Chapter 4
Sloan hadn”t said a word about Dan, but it was clear he had questions brewing behind those brown eyes of his. Anyone would have questions, I understood that.
But he was patient. Didn”t say a thing. And that drove me absolutely batshit crazy.
The restaurant we headed toward was just past the MM Store. Sloan promised he”d been there before, and the food didn”t include chicken broth thready things.
So we walked, and Sloan took in the sights. His arm brushed mine when we”d get jostled by the melee of people pushing brochures to pedestrians, smacking them against their hands to get attention, and occasionally shoving them right in our path.
Through it all, as we dodged them, Sloan said nothing.
Nada.
Not a thing.
He said nothing until I couldn”t take any more nothing.
”Dan is my ex-husband,” I said in a rush, without even a hitch to my step as we continued our trek past the MM Store. ”We were married for an entire two weeks before…”
How did one say, He served me with divorce papers? I mean, it didn”t quite have a nice ring to it, did it now?
”Before we ended it,” I said instead.
That sounded much more reasonable.
I mean, I did have to sign the divorce papers, too, so I was involved.
Sloan slowed, and he looked at me as we walked. Which was dangerous; he might walk into a pole or something. But he also played football, so he probably had excellent spatial awareness.
He held his hand out between us. I took it. He squeezed it.
While the mechanics of the motions were nothing special, there was something keenly sweet about the gesture.
”Then I”m glad we got you out of there,” he said, loud enough to be heard over the general noise of Vegas at night.
My heart glitched the tiniest of beats at his words.
He didn”t ask questions. Didn”t push to know more.
That was…that was…well, dammit, that was nice.
It was nice to have someone not question every part of my history or try to project it into my future.
The crowds got intense outside the MM Store with a celebrity sighting. It wasn”t a Sloan sighting—though I would bet had anyone realized who he was, it would”ve only added to the chaos.
We did our best to scuttle through on our hunt for food that wasn”t candy-coated chocolate pellets.
We had nearly—by mere inches—made it through the throng outside the store when I got distracted by the guy who looked exactly like the lead from the new blockbuster Tarzan and Jane movie.
While the celebrity wasn”t Cher, Sloan and I still ended up in the mosh pit of fans.
”Sloan? Sloan Stevens!?” someone called. Sloan glanced in that direction and in only a matter of seconds, I promptly got shoved out of the way.
Sloan did reach for me, but he was too late. Which was how I found myself tangled in a gaggle of arms and legs. I deftly dodged the lady in pink stripes, nearly going down. For cripes’ sake, there was no escape. The heel on my right boot caught the edge of the sidewalk and snapped.
With that, I clenched my back teeth, mentally cursing my lack of balance; it was easier than cursing about everyone on earth moving forward successfully with their lives while I stayed stuck walking in circles.
Stuck in all the ways. Currently unable to escape a celebrity sighting and pissed about the boots. Oddly choked up that this would be my last outing with this footwear. It probably had nothing to do with the boots, but still… damn. I loved them. Maybe I could salvage?—
The crowd swarmed around me… Nope. There was no going back for the heel.
The whole scenario was more nerve wracking than the time I tried bangs three summers ago and then attempted to grow them long without barrettes. I might dream of being a pop princess, but I was still a girl who couldn”t pull off bangs. That lesson was well and truly learned.
An elbow nearly clocked me in the temple. I scooted out of the way, ducking to maneuver out of the crowd. Maybe if I went down, I could crawl out. Stop, drop, and roll. Or was that only for fires?
If I dropped, I might not get the chance to roll. I could end up trampled, and that”d be worse than losing the boots, and Sloan wouldn”t get his dinner.
But I”d lost him in the fray. There was no Sloan around now.
I tried to get on my tippy toes to see him, but no dice. Drat, this wasn”t fun. I should”ve ordered my singular lemon drop martini, enjoyed it, gone back to the condo, and ordered a pizza.
Honestly, I would forego a martini and settle for one of the kitschy yardstick margaritas.
A calloused hand brushed against my elbow, gently gripping my arm and removing me from the fray. For some reason, this didn”t scare the shit out of me.
I glanced up, up, up into Sloan”s brown eyes.
