Page 75 of Playing Dirty
I grin, though my expression goes a touch more serious. "I know I said it when I got back to the room, but I truly appreciate you lot for having my back."
Betts waves a hand. "Don't wear it out, O'Rourke. We get why you did it. Admirable and all that shit. Just next time, fucking wave security over like a normal person, okay?"
"Deal. Next time I'll send you into the stands instead. You're scarier."
"Damn right I am. It's the beard."
Jonesy laughs and knocks his shoulder into mine. "For the record, I wanted to fucking kill you for about two days. Tom nearly wore a hole in the hotel carpet." He pulls his laces tight and shrugs. "But I'm just fucking glad to have you back, man."
Above us, the crowd is already a dull roar through the concrete.
Officially, I've a room at the team hotel. Unofficially, Margot's hotel is four blocks off the Strip, and I've a well-documented reputation for long late-night walks.
The plan was airtight. I'd handle my media obligations, put in a respectable appearance at the team dinner, endure exactly one champagne toast from Betts, who despite his tough-guy persona never fails to get sentimental after a win, and then sneak back to her.
We'd avoid being seen in the same place together, the media would stay oblivious, I wouldn’t get in trouble with the team, and we'd get to keep our bubble a little longer. And yet somehow, we've timed our arrival in the lobby of her hotel at the exact same second.
Margot is waiting by the lifts, oblivious to me, and my wholechest goes warm at the sight of her. She’s just wearing a t-shirt and jeans, but somehow she makes it lookunbelievablysexy and sends a fresh jolt of possessive heat straight through me. I start navigating the crowd to reach her.
Even at midnight, the lobby is vibrating. Slot machines chiming away in an alcove off reception, a bachelorette party negotiating loudly with the front desk, that faint ghost of cigarette smoke even the non-smoking parts of Vegas can't shake, and the low, tireless chatter of people with no plans to sleep. Vegas doesn't believe in bedtime, apparently.
I approach the brass elevators, cap pulled low for discretion, and slide in next to Margot. She turns at the sound of footsteps, sees me, and her eyes widen in alarm. I can't help but stifle a laugh.
My adorable little rule-follower.
She snaps her gaze back toward the elevator doors and attempts to look casual, which she performs with the rigid shoulders of a woman being held at gunpoint.
"Oh my god," she whispers frantically. "What are you doing here? You're supposed to be at the team dinner still."
"I was," I murmur, leaning in as a group of tourists wanders past. "How did you manage to stay out this late?"
She scans the lobby before looking up at me. "Brittany was incredibly convincing. She insisted I needed a real Vegas experience before she met with Betts, so she dragged me to some crazy bar with a massive dance floor. She was actually a pro at it."
"Wow, out seeing the sights without me.” I smile. “And did you dance?"
"Believe it or not, I attempted a round," she says.
"Christ, and I missed the performance?"
"Well." She studies the elevator panel with intense focus. "If you behave, I might give you a private demonstration later."
"I'm certainly looking forward to that," I say, my voice dropping.
“This is theslowestelevator on the planet.” She returns to her frantic surveillance of the room. "Isn't this place meant to be luxury? What if someone spots us? I mean, we could claim it's a wine strategy session, but meeting in hotel rooms at midnight looks a touch suspicious."
"Oh, come on, Ace. Use your imagination. It's a bit thrilling, isn't it?" I watch the floor numbers crawl down. "The sneaking around. We could even try some roleplay. Really lean into it."
"Roleplay?" A small, amused smile tugs at her lips.
"Absolutely. Strangers in the night. A scandalous tryst. All the classics."
The doors finally slide open. We step into the empty car, and she glances over at me with a mischievous spark in her gaze.
"Well, I'm sorry, sir, but I'm spoken for," she says in a low voice. "My boyfriend is enormous and insanely jealous, and he just won a playoff series, so his confidence is at record levels. He'll punch a guy just for looking at me wrong."
I raise an eyebrow. "Oh? Sounds like a great guy. Handsome, I'd wager."
"He's alright."
