Page 1 of Kiss Me Like You Mean It

PART ONE

Las Vegas

Chapter One

Lee

I wonder if the designer who selected this crushed velvet, leopard-print bar stool imagined it would one day be occupied by an accountant having an existential crisis.

Probably not. A luxury, five-star casino in Las Vegas isn’t really an existential crisis sort of place. As far as I can tell the whole point of Vegas is to overstimulate you to the point where it’s impossible to worry about anything at all.

But, hey, I’ve always enjoyed a challenge.

‘Gin martini with a twist,’ Jake, the handsome bartender, says, setting the glass in front of me with a smile. ‘You sure I can’t get you anything to eat?’

I shake my head. It’s 5 p.m. on a Friday and I’m already regretting grabbing a drink at the bar, instead of heading up to my room, ordering room service and watching home improvement shows in my pyjamas. But I am under strict instructions to ‘live a little’ on my last night.

‘Just the drink, thanks.’ I slip some cash across the top of the bar, and he holds his hands up like I’ve pointed a gun at him.

‘No way,’ he says. ‘Boss’s orders. But anything you need tonight, you let me know.’

There’s something in the way he says this. Is it possible that this man is flirting with me? Let’s not get ahead of ourselves… the Americans do take their customer service very seriously. I sip my drink, eyeing him over the top of my glass as he spins a cocktail shaker with large, capable hands.

This bar is certainly not my normal habitat. Between the deep, claret red walls, the splashy modern art and the enormous chandelier that looms overhead, strung with over 300,000 sparkling crystals (I’ve seen the itemised invoice to prove it), there is absolutely nothing subtle about it.

A neon sign glows above the bar in a scrawl of red light: SINNERS WELCOME.

I wonder how they feel about neurotic rule-followers.

My eyes dart towards Jake again.

What if he was flirting with me? Would I ever have the guts to do something about it? Would flirting back count as ‘living a little’? And how, I ponder, tapping my fingers against my glass, would someone go about such a thing?

I pull out my phone and type How do you flirt with a bartender? into Google. The results are something of a minefield. The first two answers are be conversational, and be reserved.

See, this is why people are so hard.

I keep scrolling and there are suggestions of smiling, dropping compliments and a post about doing something anatomically improbable with your tongue and a cherry stem.

Taking a deep breath, I send Jake a smile across the bar. I have no idea if it seemed flirtatious, but he does come straight over.

‘Something I can get you, Lee?’

I’m not totally sure how to respond. How do you do reserved conversation? And I don’t have a cherry.

‘I like your name badge,’ I blurt.

Jake’s eyebrows lift. Okay. I will admit it wasn’t the sexiest compliment, but it was something, right?

‘Thank you,’ Jake replies after a moment.

‘Where did you get it?’ I ask breathlessly. Maybe the breathless thing is coming off as sexy? Either that or I sound like I’m about to have an asthma attack.

‘Um… it came with the uniform,’ he says. ‘But I can ask someone if you like?’

‘Sure,’ I nod, trying to look casual while my palms are sweating. ‘That would be great.’

He leans forward, his forearms resting on the bar. They’re good arms. ‘Anything for my favourite customer,’ he says with a wink.