”You good?” he asked. He”d dropped his hand once my extraction was complete. Still, he looked me over, checking for any damage.
That was nice. Not invasive.
Honestly, never in my life had I been so relieved to see a football player. Wasn”t that a thought I never thought I”d think?
”Sloan.” I blew out a breath. ”You found me.”
”I did.”
Well, wasn”t he just my knight in shining Pendleton?
Even being recognized by a handful of people, with his size and his demeanor, the guy had become a crowd deterrent. Even those who clearly recognized him weren”t making a peep about it. I swore he growled low enough that everyone avoided our vicinity. And with me tucked safely into his personal space bubble, the crowd seemed to part around us.
”You hurt?” he asked, glancing over me as he spoke and seriously giving me goosebumps with the way his gaze trailed over my skin.
”No.” I frowned at my heel-less boot. ”Just my footwear.” My kitten heel, white leather, pointed toe Vegas boots.
There was a bit of a kerfuffle behind me, but it didn”t get close.
Sloan probably pushed it away with an invisible force field or something.
I chanced a glance at my soon-to-be tossed footwear.
”You loved those boots,” Sloan said, with a certainty I wouldn”t have expected from him in a gazillion light years.
I nodded, refusing to get choked up over something as silly as boots—even if they were more than simple footwear. I could count on them to bring out my confidence when I didn”t feel it. They”d been one of my first large purchases when I got my first gig as a backup singer on an international tour.
And they”d been half off.
Sloan gave me a look like he got it. Understood and even commiserated.
Which meant… I had totally misread the situation. This guy had a girlfriend.
Because a guy didn”t understand the loss of a pair of boots unless he either had the same affection for footwear—which I seriously doubted given the state of his boots—or he had someone in his life.
Yes, I”d done the obligatory check, and he wasn”t wearing a ring, but that didn”t mean anything. He hadn”t touched my back at the party, and he”d been quiet most of the way down The Strip. Like he was trying to sort out a puzzle in his brain, and it gave him a headache.
”You”re all partnered up. I knew it,” I stated as a fact. ”Damn. I was getting a tiny crush on you. What with the way you… are you?”
Whoever he was with was a lucky, lucky woman.
He stared at me funny for a long beat, the edges of his lips sort of twitching.
”My mom was into shoes.” Sloan slung his arm around my shoulder. ”She taught me the importance of designer.”
I shivered. Too fucking good to be true.
”I don”t do designer, but I respect the connection a person can have with shoes or handbags,” he continued. ”And I”m not partnered up.”
Did he just say…?
”You”re sure you don”t have a significant other?” For clarity”s sake and all.
Sloan shook his head, his arm still very much draped around me. I snuggled in and gave him a good sniff test.
Oh, he may have been all beard and boots, but he wore exceptional cologne. Something with undertones of sage and sea salt.
”I am single.” He did the lip twitch thing again. ”Tell me the part about the crush again?”
Ha. And hot damn.
Sloan scorched me with the heat in his gaze. My heart beat faster, and my mouth went dry.
This was the perfect one-night stand situation. He was, well, him. I was me. And we had limited bedroom space at the condo.
In fact, I”d be doing everyone a favor if I bunked up with Sloan.
”I said.” I would”ve stepped further into his space to make a move, but without one heel, I worried I might tip right over. ”I”m getting a tiny crush on you.”
Not my best pickup line, but it”d have to do. Truly, I was out of practice. This was the problem when a girl was in a blah-de-dah relationship for too long. I’d totally lost my pickup game swagger.
”All right, then,” he said, simply.
Seriously, that”s all he said.
What the hell? I wasn”t on a compliment fishing expedition, but would it have killed him to mention what that tube dress did for my chest? ”Cause it did a lot.
”I think I missed this whole thing.” I gestured between us. ”I thought you were into me.”
Sometimes, the best thing a girl could do was to not beat around the bush, but to just throw it all out there.
”Maya, I like you.” Sloan chewed on his cheek. ”But I don”t do messy.” Sloan pushed his lips together. ”I prefer things to be simple.”
Well, then he should”ve avoided me. Though, in this case, there was nothing messy about any of it.
