Page 13 of Vegas Baby

“No. Not ever and before you ask, no, I’m not looking to either. I live in the real world and don’t believe everybody needs to find the elusive happily-ever-after. We’re all flawed.”

A fact she’d grown increasingly aware of the older she became. She’d never thought of herself as the jealous type until Sam had drawn out every single one of her childhood insecurities. Raina had gone off the deep end and into a dark place. She stifled an involuntary rush of shame at the memory. It was in the past and she’d apologized to Sam. He’d forgiven her but she’d never forgiven herself. “Flaws make us human. I can honestly say I understand your reluctance but I do believe in HEAs, just not the Hollywood princess movie type HEA. Love comes in many combinations and you need to find the right fit to open your mind up to the possibilities.”

“If you say so.” But he didn’t sound convinced.

At some point in his life, somebody had done a tap dance on his heart, every instinct told her as much. What happened in his life to make him so cynical? She clutched the pencil tighter, wanting to ask, but hesitant to cross the red line. “Well, I’ve never been engaged nor do I have any husbands hiding out ready to pounce on you.”

“I need something to wipe my hands on. Do you have any tissues in your purse?” He stood and arched his back. The shirt rode up to expose his taut belly before he rolled his shoulders forward.

Rattled by the sight and unsure why, she shot to her feet. It wasn’t like this was the first time she’d seen a guy’s body but something about Howler hit a primal chord within her. She rushed to get her purse, but a quick search inside came up empty. “I’m sorry, I don’t have anything.”

“Shit.” He settled his knees back on the ground and tightened the lug nuts on the spare tire. “I need some rags. Do you still have the ratty robe in your suitcase?”

Lucky for her, he seemed oblivious to her flustered state. Keep it together, Raina. She’d have to be blind not to notice he was attractive, but he was also annoying, and stubborn. You forgot sexy. Shut up, Raina. “Nice try but no, we’re not sacrificing my robe. But I do have some makeup removal wipes. Not sure why I didn’t think of those earlier.” Because you were busy drooling over him. “The mineral oil in them should do the trick. If they can remove mascara, they can remove anything.”

Retrieving her cosmetic bag from the trunk, she returned to her seat. Glad for something to do, she dug out the wipes. Raina caught a glimpse of herself in the small mirror. Flushed cheeks, from the heat of the desert or from him, she couldn’t be certain, perhaps a mixture of both. Either way, her hormones were in high gear and she needed to get herself under control. She sat back on her perch, closed the case, and retrieved her notepad. “Okay, I have your birthdate, your parents have passed on, you’ve never been married nor do you have a girlfriend. What’s your favorite color?”

“Blue.” He said, grunting as he turned the tire iron.

“Just blue? Not sky blue or navy blue, or azure?”

He cast her an exasperated look. “What does it matter what color of blue? Blue is blue.”

She tapped her pencil against her chin. Every little detail mattered. Or are you simply being nosy? For some reason, her fascination with him was growing at an alarming rate. There was more to him than mere surface and she wanted to know what made him tick. Of course, turnabout was fair play. By asking him a bunch of questions, she’d be forced to reciprocate. “No, it’s not.”

“Okay, then the color of your eyes, kind of smoky but translucent at the same time. And in a certain light, they’re so dark, they’re almost purple.”

The pencil stilled, her spine melting a little bit at the off-handed compliment until she straightened her back. One little compliment and she was a puddle at his feet. Pathetic. “Excellent response, very quote, romantic, unquote.”

“I have my moments,” he said with a small smirk.

And that was one of them. Time to move on to a safer subject. “I notice you wear a lot of navy and royal blue. Both good colors for your skin tone.”

“I have a guy who picks out my clothes. As long as they’re fashionable, I don’t give a shit about their color. For work, it’s all about image.”

He wore the clothes well, a walking designer ad. While not classically handsome, his broad nose and rectangular jaw added to his overt masculinity.

The softness towards him of seconds before evaporated. It was like pulling teeth with this one. “The name of this personal shopper is?”

“What does it matter what his name is? Who’ll be asking?”

She put her finger to her lips and rolled her eyes. How could such a smart man be this clueless? “Who’s going to ask? Let’s run through this. I’m at the wedding and my hostess says ‘Raina, I love your husband’s tie, where did he get it.’ Me, I have no clue. Some guy picks out his clothes. Her ‘some guy?’ Then she’ll give me a look that says, ‘you don’t know where he buys his clothes? What kind of a wife are you?’”

“That’s ridiculous and antiquated,” he argued, banging the hubcap back into place. “We’re newlyweds, nobody would expect you to know that.”

“Wouldn’t they? How much do you want to bet I get asked some random question like that?” she asked, arms crossed. For a man who dated a lot, he had a lot to learn about women. “You’re thinking like a single man.”

“Because I am one.” He rolled the flat tire to the back of the car, a tick forming in his jaw.

“No, you’re not, well, you are a man,” she said, unable to divert her attention away when he lifted the heavy tire, the effort defining every muscle in his neck and chest. Yes, he was a man, a very attractive man who happened to be glaring at her. “But you’re not, um single, not this weekend. You’re married and for better or worse, you need to trust me on this. Who’s your personal shopper?”

“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?” he said, slamming the trunk.

“And since you’re an asshole, I guess it’s fitting. I must say, for someone whose idea this was to get to know one another, you sure are being stingy with your answers. Now please, give me the name.” And for the love of Pete, put some clothes on.

Chapter Six

Howler wiped his hand with the facial cloth that she handed him, the astringent smell hanging in the dense desert air. He’d be sweating bullets if the intense heat hadn’t dried every bit of moisture his skin tried to produce. Yet nothing discomforted him more than the woman sitting on the suitcase, notepad in hand. She was on a roll with the questions and as much as he wanted to avoid answering any more, this was his lame-ass idea.

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