Page 10 of The No Try Zone
She smiles wide, showing off that bewitching gap. I swear I really might fall for her at the rate I’m going. Never have I felt like this – ever. But it feels so natural that I can’t question it. “That watch looks pretty good on you, too.”
She preens. “Bet you say that to all the girls who wear it.”
I allow myself to trace my finger over her forearm, running over the Rolex’s navy blue face before traveling farther. Her skin is soft and warm. She flips her hand over, revealing her palm, and I sketch the soft flesh there, circling tighter and tighter, wishing my finger was my tongue and her palm was something far more sensitive. When I reach the center, I breathe deep and look up. “No one else has ever had that privilege.”
She shifts on the stool, then slides her hand away to grab the glass of wine. “No one?”
I hold her gaze and shake my head.
Feline satisfaction crosses her face as she drinks. “Good.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the rest of the world forgotten, until she says, “Next dare.”
I straighten. “Lay it on me.”
She gestures to the cocktail napkin. “Do a dramatic reading of whatever’s on there.”
I make a show of clearing my throat as I pull the napkin from beneath the glass. “The Tavern,” I proclaim, projecting my voice far too loud and not caring, because it instantly makes her laugh. “Sports! Wagers! Drinks,” I finish, dragging out the ‘s’ as she giggles. Then I squint, seeing the tiny print at the bottom. Lowering my pitch, I deliver the final two words as though they are absolutely critical. “The Fontainebleau.”
She claps and beams at me, and I know I’ll do whatever it takes to keep that look on her face. “Well done.”
“Thank you, thank you. That one semester of drama finally paid off.”
“Indeed it did.”
We finish our drinks a few minutes later, and I pay the tabs. “Come on,” I say as I stand.
She rises. “Who says I’m going with you?”
I point at her wrist. “My watch. We have another half hour at least.”
We head out of the bar and down to the ground floor, and she beelines to the gift shop. “Next dare,” she says, peering behind me as she strides purposefully into the shop.
I hustle to keep up. “It’s my turn to issue a dare.”
She smirks. “You took too long. You have five minutes and ten dollars. Whoever buys the best worst gift wins.”
I grin as my competitive streak kicks in. “Oh, it’son.” I head straight for the back without hesitation.
Five minutes later, we meet back up and I reach into the bag to show off my purchase. “Ready?” I ask.
She stills my hand and turns toward the outside. “Nope. We’re heading out there and we’re going to get someone else’s opinion.”
“Perfect,” I counter. “So when I win, it’ll be fair and square.”
She rolls her eyes. “God grant me the confidence of a middle-aged white man.”
“Hey, I amnotmiddle-aged,” I protest.
Sam huffs a laugh as she pushes through the doors and we’re hit with a blast of arid desert heat. It’s night, around ten, and neon lights pulse all around us. People are everywhere in various states of sobriety, and the sound of a techno beat drifts over the wind. The scene is both exhilarating and exhausting. “How old are you?”
I swallow. “Forty-two.”
Her brows lift as her lips quirk into a teasing smile. “That’s middle-aged, mate.”
I don’t dignify that with a response.
“I’m thirty-two, if that makes you feel any better.”
