Chapter 2
TWO
TINA
“Going, going gone,” the woman at the microphone exclaims. “And the winner is, the lady in green. Please come claim your date.”
I did it. I can’t believe I just did that.
Not only did I impulsively buy a last-minute ticket to a charity bachelor auction—of all things—but I bid on one of the bachelors and won a date with him.
A professional gambler at that. He’s about as far away from the blue-blooded Ivy League-types I’ve typically dated in the past.
I don’t know what got into me. Actually, I know exactly what got into me. Two shots of tequila and a seemingly bottomless glass of champagne.
Plus, the MC wasn’t wrong.
The man on stage is incredibly easy on the eyes. What with his chiseled jaw accentuated by a smattering of smartly cropped whiskers, broad shoulders perfectly displayed by a fitted suit, and an easy swagger to his carriage. He’s the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome.
It doesn’t hurt that he’s been pretending to be completely caught off guard and surprised by every person bidding on him. As if he had no idea this would be going on.
I squeeze my thighs together. God, I love a man with humility.
Rising from the table, I accept the polite congratulations of the women around me and head toward the table off to the side of the stage to make my payment and collect my winnings.
As I approach the table, credit card in hand, I get an even better look at the man being ushered toward me.
He’s even taller up close, with a frame that leans more toward solid than lanky. Though he apparently makes his living playing cards, he looks like he could easily carry a damsel in distress out of a tower or throw a football into the end zone if called to serve.
And his eyes… His eyes are like rich pools of milk chocolate with a depth and shine that carry the promise of both intensity and mischief. Like he’s the kind of man you can spend hours talking philosophy with before impulsively ziplining through the city.
They’re the kind of eyes that can stir your soul and twist your insides.
But, also, it doesn’t really matter. I’ve won a few hours of his time. Not a lifetime. I need to get a grip.
Mr. Professional Gambler watches me as I process payment. I can feel the heat from his stare. I wonder what his first impressions are of me. Does he see me as a generous benefactress supporting a worthy cause? Or does he see me as a desperate woman looking for a night out with any man?
In truth, I was just looking for something to do tonight after checking into my room. The concierge suggested I check out the auction. Everything after that is a consequence of impulse and alcohol.
Stepping awkwardly to the side while another bachelor comes to the stage, my date shoves his hands in his pockets. I tighten my grip on the strap of my purse. I’m not sure what we’re supposed to do now.
I’m not even sure what to say.
I clear my throat. “So…”
“So…” he says, voice equally pinched. “You’re Tina.”
“That’s right. And you’re…”
“Josh.”
“Josh,” I repeat with a nod. “I went to school with someone named Josh.”
I wince inwardly. Of course, I went to school with someone named Josh. Every person in the continental U.S. probably went to school with at least one Josh at some point in their life.
“Nice.” He shifts from one foot to the other and scratches his nose. “I can’t remember if I went to school with any Tinas. I must have.”
Oh. My. God. This is even more painful than having a tooth pulled.
Someone walks by balancing a tray of shots.
“Should we grab a drink?” he asks.
Dear God yes. “Sounds like a good idea.”
Motioning with his arm, Josh leads me toward one of the bars set up in the back of the room. His palm lightly presses the small of my back, and my stomach does a backflip.
Taking a deep breath to calm my heightened senses, I feign a deep interest in the drink menu.
“There’s a good selection,” Josh says, looking over my shoulder, his warm breath tickling the back of my neck.
“Hmm,” I agree, even though I have no idea whether or not that’s right.
“What can I get for the two of you?” the bartender asks.
I know what I’d really like. Another shot of tequila. Make it a double.
I also know how that would probably look to this man who is being forced to spend time with me.
When neither of us jumps to speak, the bartender rolls his eyes. “You clearly need some social lubrication.” He reaches toward the well. “Pick your poison.”
“Tequila,” I blurt out.
“Make that two,” Josh says.
Without prompting, the bartender pours us each a double and motions for us to drink. We share another painful look, and Josh raises his glass to mine.
“To making new friends?”
I clink my glass with his. “To hoping these shots do their job.”
He chuckles. “Cheers to that.”
We throw back our shots, both of us gasping for breath after. Our gazes meet again, and this time we burst into laughter.
“How long till those kick in?” he asks, wiping a tear.
I pause to take another gulp of air. “I give it ten minutes.”
“We can do better than that.” He turns back to the bartender with two fingers up and arches an eyebrow at me. “Another round?”
“Let’s do it.”
Armed with our refilled glasses, we grab a cocktail table off to the side. Both of us are visibly more relaxed than we were ten minutes ago.
Taking in the fine quality of his fitted suit, I sigh. “I feel under-dressed.”
“You look gorgeous.” His dark eyes rove up and down my frame. “I noticed how good you looked before the auction.”
I blink in surprise. “Really?”
“Sure did.” He nods slowly. “And I wasn’t in any condition to be noticing beautiful women at that moment, and I still clocked you.”
“Well, thank you.” My cheeks flush under his appreciative stare. “As much I appreciate the compliment, I still feel basic. I mean, you’re in a bowtie.”
