23. Twenty-Three
TWENTY-THREE
W orking in Ronan’s studio—I couldn’t quite think of it as my studio yet—was the stuff of dreams. Good dreams too. No Freddy Krueger in sight.
The view was amazing, to the point where it was inspiring every time I visited.
The central air kept the room chilly enough that it didn’t matter if I worked up a sweat when I was sculpting.
On top of that, the supplies he’d gotten for me—I was still dumbfounded as to why he had gone out of his way for me—were better than any other materials I’d ever worked with.
I felt as if I’d fallen into the best dream of my life.
I was terrified it would turn into a nightmare.
It didn’t take an expert to figure out why I felt that way.
At times when I was growing up, Sharon appeared to be getting it together.
When I was younger, I didn’t know any better, so I’d believed that she was finally moving past her selfishness.
Each and every time, she disappointed me.
When I’d reached the age of fourteen, I gave up believing that her good spurts would turn permanent. I learned to ride the wave to get everything I could from her before she reverted. Then, by the time I was sixteen, I’d learned to ignore them outright.
I was afraid this would go away too. Ronan didn’t act as if he was bored.
He assured me that even if things fell apart on the personal front—we were still calling this a temporary arrangement—working together would be fine.
I had no reason not to believe him. He’d never been anything but upfront with me.
Even the hurt I’d felt about being stood up for prom had withered away.
I knew him better now. He would’ve never stood me up.
That was all Becky. And, yes, I was still hoping for karma to take another big bite out of her ass.
I refused to allow myself to dwell on it.
At work, Ronan and I did our best to avoid one another.
We talked when it was appropriate and flirted when it was inappropriate.
Every shift, I went in determined to stop the flirting—it was only a matter of time until Kyla discovered what we were up to—but I couldn’t stay away from him.
We were like magnets. There was no avoiding one another.
I bolstered myself with the notion that flirting wasn’t against the rules.
As long as Kyla believed we were only flirting—nothing more—that was all that mattered.
She was never around when we left the casino well after midnight.
As far as I could tell, she didn’t have friends in the lounge, so nobody was reporting us.
Still, we were careful not to tell anybody about our …
thing. I didn’t even know what to call it.
We spent every night together. Each and every night. We hadn’t missed a single one since agreeing to be friends with benefits. To me, that suggested we were more than friends. I couldn’t think on it too long without getting a stomachache, however. I was uncomfortable just thinking about it.
We had dinner—early dinners, mostly because of our hours, but dinners all the same—at restaurants I hadn’t even known existed.
I’d grown up in Vegas and was convinced nobody knew it better, yet Ronan surprised me with a magical find every week.
He’d mentioned trying to plan a trip to the Grand Canyon—something I was secretly thrilled about—but I’d managed to put him off on that, at least for the time being.
If we did something that big, we would have to admit that we were more than …
what we were. Even though I wasn’t as opposed to that idea as I had been at one time, I wasn’t ready to throw the playbook out the window.
I need to think things through for a change. Being impulsive would get me nowhere.
Still— still —spending time with Ronan wasn’t just the highlight of my day. It was the highlight of my life. I hadn’t expected it—not ever—but I was feeling it.
“What are you thinking?” Ronan asked, drawing me out of my reverie.
I’d been toiling on a new sculpture and hadn’t even realized that I’d lost myself to thoughts instead of work. I cleared my throat. “I was debating if I wanted rough or smooth edges,” I lied.
He smirked. He had started a new painting, and even though it was far too early to tell what it was, his smile told me he was happy with how things were going. “I like rough edges. You do you, though.”
The double meaning of his words wasn’t lost on me. He’d told me more than once that my edges were rough. “I think I’ll go smooth,” I supplied, opting to be contrary for the fun of it.
“Why am I not surprised?” He went back to looking at his painting. “I’m done for the day. I can’t do anything more until it dries. I don’t want to blend the next layer.”
I glanced over at his canvas. “It looks cool. What is it?”
His lips quirked. “It’s a surprise.”
“For me?”
He shrugged. “Do you have a problem with that?”
He was a constant surprise, and I didn’t have a problem with any of it.
Lordy, I was falling down a hole I would never be able to crawl out of.
I was being buried by feelings and emotions I’d never expected at every corner.
