Sin (Vegas Nights 1)

“You don’t have to read them.” I rolled my eyes, turning left into the romance aisle. “You just have to pretend like you want to.”

He stopped the cart—and me, in the process—and faced a shelf. I spun around in just enough time to see him reaching for a bodice-ripping, historical novel. He gave the cover the most pathetic excuse for a cursory glance before he dropped the book into the cart.

“There.” He moved his gaze from the book to me. “Did that help?”

“Oh, yeah. What did you just buy?”

He leaned over to see the title. “The Countess’ Lover.”

“Is it good?”

Retrieving it from the cart, he showed me the front and pointed to the bottom. “The cover is a little kinky. Did you see all that ankle on show?”

Damn it. I was not going to laugh.

I was going to laugh.

My flat expression broke in less than ten seconds, and as I replaced the book back on the shelf, I giggled. “Ankle was a taboo thing back then. It wasn’t ladylike.”

“How big of a heart attack would these people have if they came to Las Vegas?” He picked up a book through his musing. “It would be quite fun to take one of these stuffy men to a strip club.”

I swiped the new book from him and replaced it on the shelf. “They weren’t stuffy. They were…proper. There were rules for dating. Well, it was courting then, but still.” I ran my fingertip along the shelf. I hadn’t read many historicals in my life, but I knew a few names, thanks to the Internet. “It was all very prim and proper and, most of the time, the women were virgins.”

“They were virgins?”

I nodded, pulling a few books off the shelf and depositing them into the cart. “No sex until after marriage.”

“Imagine being a man with a three-inch cock and knowing your future wife was going to hate you after your wedding.”

“That’s pretty shallow.”

“I’m only thinking about how gutted I’d be if I were six inches smaller.”

“Is it the bookstore, or do you default to a teenage mentality when thinking about your cock?”

His lips pulled into a dirty smirk. “No teenage mentality could come up with the things I want to do to you, Dahlia.”

I rolled my eyes. Again. I was getting a headache. It was throbbing right behind my eyes, and each throb said the same thing: self-inflicted.

I knew better than to bring a man—any man at all—into a bookstore.

“Can you attempt to take this seriously? Believe it or not, this is actually work.” I trailed my finger across the spines until I reached the end of the historical section. I went back to add a few more books to the cart, but really, I needed Abby for that.

Ancient love was her jam, not mine.

“I fail to see how buying books is working.”

Pursing my lips, I plucked a four-book, romantic suspense series off the shelf. “I need to replace the books in the bar. Therefore, it’s working.” I gave him a pointed look.

He stared at me flatly, his dark eyes just as plain as his expression. Except boredom. There was a hell of a lot of boredom there. “I don’t think you want to revamp. I think it’s just an excuse to buy books.”

“I’d be lying if I said it didn’t cross my mind.” I crouched down to avoid meeting his eyes.

What? I loved books—any excuse to buy books was valid in my eyes.

New baby? Here, have a soft book.

Toddler’s birthday? This cardboard book has fuzzy bits.

Reading age? Here’s a picture or chapter book.

Birthday? Anniversary? Graduation? Wedding? Here, have a fucking book.

Books were always a good idea.

“If you didn’t own The Scarlet Letter,” Damien started, scooting down the aisle after me, “What would you be?”

“Professional reader,” I answered automatically.

“No such thing.”

“Fine, I’d be a librarian or an editor if you want to be specific, but they both get paid to read.” I poked my tongue out at him. “What would you do if you didn’t own your business?”

“I’ve never really thought about it.” He rested his forearms on the handlebar of the cart. “I guess I’ve always taken it as fact that I’d own the business one day, so thinking of something I wanted to do was never an option for me.”

“Why not? Couldn’t one of your sisters do what you do? Or is it because you’re the oldest?”

“Partly because I’m the oldest, partly because I’m male.”

“Oh dear.” I paused, a thick book in hand. “This sounds like we’re throwing back to the chauvinistic conversation we had once before.”

“You mean the comment you took and ran with.”

“Semantics.” I waved the book before putting it back on the shelf. “What does your possession of a penis have to do with your ability to run a business?”

His grabbing of a book with a shirtless man on the cover was about as subtle as a hungry newborn.