Then we order drinks and play blackjack with his friends. Over beers, Nate steers the conversation away from anything related to books or Webflix, lubricating the conversational path to chat with Jude about London and the food we miss most, like a proper bag of chips with plenty of salt and vinegar, a full English breakfast, and, of course, crumpets. Meanwhile, TJ and Nate debate the merits of The Extravagant hotel versus The Invitation across the street before moving on to the chances of the New York Comets versus the San Francisco Cougars in the World Series.
Under Nate’s watchful hand, we avoid the topic altogether of what the hell is happening with the writer’s book and my company, and we win at least five rounds at the blackjack table.
A couple of hours and a few drinks later, after TJ wins yet another round, he pushes away from the table to cash out, saying he needs to turn in for the night.
“Does that mean I need to go back to The Invitation too?” Jude asks his companion, a little coyly.
That earns him another eye roll from TJ. “Depends on what you want for the night.”
“Such a good question,” Jude says, but when TJ says goodbye to us, Jude follows him, so I guess my fellow countryman knows the answer to what he wants—his companion.
“Want to get out of here too?” I ask my temporary guy.
“I do.”
As Nate and I walk away from the table, I gesture behind me in the direction of Jude and TJ, asking an unspoken question.
“I have no idea what’s going on with them,” he says with a shrug.
“That makes two of us.” I set a hand on his shoulder. “But I know what’s going on with you.”
“Do you now?”
“Yes, Nate. You’re getting a gold star for that lesson.”
Nate wiggles his brow. “I want it now. In bed.”
I had a feeling he would. I have other feelings too. Feelings I didn’t expect to happen so soon.
Lots of them, including this: trust.
True, I only have to trust him for the weekend, but already I like this faith I have in him.
I want to experience what it’s like to trust someone, and I want to trust my instincts.
For now, though, I want to get naked and have him begging for me. First things first.
12
NATE
Sometimes bad things happen to good people.
Like beer.
Somewhere around the twelfth and fourteenth floor in the elevator, an unfortunate series of yawns takes over my mouth.
“Did you . . .” I yawn. “Bring some . . .” Another one. “Top-shelf . . .” And one more. “Lube?”
Hunter stares at me with amused brown eyes. “Yes.” The doors open. “I did.” We step out, his arm around my shoulders. “But I have another lesson for you.”
I sigh deeply. Wait. Maybe that’s a yawn too. Oops. “What’s the lesson, babe?”
“I’ll tell you when we get in the suite.”
A minute later, I unlock the door, kick off my Vans, and ask him, “Soooo?”
Hunter wraps a hand around my waist, steady, presses his forehead to mine. “The lesson is—I’m not fucking you when you’re this tired.”
I groan. “Fuck you.”
“That too.” He laughs.
I grip his hips even as my brain feels slow. Tired. “What if I fuck you? Can I fuck you when I’m this tired?”
“Tempting though that may be, I think you need to go to bed.”
“Mmm.” I pull him against me. “With you.”
“Yes, with me. Next to me. By my side. But that’s it.”
“Ugh. You’re so not fair,” I say, even as my eyes flutter. “I hate your lesson.”
He laughs, then spins me slowly around. “Let’s go, Mister Chandler. Brush your teeth. Get in your jammies.”
“Then can we—”
“No.” He gently but firmly pushes me toward the bedroom, then the big bathroom, smiling. “You’re relentless. But there’ll be no shagging when you’re yawning.”
“You’re sexy when you say shag.”
“And you’re sexy when you’re petulant about bedtime.”
“Maybe the lesson is we’re sexy together,” I say, then I want to slap my hand over my big mouth.
That’s the shit I shouldn’t say. That’s the stuff that scares away a dude. And I don’t want to scare Hunter off.
Holy shit.
I don’t want to scare him off at all. I like the guy. So much more than I’m supposed to.
Dammit.
But as I brush my teeth in one of the twin sinks, Hunter doing the same in the other, it hits me—I can’t really scare him away. We already agreed to an ending.
We’re done after Vegas.
So maybe . . . I can just let go of being Mister Casual for the next day or so.
Maybe I can be . . . me.
I can’t lose him since I can’t truly have him.
With that in mind, I decide to stop worrying about chilling the fuck out.
A couple of minutes later, I’ve brushed my teeth and changed into my jammies. Translation—I’m wearing nada as I slip into the cushy, king-size bed.