”Should we head back to the apartment for other shoes?” Sloan asked, and he had precisely the correct amount of sadness in his tone for the predicament. Surprise ex-husbands showing up out of the blue, ruined shoes, plus no martini equaled a pretty crummy night. Add to that, my stomach was gnawing on itself, asking for a buffet reprieve.
So, yes, I should go back home, raid the fridge, and swap shoes. That made the most sense.
Instead, I wanted to clarify something?—
”This whole thing between us is super simple.” I lifted my eyebrows on purpose.
There was no need for complications between the two of us. Palate cleansers were for fun, not for deep conversations on the Vegas Strip.
”I”m single. I think you”re wicked hot. And I like your flannel,” I said, counting all the reasons this would work. ”Also, your beard. I dig it. And I want nothing other than tonight with you. No offense or anything. I just think we could have fun with no expectations.”
That bought me a grin.
”How”s that for simple?” I asked.
”That”s very… simple.” Were his cheeks blushing red? I couldn”t tell with the beard.
”Your turn.” I tilted my ear to my shoulder.
”We have three options,” he said, a sly grin tracing his mouth.
I didn”t hate the way he licked at his lips as he spoke. Oh no, I didn”t. Not at all. ”I can”t wait to hear them.”
”One, you go shoeless.” He glanced at my feet, a small flirtatious twinkle in his eye.
I wrinkled my nose. ”Out here?”
”This is where we are.” This, he said with a rough, gravelly tone I felt all the way in my panties.
The Strip wasn”t exactly a sandy beach or even a brisk walk through a neighborhood. This was Las Vegas. Who knew what I might step on or in and what bacteria it might harbor.
”Two,” he continued, still with that flirty glint. ”We can go buy new shoes at a store around here.” He lifted a shoulder and the simmering in his gaze?
My, my, my, I liked it.
”I”m game to watch you try on shoes,” he finished, as though he were actually attempting to get me to try on shoes and take off every-freaking-thing else.
This option wasn”t an unfortunate one. Actually, if done correctly, it could be very Cinderella… minus the whole stepsisters and dead parents. (My parents were very much alive.)
”What”s option number three?” I asked.
”We go back to the condo. You change your shoes…” He trailed off like there was more to what he considered.
That was the rub of his three options. Changing my shoes was the most logical option. I had my back-up, second-choice sparkle booties that would work fine. Fine minus a solid dose of kitten-heel confidence.
”Or we both take off our shoes and stay in?” he finished, a slow grin spreading, which highlighted his beard nicely.
Oh. Hey there. There it was.
I”d even get to kiss him and… other stuff. I had never kissed a man with a beard before. Honestly, I hadn”t realized it was a bucket list item until right there at that moment.
”I don”t particularly want to drop a boatload on new shoes.” I smiled what I hoped was a wicked grin with a heavy helping of coy.
”Then you should call your girls so they know you”re staying in,” he suggested. ”They might get worried.”
They wouldn”t. This was Vegas. They”d be worried tomorrow if I didn”t show, but I would text them the A-okay signal tonight, and they”d be good. Especially if I mentioned the broken boot and Sloan.
The two of us wouldn”t get a lemon drop martini or buffet, but we could grab a sidewalk margarita and street tacos on the way back to the condo.
Margaritas paired excellently with one-night-stand bearded men.
This was such a perfect idea to break me back into the social scene of happiness and fun, and out of long-term romance and the relationships lugged along with it.
We found the most adorable margarita vendor. I whipped out my credit card, but Sloan made it there first with his Visa.
”Uh.” I held up my card between two fingers. ”You don”t have to do that.”
”It”s already done.”
Oh, well. That was hard to argue with.
I took a long pull of margarita and praised the heavens above for tequila and a hot guy date. Honestly, most days, I wondered who decided it was a good idea to let me be an adult. It took little to make me happy.
Sloan”s free hand pressed against my waist, and my body responded to that light touch like he”d just kissed the sensitive spot underneath my earlobe.
At that moment, I glanced at Sloan, oh-so-ready to make an entire night full of memories. Wonderful memories.
One-night-only memories that were totally inappropriate.