Chapter 4
Sam
I CAN’T REMEMBER why I’ve had this stupid one-drink rule.
I’m in total control of things. Matthew and I have hopscotched on the sidewalk, enthusiastically complimented random strangers on their outfits, found people dressed up as movie stars and asked for their autographs, jumped over VIP roped-off areas to see if security would actually remove us – they did – and sung karaoke in a dive bar.
We’ve also spent the past hour talking in the other’s accent, and we’re both terrible at it.
I’m having the time of my life.
I mean, I can’t feel my face, but that’s a problem for future Sam. Right now, I’m snuggled up beside Matthew as we careen down the street in a pedicab, reggaeton music blaring up at us as the guy’s weed-infused voice carries on a one-sided conversation.
Matthew is hot. Have I mentioned that? He’s not huge, but he’s not small either, and he carries himself with the ease of someone who’s definitely got history as an athlete.
I’m guessing football, given we’re in the States.
Back home, I’d know instantly he was a rugger and I’d have grilled him on what position he plays and who his favorite teams are.
His hair is kind of shaggy on top, a couple weeks past due on a cut if I had to guess, but it gives him a boyish look that really works for him.
Between that and the dimple that flashes at me just above his beard on his left cheek when he’s being particularly funny, he’s doing things to my insides.
Not to mention the arm muscles that are abundantly clear, especially now that his arm is wrapped around me, and the way his thighs stretch the ridiculous khakis he’s wearing.
The man has zero style, but no one’s perfect.
The pedicab pulls over and the guy looks back at us. “We’re here.”
“Where’s here?” I ask.
Matthew wiggles his eyebrows. “You’ll see.”
We climb out as Matthew pays, and it occurs to me that I’ve not paid for a thing this evening.
We’re way down the Strip in front of yet another bar.
Matthew grabs my hand and we go in. It’s dimly lit, like they all are, but the music isn’t at an ear-splitting level and the place is smoke-free, which feels like its own kind of miracle.
I take a deep breath and widen my eyes, trying to pull some sobriety into my life.
“Nice, right?” Matthew murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of my ear as he speaks.
Chills race down my arms, and I slow to relish the feeling of his big body pressed against mine. The man is a delicious meal wrapped in a terrible polo shirt and khakis. I hum in response.
“Drink?” he asks.
I nod, my body warming as his hand rests lightly on the small of my back to lead us to the bar. Before we get there, I come to a stop. “Wait.”
He stops and turns.
“Heads, we slow dance to the next song – no matter what it is.”
With an impish smile, he pulls the quarter out of his pocket and hands it to me. “Your dare, your flip.”
I take it and rub the pad of my thumb over the face of it.
It’s nearly smooth, the metal of it warm against my skin.
He called it his lucky coin earlier, which I thought was a joke.
But now that it’s in my hand, I’m beginning to think he meant it.
There’s something about it that feels almost sacred.
I toss the quarter, catch it and fold it onto the top of my hand. Before I make the big reveal, I look up at Matthew.
He’s looking at me with the most open expression I’ve ever seen. There’s a tinge of something else in there, too, a wistfulness perhaps, and it makes me wonder if he’s acting just as out of character as I am. I think he is. I open my mouth to ask, but he nods at my hands instead. “Show me.”
I lift my palm. Tails.
My face must fall, because Matthew laughs and lifts my chin with a gentle, calloused finger. Something inside me, a scaffolding that I didn’t know was there, crumbles to dust. “Let me dance with you anyway, Sam.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he threads our hands together and leads me to a dance floor that I’m pretty sure took its cues from the 1970s, because it’s lit up with giant, multicolored tiles that shift and change with the beat.
A new song starts just as he pulls me into a tight hold, his right hand clasped onto my left, his other palm cradled against the small of my back.
Squares of light come to life around us, bathing us in a fantasy of colors.
Reds, blues, yellows. Every hue revealing a different facet of Matthew’s eyes.
The entire moment feels unreal. Perfect.
Chris Isaak’s haunting voice croons about not wanting to fall in love, and I think he’s right, but I’m helpless to stop it.
I lean my head against Matthew’s chest as he leads, his grip sure and steady as we dance in circles, the two of us in a world of our own making.
He bows his head, his beard pressing against my hair, his lips so close that all I have to do is turn my head and I could feel the press of them against mine.
We sway gently to the music, the guitar’s angsty melody seeming to pull me farther out to sea, but I go willingly, breathing deeply.
My nose is right at the hollow of Matthew’s neck.
He’s shower-fresh, the hint of dryer sheet and mint running below. Home.
When it’s over, I blink and glance up at him. “That was…” I trail off, brain fuzzy.
He smiles down at me and pushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “It was.” Then he releases me and steps back, unmooring me as a new, faster melody swirls around us. But I don’t want to leave.
“Another coin toss?”
“Which is?”
“If it lands on heads, you have to kiss me.”
A slow grin spreads across his face. “You want to kiss me, Sam?”
My cheeks heat. “Do you want to kiss me?”
In answer, he pulls the coin from his pocket and flips, revealing it quickly.
“Heads,” he whispers.
“Heads,” I say back softly.