“Oh, that.” He groans and tugs off the tie and tosses it carelessly on the tablecloth. He removes his pocket square and cufflinks. “How’s that?”
“Much better.” I cock my head to the side. “Did they make you get a tux for tonight?”
He grits his teeth. “Actually, I was already wearing this for something else.”
“What, were you going to prom?”
“My wedding.”
I burst into another fit of laughter. It takes a full minute for me to realize he isn’t laughing either.
I blink rapidly. “Wait, are you serious.”
“I’m afraid so.” Taking a deep gulp of his tequila, he leans forward and fills me in on the last few weeks of his life.
By the time he finishes with how he ran out on his wedding and accidentally found himself being auctioned off for a date, my jaw is basically on the ground.
“Oh my God.” I blanch. “You poor guy.” I grab two glasses of champagne from a passing server and thrust one at him. “Here. It sounds like you could use this.”
“Thanks.” He once again raises his glass to mine. “To better company.”
“To narrow escapes.” Our glasses clink and we drink.
By now, the full effects of our recent rounds and my pre-gaming are in full effect. I’m not exactly wobbly on my feet, but I’d much rather be sitting than standing at a cocktail table.
“Have you eaten?” I ask.
“Not since breakfast.” He shakes his head. “Should we grab a bite?”
“I could eat.” I rub my stomach which is in real danger of rumbling with hunger. “What’s good and fast around here?”
His lips curve up into a half grin that makes my heart skip a beat. “I know a place.”
Somewhere between a plate of nachos and a few more tequila shots, Josh and I are well past our initial stilted conversation.
Shrugging out of his tuxedo jacket and casting it aside, he leans toward me, shouting to be heard over the mariachi band. “It’s like my buddy Jesse says. I’m too damn trusting.”
“I can totally see it.” I rub my back against the booth and end up wiggling closer to him. “But, also, that old friend from high school was not a good friend.”
“You’re right. She was a bad friend.” He nods emphatically. “Not like you. You’re a good friend.”
“I am a good friend. Just like you would be a great husband.”
“I would be a fucking amazing husband.” He rests an arm behind me on the booth, and we lean even closer. “Every night I’d ask my wife about her day, and really listen. I’d rub her feet when they’re tired. I’d bring her coffee in bed every morning.”
“Amazing. I would love my husband to bring me coffee in bed.” I stroke my chin thoughtfully. “You know, if I was a wife, I think I’d make my husband dinner every night. Not because I’m old-fashioned, or anything. But because I like to cook. And it’s so much work to make a big fuss for one person.”
“Your future husband is the luckiest guy in the world.” Josh shakes his head wistfully. “I can’t remember the last time I had dinner that wasn’t takeout or from the freezer. I don’t even know if my stove works.”
“I can make you dinner to find out.”
“That would be great. And I can get you coffee in bed.”
“It’s a deal.” I smile goofily at him. “We already have a better marriage planned than most people I know.”
“You know, I think you’re right.”
“See, you can tell me when I’m right.” I tap his nose playfully, and he wraps his arm around me, pulling me closer. I rest my head against his shoulder. “You’re already on your way to being the best husband ever.”
“I’m here to serve.” He rubs his cheek against the crown of my head. “We just need someone to pronounce us husband and wife.”
“And to tell you to kiss the bride.” I pull back slightly and pucker my lips.
With a chuckle, he lowers his lips to oblige me.
At first touch, a jolt of electricity shoots through me. The grins slip from our faces as his full lips massage mine.
My eyelids flutter closed. I’m not sure if I breathe. But as the kiss deepens, I lose the need for oxygen. I don’t need it to survive. I need him. I need this.
With a moan, I part my lips for him. My tongue stroking his, earning a groan from deep in his chest. He pulls me even closer. I tangle my fingers in the cropped hair at the back of his head.
Time passes by. Seconds, minutes, maybe days. None of it matters.
All I know is I can’t get enough of this feeling coursing through my veins.
And I never want to stop kissing him. Till death do we part.
A sledgehammer pounding against my brain jolts me awake.
I hiss at the sunlight pouring in.
“Nooo.” I groan and press my hand over my eyes. “Make it stop.”
The drilling stops with a snort, and I lower my hand. Slowly, I turn my still pounding head on my pillow and come face to face with Mr. Professional Gambler.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
That wasn’t a sledgehammer. That was him. Snoring. In bed. My bed.
Holding my breath, I lift the sheets and release a sigh of relief. We’re both still dressed, though our clothes are rumpled.
A sparkle on my left hand catches my notice. My eyes grow even wider as I raise my hand to see exactly what has caught the light.
It’s a ring. A gold ring.
Snapshots flash through my head.
Another round of tequila shots.
More promises of what we’d be like as husband and wife.
Increasingly sloppy kisses.
A twenty-four-hour chapel, signatures on a piece of paper, and a man in a suit declaring us husband and wife.
I turn back to Josh, who is beginning to stir awake.
“Oh. My. God,” I say more loudly. “It wasn’t a dream.”
I just became the biggest Vegas cliché ever. We got married.