably 80 percent relief that I had a job prospect, but I felt light-headed and floaty, especially when John let his hand rest on the table, close to mine. “Are you trying to get me drunk, John Winston?”
“Definitely not.” His eyes darkened as he said it, those two words loaded with implication. My breath caught at the taut intensity. In his stoic face, every flicker of response seemed magnified.
Because I knew that look was just for me. Just for this moment. It wouldn’t be the same look tomorrow, or the next day.
That look said he definitely didn’t want me drunk. It said he wanted me sober so he could do bad things to me.
I wanted that too, but I needed something else. Some clue as to what he thought about everything I’d unpacked here at the bar—the unexpected opportunity, and what I thought the move and the job might mean for me.