Yet, despite the danger inherent in what we were doing, I didn’t stop myself. “Whatever floats your boat.”
His lips twitched. Whenever I dusted off a saying that was older than both of us combined, he couldn’t hide his amusement. “Do you ever wonder where some of these sayings you whip off like your bra at night come from? I mean, whatever floats your boat. Who coined that?”
“You did not just mention my bra,” I challenged, adopting a stern expression.
“Oh, but I did.” When he smiled, he became even more attractive, which should have been impossible. Somehow, he always managed to carry it off. “I happen to think about your bra more often than is probably healthy. It’s impossible for me not to bring it up in conversation.”
“Sometimes you just talk to hear yourself talk, don’t you?”
He laughed. “Sometimes.” He turned serious. “How much work do you have left? Do you want to go out for something to eat?”
We both had a shift starting in four hours. We had plenty of time to eat, though. “What’s your surprise this time? Did you dig up some hole-in-the-wall Chinese place with the best egg rolls in the state?”
“No, but I can put my mind to that next time if you want. I was thinking we could go Italian. I’m in the mood for some pasta. If that doesn’t strike your fancy, though, we can go anywhere.”
“I could eat Italian.” I happened to love Italian food. “Where?”
“How does Superfrico strike your fancy?”
“I’ve never been there.”
He only smiled. “You’ve seen photos, right?”
I shook my head. “Actually, no. Why? Is there something special about this place?”
“Let’s just say I think you’re going to like it.”
I grinned. He had me, and we both knew it. Even if I hated the place—the odds on that were long—I would enjoy myself because new experiences made me happy, whether negative or positive.
“I brought a change of clothes.” I swiped the back of my hand over my forehead. Sculpting was messy work. “I need to shower and change. We can come back here after dinner and change for work, right?”
His eyes had gone dark at mention of a shower. “Absolutely. Do you want company for that shower?”
Amusement tipped my lips up at the corners. “If we do that, then we need to take our work clothes to dinner with us. We might not have time to get back here to change after dinner.”
“So … no?”
“Oh, I didn’t say that.”
SUPERFRICO WAS EXACTLY WHAT I had always wanted even though I’d never realized it. The establishment was deemed “Las Vegas’s Las Vegiest Place”—a term that was trademarked—and that wasn’t wrong. The bars varied in colors. Loud music and a variety of lounges and tables were all over the place.
As for the menu, I had trouble picking one option. “Wow. Just wow.” My eyes danced all over the place.
Ronan smirked as he debated his own options. “Normally, I would try to avoid garlic because … you know.” He sent me a flirty wink. “Since we have a long shift ahead of us, I’m not too worried. The garlic should wear off by the time we’re done with our shifts.”
“Good point.” I hadn’t been worried about garlic. “I think I’m going to get the clams linguini.”
He arched an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you liked clams.”
I frowned at him. Either he was about to take this to a filthy place or he had no idea what he had said. “What about you?” I challenged, opening the door for him. “Do you like clams?”
The way he shrugged told me he’d missed the obvious opening. “I like seafood—scallops, shrimp, lobster, and crab legs—but I don’t like fish, and I’m not a big fan of mussels. Clams are too much like mussels.”
I blinked. Then I blinked again. “You’re so pure,” I said with a laugh.
He frowned. “What did I say?”
“You just… You missed the clam joke. It was sitting right there.”
From the way his forehead creased, I could tell he was running our conversation through his head. Ultimately, he scowled. “Like I would pick low-hanging fruit like that,” he complained.
I laughed because his outrage was adorable. “I like that you don’t pick the low-hanging fruit. I’m still getting used to it, though.”
“Well, work faster.” He went back to looking at the menu. “I’m going with the chicken parm.”
“Solid choice.” I felt his feet land on either side of mine under the table and had to battle back a grin. “You’re not playing footsies with me, are you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The server, who looked bored, took our order with little fanfare and then headed off after exchanging the bare minimum of conversation. We were stuck with iced tea—I would never have a cocktail before work—but conversation flowered fast and easy. When we got our food, I dug in with gusto.
“Oh, this is amazing,” I said on a heady exhale. “I knew it was going to be good.”
“What about the flashing lights in every direction? How do you feel about those?”
“I appreciate the aesthetic. But I would be worried if I was epileptic.”
