CHAPTER SIX Cole
CHAPTER SIX
Cole
N ash doesn’t flash his money around, ever. Dude wears fucking Levi’s jeans every damn day. If you didn’t know he was an NHL player for nine years, you’d never know he was a multimillionaire.
Walking out to the runway ready to board the private Gulfstream G450 he’s chartered for our four-hour flight to Vegas, it feels like we’re all multimillionaires.
“This how the other half lives, brother?” I ask him and CeCe as they stand in front of the plane’s stairs.
“Something like that,” Nash replies as we do the brotherly clasp of hands mixed with a half-hug. “Only for one weekend,” he adds. I can tell he’s feeling sheepish about openly spending this much money.
Inside the plane is luxury wood and ivory-colored leather. It fits fourteen even though only ten of us are flying tonight. Already seated are Wade and Ivy, my sister’s other best friend Olivia Sutton, and two of Nash’s hockey buddies. Newly retired Stars center Cory Kane and his wife, Anna, talk with another former teammate of Nash’s, Chris Bell, who now plays for the New York Rangers. I’ve met them both a few times, so shake their hands easily when I get to an empty seat near them and drop my bag.
“Banner year for you,” I say to Chris as I sit. He scored fifty-eight goals in the regular season. He’s a grizzly fucker, always fighting dirty. The fans love him.
“Thanks, man. Unfortunately it wasn’t enough to get us past the first round.” Chris’s voice trails off and his jaw falls slack as I lose his eye contact.
“Holy hell, no ring. Dibs,” he says, looking over my shoulder. I start to turn to take in the view, but I already know who he’s looking at before I see her. Because I hear her, and I smell her. Ginger always smells like she’s just walked in from the ocean on a Caribbean island. Some mix of coconut, vanilla and citrus.
“Damn.” She pats Nash on the shoulder. “Letting us live in style this weekend, Nashby?”
“God I’m going to regret this,” Nash says, scrubbing his face and eyeing CeCe, who ignores him and makes her way to Ginger for a hug. Ginger releases CeCe and checks out the rest of the plane. I watch her through Chris’s eyes and her beauty crashes right over me like a fucking tsunami. Her normally curly hair is styled in long layered waves that make her seem … almost freshly fucked. With those almond-shaped, light brown eyes against her dewy tanned skin, she just looks unreal. I turn away, stopping myself from staring. I won’t fall into that old pattern, not when I’ve spent years keeping myself in check.
“Well? Who’s ready to tear this town up?” she calls out, causing the girls to hoot and holler.
She struts over to the minibar and bends down to grab a bottle of open champagne. Fuck me. She’s wearing royal blue yoga tights, Nikes and a white tank top. It’s a simple outfit, but fuck, those tights would take any man out at the knees. They hug every single curve her body offers, and put her heart-shaped ass on display. Ginger is hard not to stare at on a regular day but in those tights. Goddamn. I swallow and turn my eyes back to Chris. He’s fucking eating her up.
“I can’t believe we haven’t met yet. I’m Chris Bell, Nash’s friend.” Chris addresses Ginger, moving toward her and extending a hand to her for shaking. She turns mid-sip to look up at him with a dazzling crimson-painted smile. He’s instantly a goner. Yeah, that’s gonna stop. I don’t like Chris Bell looking at her like that.
“Ginger,” she says, shaking his hand. He smiles wide.
Uh-uh. Nope. No way.
“When you’re settled, come take a seat so we can get acquainted,” he says it like he’s sure she’s all his.
I stand and move into Ginger’s sightline, pulling her eyes from Chris to me.
“She won’t sit this entire flight,” I interject, breaking their back-and-forth. “She’ll be treating this jet like a disco the whole way to Vegas, won’t you, Vixen?”
I’m not normally one to stop her from hooking up with anyone, but she’s been on the plane two minutes. Dibs? Who the fuck says that about a woman?
Ginger winks. “Why would I sit, Cole? If this plane is destined to go down, I’m going down dancing, not sitting like a square firmly buckled into my seat.”
I look into her eyes and catch the fear there. That’s right . I know she’ll be dancing, or at the very least fidgeting, the whole way to Vegas. Ginger hates heights, after a bad experience coming home from spring break one year in college. Her plane had some really rough turbulence and she vowed in the moment to never fly again. It took her a couple years, but she eventually got back on a plane.
You’d never know she’s nervous because, when she sits as we take off, she’s the picture of cool as she talks to Chris. I flex my fists involuntarily as I watch them.
“Well, if you’re up for a road trip, next time we play Nashville I can get you tickets,” he says to her.
Just say no.
“Maybe. Thanks for the offer. I’m going to catch up with my friends now though.” She nods as the unbuckle-your-seatbelt sign flashes, and heads to sit with Liv and CeCe.
“Don’t stay away too long,” he calls after her with a cocky grin I hate.
Ginger just smiles, patting me on the shoulder on her way past.
“Remember those handcuffs, Law Daddy?” she asks with a sultry voice that for some reason goes straight to my cock. I give my head a shake and make my way to the minibar in search of a fucking drink. A double.
Three hours into the flight and Chris is still trying to make eyes at Ginger from the other side of the plane. Someone turned on the Shania Twain and the girls are all dancing in the small cabin. As Chris watches her, he looks ready to make a meal out of her.
I get up to pour myself another drink and pass by Ginger, CeCe and Liv. The way she moves tells me she might be getting a little tipsy, and tipsy Ginger might just go along with whatever this Chris guy is searching for.
