Page 5 of Flexible Standards

We drive a few short miles off the strip into a small residential neighborhood. There are mostly cookie-cutter track homes but we pull up to a more industrial apartment building. I take a quick picture of the address and send it to Jodi, making Sam chuckle.

Once we’re parked, I reach for the handle, but he covers my hand with his, pulling it into my lap. Mere inches away, he could kiss me if he wanted to. Instead, he sits back and brings my knuckles to his lips, brushing a soft kiss against them before releasing my hand. “Allow me.” I roll my eyes at the chivalry but allow him to open my door.

As he helps me out, he keeps my hand firmly in his as he leads me to either a mellow evening of reading, or the next episode of a missing person documentary. He slips the key into the lock and pauses, looking at me.

“What?”

“I just realized that my flat wasn’t straightened up before I left tonight. I didn’t expect guests.”

I place my hand on his and continue turning the key, pushing the door open. “Trust me, it can’t be any worse than mine. It’s littered with moving boxes.”

Sam pushes the door all the way open and turns on the light. I step inside, drop my heels by the front door, and am left in awe. The living room has no less than thirty plants—mounted on the wall, sitting on the table, hanging from the ceiling… While the greenery is a bit overwhelming, I’m rooted in place as I take in the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf that spans the wall.

“You live here?” I sigh wistfully.

He closes the door behind us and mutters, “I told you it was a bit of a mess.”

I turn on my heel. “No, it’s absolutely beautiful. You have your own little library.” I pivot again and make my way to the small couch against one of the walls. As I take a seat, my hands slide over the fabric, and I take a moment to enjoy this little retreat he has built for himself.

Sam stuffs his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “It’s home.”

“Well, it’s gorgeous.”

“So are you,” he blurts but clears his throat. “I mean, thank you.”

Shit, is he actually into me?

“I, uh…” I look down at my sparkly dress and back at him. “Do you have something more comfortable to slip into?”

“Sure,” he laughs, briefly licking his lip. “Make yourself at home, and I’ll see what I can come up with.”

sam

. . .

Irummage through my drawers to find pyjamas for us, grabbing a “read banned books” top and flannel pyjama bottoms. After I’ve changed into my own comfortable clothes, I take her the set I picked out and return to the living room, setting them on the sofa.

Isla is grasping for a book on the shelf that’s out of reach, with her dress riding up the back of her thighs enough that I nearly see her arse. I can’t help coming up behind her to assist. As I approach, she looks over her shoulder, smiling and, thankfully, not catching me admiring her incredible body.

“Sorry, I’ve been meaning to read this one,” she breathes, and the urge to touch her is almost too much.

I retrieve the thick novel, my hand covering hers, and I bring it down. Being this close to her, I get a hint of her intoxicating shampoo or perfume—something floral or herbal, maybe lavender.

I don’t step away, bracing my other hand on the shelf behind her. “One of my favourites.”

She turns to face me, back pressed against the shelves, and I hand her the book; though, it’s mostly sandwiched between us. “Thanks.”

Her eyes dart between mine, and it takes everything in me to keep from kissing her. I brush off the thought; I actually like this girl and don’t want to move too fast. Though I hardly know her, she’s easily the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, on top of her wit and finding her reading a smutty book at a casino bar… She’s too perfect to be real.

We stand there for a moment, stuck in some sort of trance that neither of us can wake from. I throw all caution to the wind and lean in, desperate to taste her lips, only making it an inch before her phone rings with “Wuthering Heights” by Kate Bush.

Isla shuts her eyes tight and winces. “Sorry.” She hands me the book, and I step back to allow her space to retrieve her phone. After a few swipes and taps, she laughs. “It’s just my friend, making sure I’m all right.” She types something in response, and after setting her phone back in her handbag, she picks up the pyjamas. “Mind if I get changed?”

I shake my head once. “Not at all.”

She shuffles off to the other room to dress. As soon as she’s out of sight, I quickly take a survey of my living space, tidying up a few coffee cups I left out and placing them in the sink. My employee badge is sitting on the kitchen counter; I stuff it into a drawer. Based on her response when she discovered I work at the casino, I don’t want to trigger any additional questions. Performing half-naked in front of hundreds of people isn’t how I want her to see me tonight, even though I’m not ashamed of what I do.

A few minutes later, she meanders out of the room, and I’m left speechless seeing her in my clothes. Immediately, a vision of this woman spending her nights here flashes before my eyes, and I struggle to ignore how much I like the idea of having her here for more than tonight. She’s tied her hair into a messy bun, removed her makeup, and is still just as beautiful as when I met her at the bar.

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