“Right?”
We spent the next few minutes in silence, both of us focused on our meals. Another thing I really liked about Ronan was that I could be quiet with him. He didn’t expect—nor did he want—me to fill awkward silences. He was perfectly happy not talking.
When I was a kid, I’d hated silence. It was a constant reminder that I was alone in the world. As I grew older, I’d started to thrive in silence. Whether that was a good or bad thing, I couldn’t say. It was my thing, though.
No other man had ever been able to embrace the silence with me. Ronan was the last man I’d expected to do it. Yet here we were.
Once I’d taken the edge off my hunger, I slowed down.
Giving myself a stomachache from eating too fast would fill my evening with discomfort.
Being hungry as a child—on a regular basis—meant I had a tendency to shovel in food as if it were about to be outlawed.
I had to remind myself not to do that now, which was a constant struggle.
I forced myself to slow my pace and sipped my iced tea, my eyes scanning the restaurant.
The hour was early for people to eat, and yet Superfrico was doing solid business.
Most everybody at the restaurant had to be tourists, I guessed.
Nobody else, other than workers, ate this early in the city.
In general, Las Vegas residents tended to eat late.
I was so eager to go back to my food that I almost missed the individuals eating in the corner of the restaurant.
They were a decent distance away, and Superfrico was dark enough that it wasn’t easy to make them out.
The flashing lights illuminated the duo, however, and once I recognized them, I couldn’t look away.
“Hey!”
I had no idea how long I’d been mesmerized by what I was seeing, but Ronan snapped his fingers to draw my attention. He smiled at me. “I was worried the lights hypnotized you,” he admitted.
I swallowed hard, my dinner forgotten. “No, it wasn’t the lights.”
Confused, he drew his eyebrows together as he shifted to look over his shoulder, clearly curious about what had garnered my attention. When his gaze fell on his father and Ryder Stone, his smile disappeared in an instant.
“What in the hell?” he muttered.
I was right there with him. I hadn’t seen either man since that night at the Paris casino. Olivia had made noise about Ryder trying to get someone on the board at Stone to add him to the agenda so he could attend a meeting. So far, he hadn’t gotten any takers.
“What are they doing together?” I asked after a beat.
Ronan shook his head. “I don’t know. It makes no sense to me that they’re spending time together.”
“And you’re sure that they weren’t friends before all of this?”
“I’m sure.” No mirth was to be found in Ronan’s gaze.
“I even asked my mother about it during one of our weekly calls. I was all nonchalant and everything so she wouldn’t be suspicious.
I mentioned Ryder was trying to gain access to the hotel and asked her what she knew about him.
I figured it was a roundabout way for her to mention that Dad and Ryder were friendly. ”
“And?” I prodded.
“And she said that she’d only interacted with him a handful of times over the years. She said Dad was on a few committees with him, but she said Dad never liked Ryder. She called him low class and didn’t appreciate that he cheated on Cora the way he did.”
“Which was common knowledge, apparently,” I agreed, my expression dark. “I like Cora. I don’t know why anybody would ever cheat on her.”
“I’m not a proponent of that stuff myself,” he said, likely for my benefit. “I like Cora too. My father is many things. He’s not a cheater, though. That’s not what he and Ryder are bonding over.”
“So what it is?” I couldn’t wrap my head around the potential friendship.
“There’s nothing Ryder can offer him. He has no standing with Stone Group, and he’s been completely ousted from the casino.
I heard Zach and Rex talking last week. They’re trying to get the casino licensing board to give him a lifetime ban. ”
Ronan’s eyebrows winged up. “If that happens, he’s done in this city.”
“So why would your father voluntarily spend time with him?”
“I can’t answer that.” A muscle worked in Ronan’s cheek. “I don’t like it, though. It feels off.”
“Could your father have ulterior motives?”
“Always. As you said, though, there’s literally nothing that Ryder can offer him.”
“Maybe he feels bad for him and is offering a shoulder to cry on.” Even suggesting it felt odd.
Ronan snorted. “My father is not the altruistic sort.”
I watched Norbert and Ryder chat away for a few more minutes, then sighed. “Well, whatever it is, it can’t be good.”
“No,” Ryder agreed. “It’s not good. Not even a little.”