Chapter 4
Leo
I stood outside Tashi’s door at exactly seven p.m., wearing my favorite Hugo Boss suit—the charcoal one that made me look like I knew what I was doing—with my stomach jittering like it did when I went on my first date with a girl as a teen.
Now I couldn’t even remember the girl’s name. Sarah, or Sally, or something. The date had been that unmemorable. Part of that was my fault. I had no money then, so we had taken a walk in the park.
She never answered my calls again.
I would not be making the same mistake tonight. I’d spent three hours arranging our dinner. A dinner that was supposed to be professional, but in my zeal had drifted into the romantic, something that Orion would do.
Considering what it had taken to pry Orion from her, he was going to kill me.
Ares was going to help him hide the body.
I knocked anyway.
The door opened and whatever speech I’d prepared evaporated like water on hot asphalt.
Tashi stood there in the cocktail dress from the gift shop—the one I’d picked out personally, betting on black because it worked on everyone.
Except I hadn’t factored in what it would do to me when she wore it.
The fabric hugged curves that had been haunting me since that photo, and her hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, still slightly damp from the shower.
“Too much?” she asked, uncertainty flickering across her face.
“Perfect,” I managed. “You look perfect.”
A blush crept up her neck. Good. She should know what she did to people just by existing.
“You said dress up,” she explained, smoothing the dress nervously. “I wasn’t sure if this was—”
Shoot me with an arrow to the heart. How can one woman be this sexy?
“You look perfect.” I offered my arm like a gentleman instead of the idiot currently shorting his own brain. “Shall we?”
She hesitated, then slipped her hand into the crook of my elbow. The touch sent heat through the expensive fabric of my suit, which seemed cosmically unfair given I had worked hard to keep this professional—somewhat.
“Where are we going?” she asked as I guided her toward the private elevator.
“I promised to show you Vegas. You’ll see it in a novel way. Trust me.”
The elevator climbed silently, just the two of us in a confined space that smelled like her shampoo—something citrus and floral that made me want to lean closer and figure out exactly which notes the perfumer had used.
“Leo,” she said carefully. “You’re standing a little too close?”
“Am I? I hadn’t noticed. Sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize. You are my boss. Well, one of them.”
Oh, damn. Not the “you’re my boss” speech.
“Don’t worry, Tashi. We’re having a dinner between colleagues in a completely professional capacity.”
“That’s a lot of qualifiers.”
“I’m a man who believes in clarity.”
“You’re a man who’s full of shit.”
I laughed, surprised and delighted. “That too.”
The elevator doors opened onto the rooftop, and I watched her face as she took it in.
The rooftop terrace stretched out like something from a movie—which made sense, given I’d basically copied the setup from three different rom-coms that Ares had mocked me with his dry, dark humor for watching.
The white linen tablecloth, fine china from the restaurant’s private collection, and candles in hurricane glasses to protect them from the desert breeze.
Fairy lights were strung overhead, because apparently I’d become that guy.
And God, the view.
Vegas spread out below us like a circuit board come to life, the Strip a river of neon cutting through the desert dark. Mountains ringed the valley in shadow, and above it all, stars fought to be seen against the city’s glow.
“Leo,” Tashi breathed. “This is—”
“Too much?” I supplied.
“Incredible.” She moved toward the table, fingers trailing over the white linen. “You did this?”
“I figured you deserve to see Vegas the way it’s meant to be seen. Not from a hospital bed or a hotel suite. The real thing.”
She turned to face me, and the candlelight caught her eyes in a way that made my chest tighten. “This doesn’t feel professional, Leo.”
“This, Tashi, is the Vegas I see. I wanted you to see it too, and maybe you can translate it into your marketing work. We used to say, ‘Experience the magic of Vegas.’ I think that’s the direction we should go, but I haven’t been able to translate it for a modern audience.
It’s one of the reasons I pushed for you to come work here. ”
“Because of my age?”
“Yes.”
Tashi swallowed hard. “Wow, I didn’t realize.” She bit into her lips and wrapped her arms around herself.
“Is this a problem?” I said.
“My age could be. Twenty-four hours ago, my life was on fire—literally—and now I’m standing on a rooftop with a man who is drop-dead handsome”—she gestured at me, which I’d take as a compliment—“and I don’t know whether I’m making good decisions or just running from bad ones.”
Fair point. I pulled out her chair. “Let’s eat and talk business after. I promise the food won’t try to kill you.”
A small smile. “That’s a low bar.”
“I’m a man who meets expectations.”
Her breathing hitched. “I’m sure you do.”
She sat, and I took the seat across from her, far enough to maintain some pretense of propriety. Not that propriety was winning any battles tonight.
I’d arranged for Andre, the head chef, to prepare everything personally. No allergens, no risks, just food that actually tasted like something other than cardboard. The first course arrived via private waiter—I’d stationed staff downstairs to send things up on cue.
Roasted beet salad with arugula and goat cheese and a balsamic reduction. Simple. Elegant. Safe.
Tashi took a bite and closed her eyes. The noise she made should’ve been illegal.
“Good?” I asked, though I knew the answer from the way her shoulders relaxed.
“I haven’t eaten food this good in…” She trailed off. “Ever, maybe. Daniel always picked restaurants that had no allergy accommodations. I usually just had a side salad.”
