Graham nods, looking bemused, and I give a loud whistle. The members of his stag party look up. “Free drinks upstairs,” I say. They whoop and gather close like I’m the Pied Piper.
“I won’t be long,” I tell Lachlan.
He winks at me. “I’ll be here.”
I hesitate for a second and then turn on my heels and drive my merry band of twats onwards.
An hour later I head back into the bar and exhale an involuntary sigh of relief. Lachlan’s still here. It’s not as though I’d thought he’d disappear. He wouldn’t have come all this way only to leave me. But I suppose my uncharacteristic edginess is a testament to the strange intensity of our connection.
When we laugh and talk, the rest of the world blurs. His attention is something I crave—I want to drink it down like a caffeine addict desperate for a morning buzz, and when he’s not around, I feel dull and a little lost.
I remember Rafferty’s warning about one-sided relationships and wonder why I don’t heed it. Because while Lachlan and I have done a lot of talking and laughing, I’ve been the only one actually sharing.
I’ve blithely related enough information that he could write an in-depth biography of me. But if I had to write something about him, it would fill a postage stamp. I know he has a polite relationship with his parents—his father is a retired diplomat, and his parents now live in Spain. I know he grew up in boarding schools. But the only reason I know these things is because I’ve overheard him talking to his mum on occasion. His conversations with her were so bland that at first, I’d thought he was ordering takeaway.
As I move through the bar, I notice how a man at a table near Lachlan is eyeing him. I roll my eyes, because this is another reminder that I need to better control my meandering feelings for him. His charisma is electric and will always draw peoples’ attention.
I’m the flavour of the hour, but that doesn’t mean Lachlan’s taste for me will be constant. I doubt that any of Lachlan’s other men have staple diets of Pot Noodles and bags of party favours. Or disdainful cats who run their messy and disorganised households around their whims. But that’s me, and I refuse to change for anyone.
Men ring him all the time from all over the world and send texts and voice messages with filthy promises. Siren calls from far away that eventually he’ll answer. He can’t even call what we’re doing dating, so it’s pretty safe to say that we’re not in a relationship.
And yet he keeps me off balance. Example—he’s here in Las Vegas. He’d asked me to spend the weekend with him, and when I’d told him I was working, he’d inveigled an invitation from me. I’d thought Graham would be cross with me for bringing someone, but Lachlan charmed him in his usual way, confident the world would bend to his whims.
Lachlan catches sight of me, and his smile of pleasure makes my heart thump. The thoughts I’ve just been mulling about our relationship must be apparent on my face, because his smile quickly fades. He knows there’s something going on, is aware I’ve pulled back a little lately.
I’m protecting myself, and so I haven’t been cheerfully filling his phone with voicemails and texts over the last few weeks. I’d thought this might be a relief for him, that he’d accept it and move on graciously. But here he is, raising hopes I can’t afford to have.
I slide into the seat next to him. His hand is instantly at my back, a courteous gesture that lingers and becomes something else with his smile for me. Something tender. I blink and it vanishes.
“Have you finished for the night?”
“I’m so sorry. I bet you’ve been bored.”
He shakes his head. “It’s never boring to watch you in action, Joe. You’re a peculiar mixture of charm and snark, with a streak of ruthlessness never even seen on Game of Thrones.”
“Well, I’d never have allowed the red wedding.”
“Is a massacre too much for the Home Counties?”
“Not at all. But wearing chainmail violates all the traditions of wedding attire.”
He laughs, and I push back the ever-present lock of hair falling over his forehead. It’s the only part of his body that doesn’t do as it’s told. “I’m still sorry.”
His eyes are intense. “Would it have been easier if I hadn’t come?”
“No. Not as much fun,” I say instantly.
His shoulders relax and his grip on his drink loosens. “Good,” he says carelessly.
It’s too late. I’ve already seen the chink in his armour. I grin at him. “Anyway. Next time I tell you to come to Vegas for a weekend of debauchery, please feel free to tie me to a flat surface until I confess that we’ll only be watching said debauchery and, in my case, policing it.”
“The night is still young,” he says solemnly. His eyes flare. “Is the flat surface a bed? I have no objections to this plan at all.”
I snort. “Even if you flayed my skin off, it’s got to be more pleasant than having to explain to Evan that he used his joint credit card for Happy Escort Services.”
“Shit. He picked a bad one. They usually don’t use headers like that.”
I roll my eyes. “It was a joke, but I’ll bow to your superior knowledge of hookers, lover.”
He chuckles. “I don’t use them. I’m a forensic accountant by trade. I’ve analysed far too many company accounts not to be able to spot hookers and blow.”
“You’re like a particularly attractive sniffer dog.”
He signals to the barman. “Can you drink now?”
“You bet your fucking arse I can. I’ve locked them in a room. The rest is up to god and their own consciences.”
He laughs. “Two Old Fashioneds,” he instructs the barman who’s dressed like he’s just about to open a speakeasy. We’re staying in a hotel whose selling point is a recreation of the 1920s. They advertise old school service mixed with every modern convenience, and the last time I saw so many braces it was in a school production of Bugsy Malone.
I whistle. “You’re on a mission with cocktails. You know what I’m like on those. That means Drunk Joe will make an appearance.”
He leans closer. “Drunk Joe is fun. He has a very interesting sexual way about him.”
I laugh and take the drink with a smile, clinking my glass against his. “You’re right about that. Drunk Joe is a bit of a ho. Cin cin, boo,” I say.
He nods, his eyes full of warm laughter.
Shit. I’m in such trouble over him.
A few hours later we reel into the lift.
“Home, James,” I instruct the attendant as Lachlan shows him his hotel pass.
He smiles. “Floor, sir?”
I stare at him, puzzled. “Pardon?”
“What floor are you staying on?”
“Oh sorry. We need floor ten. I thought you were calculating my odds of being shoved out of bed and having to sleep on the carpet.” I wink. “They’re minimal. Drunk Joe is very talented.”
He looks like he’s fighting a smile.
My companion snorts. “You speak the truth,” he slurs. “I would never throw you out of bed.”
I nod and nod some more, as my head seems to want to make that gesture. “Thank you, Lachlan. How romantic and how entirely not you.”