“Hey. Uh …” I say awkwardly, interrupting the girls. Ginger turns to face me, her flushed cheeks and thrumming pulse making me stare a little longer than I should.
Focus, Cole.
“Remember last Sangria Sunday when you asked me to never let you drink like that again?” She looks at me like I’m crazy. You’d think I’d give up and walk away but apparently I’ve lost my goddamn mind. “How many of those fruity numbers have you had?” I push on. “Cause being in the air, it can make you intoxicated faster. Just so you know.”
Her mouth falls open and she glances from CeCe and Liv back to me with a what the fuck are you doing face because I’m pretty sure my sister doesn’t know I drove Ginger home last time they went to Sangria Sunday.
Awkward.
“Uh … you’re not my brother, remember?” she says, laughing, even though her eyes are begging me to shut up.
“Just saying, save some for Vegas maybe …” I mutter.
Fuck. Even more awkward.
I give up and take my drink back to my seat as Ginger continues to dance. Chris is still watching her, practically licking his lips. When the captain tells everyone to take their seats for the descent, I breathe out a sigh of relief. Longest four fucking hours of my life.
The lights of Vegas are a neon-colored bright spot in the middle of a black abyss as we head for Harry Reid International Airport. It’s the strangest thing to have a fully-fledged city in the middle of the desert, but a thrill runs through me whenever I see it. Because here, anything goes.
“What a fucking crew. Best behavior, hooligans,” Nash says as we travel through the gate, wagging his finger. His smile is wide as we pass some airport slot machines.
We have a plan to check in at the Paris Las Vegas hotel before heading down for dinner, after which we’ll separate from the girls for the night.
The rooms Nash and CeCe have booked us are stunning. Each one a newly renovated Versailles Executive Suite. I enter mine and close the door.
The view is incredible. From my window I look out onto the Sphere and the High Roller.
I take a few minutes to unpack and call my mother. She tells me Mabes had the best night watching Trolls in the backyard on the old projector beside the campfire. I thank her again for staying with my girl, say goodnight, and hop in the shower.
When I’m done in the bathroom that’s fit for a king, I pull on a pair of navy chinos and a crisp white button-down that makes me look a lot more tanned than I should for May, but weekends in the yard and helping on the ranch tend to do that. I finish the outfit with a brown leather belt and matching shoes before giving myself a final glance in the mirror. We’re going uptown, high-rent for this dinner, and when I get down to the common area between the Paris and Horseshoe hotels, my eyes immediately flit to Ginger. She’s standing in the open bar drinking a martini. A chocolate martini, I’m betting.
Her hair is doing that wavy thing it was doing earlier but now it’s half up, and little pieces frame her pretty face. She’s wearing a black strapless dress that looks classic, like something out of the sixties, with a red belt around her small waist. She’s finished the look with gold stilettos. She looks like a pinup. I grit my teeth as she chats easily with Chris.
“Have some hair trouble? That why you’re late?” Wade smirks as I approach the group, the last to arrive.
“I had to check on my daughter, fucker.” I clap him on the shoulder.
“Maybe a little of that and fucking with your hair. You can admit it, we won’t judge.”
“This is all natural, bud, no fucking with required. Don’t be jealous ’cause you’re rocking your dad-hair era.”
I hear Ginger laugh. She’s got a weekend-in-Vegas glow to her and seems more comfortable around Chris than she was on the plane.
I clear my throat loud enough to make my presence known.
“Thank God the supermodel has arrived. I’m starving.” Ginger grins when she sees me and, as we start to walk, she falls into step beside me. We’re heading across to Brasserie B. Nash used his celebrity to get us a private area, and Wade is frothing at the mouth to eat at world-famous chef Bobby Flay’s restaurant. He thinks he’s a Bobby in training.
“You clean up pretty nice, Law Daddy, even though it took forever,” Ginger says to me, a playful smile on her lips.
I lean down to respond so only she can hear. “I had to practice my dance for the all-cop revue.” I waggle my brows at her and she laughs in response.
“Makes sense. Wasn’t sure if you fell asleep up there.”
“Not gonna lie, I thought about it.”
“Game face, buddy. It’s all for them.” She squeezes my upper arm, and a feeling I’ve had under control for years fires through my body. I look over at the Bellagio fountains as we walk, trying to get my head around my thoughts. Maybe it’s just the stress of knowing I need to clean up my act. No more one-night stands. Maybe that’s what’s making me look at Ginger differently? Because she’s safe? I decide that must be it as I eye up Nash and CeCe, whispering in each other’s ears as they walk. I make a gagging sound. “They’re way too fucking happy,” I mutter.
“Sickening, isn’t it?” Ginger grins back up at me.
“Horrifying,” I retort. “Reminds me what a fucking trainwreck my own love life is.”
“Fucking same. You know what? I say we have fun this weekend. Let loose. Partners in crime?” she offers. “Or as you cop types call it, PICs?”
“I’ll be your PIC, but you can’t dip out on me last-minute.” I nod to Chris. “Because it seems like you have someone else willing to take my position.”
“He’s alright.” She holds a ruby red nail up in the air. “But he’s no PIC. He actually told me his shoe size three times. Who just works that into conversation?”
“Pricks trying to get laid,” I scoff without thinking. “And if he’s bragging about it, there’s no way it’s as big as he’s implying.”
“Exactly!” she exclaims as we cross Las Vegas Boulevard. “And gotta stay true to my own rules. I don’t get down with fuckboys.”
I nod, but those words sober me right up. Because she’s talking about guys like me.