“Daniel sounds like he sucked.”
“He really did.” She took another bite. “I can’t believe I planned to marry him.”
“People make mistakes when they’re in love.”
“I wasn’t in love,” she said quietly. “I was in denial. There’s a difference.”
I wanted to ask what she meant, but the main course arrived—pan-seared salmon with asparagus and wild rice. More safe choices, more flavors that wouldn’t try to murder her via anaphylaxis.
“Tell me something,” I said as we ate. “What made you take this job? Really. You left everything behind for a hotel with a PR problem and three strangers who could’ve been serial killers for all you knew.”
She laughed. “The interview process was pretty thorough. I figured if you were serial killers, you’d have better things to do than hire a spin doctor.”
“Solid logic.”
“And…” She set down her fork. “I needed to get away. From Daniel, from the life I’d built that wasn’t actually mine.
This felt like a fresh start. Even if the start included setting myself on fire.
Tell me, Leo. What really happened with that microwave?
Was I just in the wrong place at the wrong time? ”
I chose my words carefully. “We don’t know yet. Until then I can’t comment. But I give you points for staying. Someone less brave would have run.”
“Where else would I go?”
“Back to New York. Back to Daniel, even. People choose bad over unknown all the time.”
She shook her head. “I’m done choosing bad.”
“Good.” I raised my wineglass—sparkling cider for her because the doctor had ordered no alcohol for a week, and Pinot Noir for me. “To choosing better.”
She clinked her glass against mine, and for a moment we just sat there, watching Vegas sparkle below us like someone had spilled diamonds across black velvet.
“Can I ask you something personal?” she said.
“Depends on how personal.”
“Why aren’t you married? You, Ares, Orion. Three successful, attractive men in your forties. Statistically, at least one of you should be divorced by now.”
I laughed. “That’s your question? Our marital status?”
“I’m curious. You all seem so…coordinated. Like you’ve been operating as a unit for so long you forgot how to be individuals.”
Perceptive. Damn, she was excellent at reading people. Made sense for marketing, I supposed.
“Our parents died when we were twenty-five,” I said. “Car accident. Drunk driver. One day we had a family, the next day we had insurance money and each other. We made a pact—business first, family first, us first. Everything else was secondary.”
“Including relationships?”
“Especially relationships. We’ve dated. Had girlfriends. But nothing stuck because nothing could compete with the three of us. We built this hotel from nothing. Turned our parents’ death into something that mattered. That kind of bond doesn’t leave room for much else.”
“That sounds lonely.”
“It was practical.” I swirled my wine. “Until recently.”
“What changed recently?”
You, I wanted to say. You showed up and sent us a photo that made us all forget why we agreed to stay single. You walked into our hotel, nearly died, and suddenly practical doesn’t seem as important as keeping you safe.
But I couldn’t say that. Not yet. Not when she was still figuring out if kindness was a trap.
“Let’s just say we’re reassessing priorities,” I said instead.
Dessert arrived—chocolate mousse with fresh berries. I’d triple-checked the ingredients personally. No allergens. No risks. Just sweet and rich and exactly what she deserved.
Tashi took a bite and made that noise again. The one that made me want to hear it in very different contexts.
“This is dangerous,” she said.
“The mousse?”
“All of it. The food, the view, you.” She met my eyes. “I could get used to this. And that terrifies me.”
I reached across the table and took her hand. She didn’t pull away.
“Good,” I said. “Comfortable is overrated. Terrified means you’re alive.”
“Is that your marketing pitch? Choose terror?”
“My marketing pitch is to choose what makes you feel something. Even if that something is scared.” I ran my thumb over her knuckles. “You feel something right now?”
“Yes.”
“Good or bad?”
“Both.” Honest again. “Definitely both.”
We sat there as Vegas hummed below us, her hand in mine, the fairy lights casting shadows across her face.
She looked young and old at the same time—someone who’d been hurt but hadn’t let it break her.
Someone who cried over kindness because she wasn’t used to it.
Someone who made me want to rewrite every rule I’d made about keeping business and pleasure separate.
“Here,” I said, pulling out a portfolio from under the table. “Here are some marketing pitches. Maybe you can do something with them to appeal to a younger audience?”
On cue, a waiter cleared away the dinner service, and I spread the portfolio out on the table.
Tashi pulled her chair closer to look, and her perfume reached my nose, and the heat of her body seemed to warm my heart, and her hand strayed to point out different elements of my sketches—what worked and what didn’t, but honestly, I lost track of anything she said.
As she pointed out something else, my hand bumped into hers.
She sucked in a breath as I gazed into her eyes. “Leo,” she said softly. “What are we doing?”
“Talking business,” I said huskily.
“You know what I mean.”
I did. I also knew Orion would have my head for this, and Ares would lecture me about complications and liability, and that taking this any further violated every professional boundary.
I also knew I didn’t care, as I squeezed her hand. Tonight, I had her on a rooftop, under the stars. I put one arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer to see the portfolio better—at least that’s what I told myself.
“This concept here,” she said, her finger tracing a design. “If we modernize the typography and…”
Her words faded as I became hyperaware of how close we were. The warmth of her body against mine. The way her breath caught when I leaned in to see what she was pointing at. She turned her head. Our faces were inches apart.
“Leo,” she whispered. And she leaned forward and kissed me.