We lock eyes as he puts the coin away. “Here?”
“Seems like it.” My heartbeat speeds up and I have a hard time catching a full breath.
He steps closer, his palms moving to rest on my hips. They’re warm, weighted perfectly, grounding me even as I fight the urge to run around like I’ve got the zoomies. He tugs me to him.
The move takes me by surprise. I stumble over my own feet, my hands flying to his chest for balance, the rough cotton of his ridiculous shirt bunching beneath my fingers.
“Easy there,” he warns tenderly. “If you’re going to swoon, at least do it after I’ve kissed you.”
I scoff, unwilling to let him see my bruised ego. “You honestly think your kisses are swoon-worthy?”
“Guess you’ll have to find out.” He speaks quietly, his head bent close to mine.
I slide my hands up his chest – his very, very hard chest – over his stupid shirt collar and let them rest on the nape of his neck. Then I lift my gaze to his. “Just think how fun this could have been if we’d kept the mustaches on.”
He smiles, lit by rainbows. “I’m glad they’re not.”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Could’ve been hot.”
“Sam?”
“Yes?”
“Shut up and let me kiss you.”
I tip up on my toes, my breath catching as he lowers his head to meet me halfway.
There are kisses that poets write about. Life-changing ones. Kisses that alter your brain chemistry. Kisses that make you realize that up until this point, you haven’t actually ever been kissed. Not in a way that counts.
The moment our lips meet, all of these things ring true. The feel of his lips against mine, firm and sure, is so earth-shattering that I think I might have died and gone to kissing heaven.
He releases my mouth, then claims it again, a palm coming up to my cheek as his thumb tugs my chin down, opening my lips to allow his tongue to stroke into me.
His beard is rough on my skin, his hair silky as my fingers push into it.
Everything about this moment, this man, is erotic.
Sensual. Powerful. And it tells me he knows exactly how to use his body. Every part of it.
I don’t know how long the kiss goes on, but when he finally releases me, resting his forehead onto mine and grinning like a Cheshire Cat, the only thing I can think is how it’s a shame that I’ll never have a kiss that good again in my life.
He wipes a thumb over my bottom lip. “So. Swoon-worthy?”
I shrug. He is perfectly aware of how life-altering it was. “I’ve had better.”
He grins. “Come on. Let me buy you another drink.”
Time bends and blurs, and Matthew ends up with his watch again but I determine the necklace should stay with him a little longer. Back in the bright part of the Strip – or maybe it’s all bright, who’s to say – we see an entire gaggle of Elvis impersonators standing outside a tent.
I point. “What’s with all the Elvi?”
Matthew laughs. “Elvi?”
“Plural of Elvis. Let’s see what’s going on.”
He threads our fingers together and guides us closer, his touch firm and sure. Finally, it all comes together, and I laugh. “It’s a pop-up marriage event. Get your license and be married by Elvis, all in under ten minutes.”
Matthew’s eyes twinkle. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“That we get married by Elvis?”
He snaps his fingers and points at me. “Bingo.”
“Do I get more kisses?”
“You absolutely get more kisses.”
“Then we should do it. If the coin says so, of course.”
Matthew produces the coin with a flourish. “Of course.”
“Three flips, in a row, and they all have to land on heads.”
He makes a dismissive sound. “Make it harder, Sam – this is marriage we’re talking about.”
“Ten flips in a row. All heads.”
“Better, but let’s go for fifteen.”
I grin. There’s no way it’ll happen, but we’ll have fun while we’re at it. “Done.”
He flips. “Heads.”
“Fourteen to go.”
Another flip. Another landing on heads.
His eyes twinkle in the lights. “Thirteen more. There’s still time to back out.”
“No way!” I turn to the small crowd around us. “We’re in Vegas. You never withdraw from a bet, right?”
“Right,” the crowd agrees.
A woman in a cowboy hat pushes forward and takes the hat off. “Here you go,” she says. “It’s my lucky hat.”
I plop it on and nod at Matthew. “Flip.”
He does, palming the coin and pausing dramatically before revealing yet another head. “Twelve to go.”
The coin lands on heads six more times, and by now, we’ve got a crowd. “Here’s my lucky keychain!” someone says, handing it to Matthew. He tucks it into his back pocket and flips again.
Heads. “Five more, Sam.” His voice is steady. Calm.
My pulse, on the other hand, is through the roof. “Five more.”
I’m handed a lucky scarf, and he’s wearing someone else’s lucky baseball hat.
Three more flips. Three more times it lands on heads.
“Only two to go,” Matthew says, and the crowd whoops.
My hands are sweaty. There’s no way.
Another flip…and it lands on heads again.
The Elvi surround us. “One more time,” calls one of them. “If it lands, I’m donating my services for free.”
“I’ll waive the license fee!” says the woman at the table.
“Flowers are on the house!” calls the florist on the other side.
Because of course they do.
Matthew and I lock eyes. I’ve realized over the span of the night that the starbursts of yellow fade into green before the navy blue takes over. His expression is serene. Far calmer than mine must be. “Ready?” he asks.
No. No. This is madness. “Do it.”
He flips.