You. I want to do you, I think. Then duck my head, glueing my eyes to the screen of my phone.
“What could we do at . . . nearly midnight?”
“Yeah, what could we do in the city that never sleeps?”
Did he just purr, or did I imagine it? I wonder if teasing is the default language of all Australians or if it’s just his.
“Well, there are the casinos.” I drop my gaze again. “Though I guess I can’t visit visit. Not without my ID. There’s the light show or, oh!” I lift my head, feeling a jolt of electricity from his blue, blue gaze. “Do you want to see the fountains at the Bellagio now?”
“Do you?”
I shake my head. “We went the night we arrived.” In tennis shoes and shorts, not skyscraper heels and tiny dresses.
“I saw them a couple of years ago.”
“You’ve been to Vegas before?” I ask, surprised. “Maybe I should be the one asking you what to do.”
“In that case.” He straightens and pushes gracefully to his feet before offering me his hand. “Do you trust me?”
Maybe I’m a fool, but I do.
Colour me surprised and just a tiny bit disappointed as we leave the hotel, but not for long because I’m back to enjoying his company as we turn off the Strip, my shoes clip-clopping on the sidewalk. We exchange small insights and inconsequential facts, and while my thoughts are mostly sane, excitement flutters through me. It’s quite an unnerving experience. It’s not so much a case of where are we going or what are his plans and more like I’m just so insanely aware of his size relative to mine and I guess his maleness.
So much maleness.
I’m not much used to being around men, not that I’ve ever given it much thought. But it’s kind of hard to ignore when faced with this amount of man.
The crowds thin out as we turn into a side street full of darkened storefronts, away from the Miracle Mile and shiny strip malls. Roman’s steps begin to slow between a couple of storefronts, a musical instruments store and a bar. Both have darkened windows, though the bar is open, judging by the low hum of music coming from it.
“I think we should have a drink.” Roman pivots to face me, the movement and his tone decisive.
“That’s your big plan?” My gaze slides from him to the reflection of the desert willow flanking the road, its boughs heavy with a creamy pink blossom monochrome in the darkened windows.
“I don’t think you’re ready to hear the plan yet.”
“Because that doesn’t sound ominous at all.”
“Damn,” he replies with a cheeky grin. “I was aiming for intriguing.”
“A plan that needs a liquor sweetener should sound at least a little concerning.”
“Not liquor. Grapes.” He points at an old-fashioned sandwich board where someone has chalked La Caverna in a swirling script.
“Like, wine?” I ask, a little perplexed. “Have you forgotten why we’re out here in the first place?”
“Because you didn’t want me to see you in your pyjamas?”
Australian teasing is so . . . charming.
“No, because of the little matter of my age.”
“I promise,” he says, laying his hand over his heart, “I’m not trying to get you drunk.”
“Not in a wine bar, you’re not, because I’m not twenty-one.” And sometimes I look about twelve, judging by the frequency I get carded.
“Fuck, yeah.” The expletive sounds less offensive in his accent somehow, and his scrunched brow is kind of cute. “I guess I was having a bit too much fun to concentrate. Remind me, what are the laws around drinking again?”
“That under-twenty-ones can’t.” I try not to hunch my shoulders as I fold my clutch to my chest.
“Except in the company of a parent or guardian, right?”
“I guess it depends on the place.” The rules in Vegas are different from Oregon. Not that it matters because Roman is neither my parent nor my guardian. Though, if I got him anywhere near my mom, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind changing that. And she wouldn’t be thinking about adopting him.
Urgh! Someone pass me the brain bleach.
“Didn’t I read somewhere that it’s a parent, guardian, or a spouse?” There’s a particular light in his eye as he lifts my hand, his lips suddenly dancing across my knuckles. It’s the kind of action that could’ve been lifted from one of Nana’s old Harlequin novels. And I love it—love it so much that I giggle like the debutant I so am not.
“Far be it from me to turn you into a habitual rule breaker,” he purrs, staring at me over my hand. “We’ll just have to make it legal?”
“Oh,” I say in the vein of I see. “We’re getting married, are we?”
“That’s a bit presumptuous, but seeing as how you asked me so nicely, okay.”
“I don’t even like wine,” I retort with a snicker.