Still, once bitten, twice shy, so it’s time to let these thoughts of her go. I start by releasing her arm.
As we reach the ground floor and exit into the lobby, she says, “I have to admit, I’ll kind of miss seeing you around the office when you’re out here for a few weeks working on Lila’s home.”
And hell, if that comment doesn’t hook into me even more. Before I can show off my mastery of self-control, the unfiltered portion of my brain wrests control. “And you know what? I’ll miss you, too,” I say, and it’s not the horny aliens. It’s just me.
We reach the revolving door and head into the Vegas afternoon sun for the quick walk to the Bellagio.
Natalie points in the direction we came. “I think I cut you off earlier. When we first stepped into the elevator and you said can I just say it?”
I laugh as she rewinds us back to what I’d been thinking as we left the penthouse. “Just . . . holy shit. Lila is the most generous person I’ve ever met.”
“She is generous. But you heard what she said. You’ve earned the right to her generosity.” There’s no teasing now in Natalie’s tone, and her compliment reminds me what matters—being a good guy. At work. In life. With women.
I need to stop thinking of banging Natalie in elevators, and, on that same note, of missing her. That’s girlfriend-level stuff. Natalie is just an employee. Nothing more.
I look at my watch. “It’s nearly four. Think there’s any chance we can find a watering hole willing to serve us at this early hour?” I joke, since it’s Vegas and round-the-clock drinking is not only possible but encouraged.
“Absolutely. Let’s grab something at the Bellagio.”
“Sounds good. How about an early dinner, some drinks, and an estimate?” See? I’m all work.
“And then maybe we can celebrate later and ride the rollercoaster?”
I say yes, because all work and no play makes Wyatt a dull boy.
7
Five hours later, Natalie shows me exactly where she wants to land a knifehand strike to my throat.
“And then just to make sure you’re down, I’d spin around like this,” she says quickly, and executes a fast, low kick in the vicinity of my knee. “But, I’d totally kick you harder, and you’d crash to the ground.” She winks. “That was just my bar kick.”
I shudder. “I’d hate to run into you in a dark alley, Sensei Natalie, whether you’re bringing your bar kick or your karate chop to my neck.”
We’re at a noisy bar with rock music at the New York-New York hotel, since the rollercoaster is here. Natalie is already two drinks in—mojitos are her choice tonight. She’s been detailing exactly what she wants to do in her self-defense videos. Most of the time, she demonstrates the moves on me. Well, not like full demo where I’m flat on my ass, but she’s been pretending to punch me.
Maybe I’m a masochist, but I love it. Or maybe I’m simply an attention hog for this woman. Whatever the reason, the outcome is all good in my book—her hands on me. But then, everything is good right now, because the job is a big green go, and we are celebrating.
We worked up an estimate when we returned to the Bellagio. Natalie emailed it to Lila. Thirty minutes later, Lila wrote back with: “Wonderful! The first check will be deposited on Monday.”
Which means a raise for Natalie, and the path to expansion for me. It also means Natalie’s racing along the highway to buzzed, and I’m not too far behind her. She’s changed from her work clothes. She wears a red skirt with some kind of surreal flower pattern, black heels, and a silky black top. The heels are hot, but flip-flops would have fit the bill, too.
See, I’m an everything guy. I don’t have a particular type when it comes to women. Some gentlemen prefer blondes, some dig redheads, and some go bananas for women with exotic looks. Me? I’m an omnivore when it comes to the ladies, and I have a big, hearty appetite.
Right now, though, with Natalie radiating energy and excitement, I’m thinking blonde with a side of spanking is my favorite. Maybe an appetizer of hot hungry kisses, a main dish of hardcore fucking, and for dessert, we’d go for doubles.
Shit.
I went there again.
I blink away the not-safe-for-work thoughts and try to come up with a generic topic to riff on to get my mind back into the good-guy zone. Something that won’t set my fantasies on fire. Maybe what invoices we need to file. Or new tools to order. Possibly even what’s next on the schedule after this new Vegas job.
But I’m not in the mood to discuss work, so I flash onto something I read earlier in the week. As I’m about to tell her my favorite weird fact I learned recently—cats don’t have collarbones like we do, which explains why they can squeeze into tiny openings the size of their heads—she moves in close to me as Bon Jovi plays on the sound system.
“Look over there,” she says in a bare whisper. “She’s telling him all her furry fantasies.”
I follow her gaze to a couple across the bar. The dude is Brooks Brothers all the way from the navy suit to the loosened red tie. The woman appears to be a colleague, judging from the crisp white blouse, or maybe she’s someone he just closed a business deal with. But with his arm draped over her shoulder, it sure looks as if he’s going to close some other kind of deal.
“His raccoon suit is up in his room,” I say, since Natalie’s game sounds like more fun than cat facts. I tip my forehead to a Goth-looking woman with earplugs and the tattooed guy next to her, knocking back shots. “She dresses up like Little Bo Peep so he can spank her with a . . . fuck, what are they called?”