Page 51 of Accidental Vegas Vows

“Are you, uh, not worried about Noah getting up?” I asked, the words far breathier than I’d intended.

His gaze flicked to mine, and God fucking dammit, I could tell by the way he looked at me that he knew exactly what was running through my head. “Not now,” he said calmly. “I’ve stationed one of the staff outside his door so he can’t just get out and fling himself off the deck. And I’ll be there to watch him overnight.”

“You seemed stressed watching him earlier.”

“So did you, Liv.”

The muscles beside my lips twitched as a smile tugged at them. “Well, yeah. I didn’t want him to get himself killed.”

Damien’s breathy chuckle filled the air between us just as the pop from the cork freed the wine — oh, that wasn’t wine. That was champagne. I stood no chance. “You’d think five year old’s were suicidal or something,” he grinned, pouring out two chutes worth for both of us. “Didn’t think I’d be as worried as I’ve been. And then the fucking phone call.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked, plucking another shrimp from the tray and shoving it in my mouth. “You looked more stressed after that than I’ve seen you in days.”

His lips pressed into a thin line as he reached for a shrimp himself, picking up the glass of champagne with his free hand. “It was Ethan,” he said. “There are some issues with the lawsuits we’re filing. That’s all.”

“You say that like it isn’t something you should be allowed to stress about. You’re allowed to be stressed, Damien. Anyone would be in your shoes,” I told him, my eyes catching on Sarah as she stepped through the entryway with two hands expertly balancing trays of food.

He was quiet as she placed the food down. Whole lobster, scallops, seared rounds of steak, baked potatoes, thinly sliced sashimi, cooked broccoli, asparagus, medley after medley of grilled vegetables… It was far too much food for the two of us. But it looked fantastic. Far better than Noah’s chicken nuggets.

Sarah slid a loaf of sliced soft bread into the center of the table, a mound of seasoned butter beside it, and despite the grin she flashed us both, she lingered on Damien. Her eyes held his for longer than I expected, and when she spun, her ponytail flicked and bobbed as she walked to the door, shutting it behind her.

“I—”

“Have you had sex with her?”

Wild blue eyes collided with mine faster than lightning as he set his glass on the table. It took a moment for my brain to catch up with my mouth, and the moment it did, I wished I could go back to that blissful ignorance where I hadn’t registered what I’d said, where I hadn’t even asked it, where I hadn’t made it abundantly clear how I’d feel about that scenario.

“No,” he said curtly. “I haven’t.”

“I’m sorry,” I breathed. “I didn’t mean?—”

“You did.”

“I…” I swallowed, my mouth going as dry as the Sonora Desert. He was right. I did mean what I said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have asked that.”

“It’s fine,” he said. But it wasn’t.

“I should, uh, I should eat in my room. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.” I put my knees down, unable to even look him in the eyes, and shifted myself along the soft leather toward the exit of the curved, wrap-around seat.

Something warm and large wrapped around the smallest part of my wrist, stopping me in my tracks. “Don’t,” Damien said, the word just a little guttural. “I wanted you to have dinner with me. I still do.”

“You don’t,” I gulped, looking over my shoulder toward him. I expected a stern expression, something that showed his irritation and his maturity, but that’s not what I found. Instead, his gaze lingered on me softly, dragging down over my too-large shirt and back up to the messy bun atop my head, all hard lines smoothed out except the one between his brows.

“Please,” he rasped. “I don’t care about what you asked or what you think I want. I want you to stay. I want to… fuck, Liv, I just want to spend some time with you. Is that too much? Is that crossing a line?”

His fingers tightened around my wrist. The knot in my throat only grew wider. I didn’t know what to say to him, didn’t know whether to trust my gut or the screaming woman inside my head that I tried to keep locked away, the one that wanted me to stay, wanted me to seat myself on his lap, wanted me to fling myself at him like a lost puppy. I’d chained her up, but my God, she was putting up a fight.

“Liv,” he pleaded.

“Okay,” I sighed, sitting on the soft cushion again and shifting back toward him. I left a little more space than he had, but he let go of me nonetheless.

We picked at the food in silence, nothing but the scraping of knives and forks against porcelain, the rattling engine, and the whipping wind to fill the quiet, dead space. Everything tasted incredible, far better than any restaurant I’d been to, far better than what I’d cooked at his home for myself in the dead of night when I had a moment for myself. It was nicer than the spaghetti he’d made for us four nights ago at ten in the evening, but the lighthearted conversation we’d had then was everything in comparison to the sticky silence we had now.

“You asked about Marissa,” he said, cutting through the emptiness as I pushed a forkful of lobster between my teeth.

Marissa? I thought her name was Sarah.

“The other night. You said something like, I wish I knew what his mom was like so I knew what Noah was missing. I didn’t answer you.” He sipped at his champagne as he leaned back against the padded rear of the seat, one arm outstretched along the edge, his hand just an inch from my back. My mind spun — Marissa was Noah’s mom. “Do you still want to know?”

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