The Little Black Dress (Love in Las Vegas)

You Can’t Tell Me What to Do

Jared

“Are you stalking me, Red?” I ask, subtly shaking my head at the plain-clothed security guard hovering nearby.

“Stop calling me that,” she spits.

“What should I call you, then?” I ask, my eyes tracking the gentle swaying of her body as she stands before me.

She’s obviously drunk. Her words are slurred and coming out like a movie in slow motion, and as I watch, she loses her balance and starts to teeter sideways. On instinct, my hand reaches out to steady her, but she jerks away from my touch.

“Sophie. Jameson,” she says, pausing to breathe between each word.

“Well, Sophie Jameson, are you stalking me?” I ask, arching a brow.

“Oh, no. I’m asking the questions here, buddy,” she says in that same drunken drawl. “You ruined my life.”

“Is that a question?” I ask, tilting my head to study her.

She’s just as fucking gorgeous as she was last night, this time in a pair of tight jeans paired with a loose, flowy top and a pair of western boots. Her hair is down, parted in the middle, and falls in a smooth, straight sheet past her shoulders.

“Listen here, ass-shit,” she mumbles, jabbing a finger against my shoulder before pulling her hand back with a yowl and shaking it. “Ow. That’s hard.”

I don’t know whether to laugh or be offended at the term “ass-shit,” so I keep my expression blank and wait for her to speak again. But instead of continuing to berate me, she lifts both hands and presses them against my chest before proceeding to pat me down.

“Is all of you this hard?” she asks, her voice filled with wonder.

I step backward, out of her reach, as my dick wakes up, responding to her touch and her words.

Down, boy. Not this one.

“Is there something I can do for you?” I ask, the agitation obvious in my tone.

I notice two women hovering within earshot, and when I look directly at them, their gazes dart in opposite directions. The black-haired one starts to whistle as her eyes study the ceiling, and her blonde friend nudges her with an elbow. I look back at Sophie as she starts to speak.

“You can give me that painting so I can fix everything.”

“You have thirty-five million dollars to buy it?” I ask, humoring her for the moment.

I’m really hoping she’ll elaborate. She’s hear tonight, obviously with friends if the two eavesdroppers are any indication, so that must mean she’s not a buyer from out of town. She would’ve headed home after the auction if that were the case, right?

“No, but my boss does,” she says, then snaps her mouth shut with a frown.

“Who’s your boss?” I ask, truly curious to know who wanted the Pollock almost as badly as I did.

“Nobody,” she sighs, then stiffens. “And it’s all your fault.”

This conversation is making zero fucking sense, but then, she is pretty drunk.

“Do you have a designated driver?” I ask, shooting a glance toward her two friends.

The black-haired one is obviously as drunk as Sophie is, if not more, with her palms out in front of her for balance as she sways to the right. The blonde catches her, and they both start to giggle.

“We hired a car,” Sophie says, her grumpy voice almost cute. Almost.

“Well, maybe you should order one to come pick you up,” I suggest.

“You can’t tell me what to do,” she grumbles. “It’s not like you own this place, or something. I can stay as long as I want.”