Page 2 of Kiss Me Like You Mean It

A wink! And a lean! He is flirting! Or maybe bartenders in Vegas wink at people all the time? God, this is torture. I’m probably supposed to say something. Maybe he’s winking so that I can… what? Buy him a drink? Pick him up? Engage in a night of passionate lovemaking?

I need more gin as that thought settles.

A one night stand? I mean, it would be dramatically out of character for me, but then, I am in Las Vegas. Sin City. The place where people come to act out of character. I could be someone different here. I could be a little wild. Just for one night.

There’s only one thing to do. I grab a napkin and a pen from my bag and set about making a pros and cons list. I scrawl ‘One Night Stand?’ across the top, draw a line down the middle and in the ‘pros’ column I write:

Haven’t had sex for four months. Then I consider it for a moment, cross out four and write five.

I eye the words as I reach for my glass. It’s a pretty compelling argument actually.

‘Daisy? Is that you?’

I choke on my drink.

The familiar gravelly voice hits my system harder than the gin. There’s only one person in the whole world who calls me Daisy. And there’s no way he’s here.

Slowly, I spin around on my stool. My eyes are fixed on the floor, as I take a deep, steadying breath, so that the first thing I see is a pair of scuffed leather boots.

My heart is dancing an Irish jig in my chest.

I let my gaze travel up, over the jeans, over the hard, muscular body, the broad shoulders in the battered leather jacket. It feels like everything has slowed down, like time is stretching out between us as I take him in, cataloguing every feature.

The firm jaw, darkened by a day or two of scruff; the laughing mouth, with the tiny scar above his top lip; the deadly pair of cheekbones that he inherited from his professionally attractive mother; the suntanned skin of someone who is permanently outdoors; the carelessly tousled dark curls, longer than the last time I saw him; and the gleam of gold from the tiny hoop in his ear.

I register all of it in rapid, high-definition snapshots, before my eyes meet his – dark, crinkled at the corners as he looks at me, surprised and delighted.

‘Nico,’ I manage, his name little more than a whisper.

I wonder then if this is a mirage, the way a man who’s dying of thirst in the desert might hallucinate a shady oasis with clear, running water.

I just see Nico.

Yeah, that tracks.

‘Lee!’ he exclaims. ‘What the fuck are you doing in Vegas?’

Before I can answer, he’s hauling me off the bar stool, and wrapping his arms around me, wrapping his whole body around me, and my cheek is pressed against the soft leather of his jacket.

Not a mirage then. Mirages don’t smell this good. They don’t feel this good, this strong and safe and thrilling at the same time. All of my muscles relax as I melt into him. I think I might… moan? Please, please, please let that sound have been in my head.

Then his hands are on my shoulders and he pulls back from me, holding me steady. Which is good, because the combination of gin and Nico is a potent one and my knees are a bit shaky.

‘You’re here?’ I say, and even though I’m ninety-nine per cent certain I haven’t hallucinated him, the words still sound like a question.

‘For work,’ he confirms. ‘You look great.’

I glance down and try not to wince. I’m wearing black, high-waisted trousers and a white silk blouse done all the way up to my throat. God, couldn’t I even loosen a couple of buttons? I was in the middle of flirting – or attempting to flirt – with a handsome bartender. At the very least, I should have been flashing some clavicle. In fact, why didn’t I get changed before heading to the bar?

I almost laugh out loud at that thought, one that implies I have a suitcase full of seductive ensembles to choose from, rather than what I actually packed: four variations on this outfit and a pair of pyjamas. And not sexy pyjamas either, but stretched out, comfy ones covered in pictures of little pineapples wearing sunglasses.

All of this runs through my head, but when I open my mouth, what comes out is a slightly croaky, ‘Thanks, so do you.’

‘So,’ he lifts a brow, ‘don’t keep me in suspense. What’s a nice girl like you doing drinking alone in a bar in Las Vegas?’

‘Oh,’ I wave my hand in a dismissive gesture, ‘I’m here for work, too.’

Nico nods. ‘Is there a convention or something?’ He glances around the bar as if he expects to see an army of calculator-wielding accountants.