Page 66 of Game Changer
Thirty- four
Ethan
I may have splurged on the hotel.
Okay, Idefinitelysplurged on the hotel.
The Bellagio is a five-star resort in Vegas, and when we set foot on the marble floors with gold porcelain accents and painted ceilings that could have belonged in the Roman Empire, it wasn’t only Maya who felt out of place. This is the nicest place I’ve ever stayed; we’re only here for one night, so I wanted to make it count.
Plus, while I’m unpacking and Maya squeals over the hotel’s fuzzy robes, it’s 100 percent worth it.
“They’resosoft!” she coos. I hold back a laugh when she pokes her head out of the bathroom door. “Do hotels always give free samples of shampoo?”
I’m reminded that although this is the most luxurious hotel I’ve ever been to, it’s one of the firsts for her. It’s a welcome distraction given I’ve been on edge since we passed the Arizona state line. Traveling has always been tough, but Vegas? I may be in over my head. Our view of the strip showcases just how busy the nightlife is as we get closer to dinner, and the knot in my stomach continues to grow.
“Ethan?” Maya waves her hand to bring me back to the present.
“What?” I almost forgot she asked me a question. “Oh, sorry. Yeah, there’s usually free samples. You can take them home if you want.”
She’s supposed to be getting ready for dinner since our reservation is in an hour, but I don’t even think about reminding her of the time. The worst way to get into trouble with a woman? Rushing them. I’ve learned from my mother and sister that it’s a quick way to get yourself in the doghouse.
“We don’t have to go to whatever you’re planning,” she whispers. “I’m fine ordering room service and staring at this incredible-ass view.”
Of course she would be. Maya is always thinking of everyone but herself, and it’s one of the main reasons I wanted to bring her here. She deserves a night of luxury. This trip is all about her, and I don’t want to make it about myself. It’s why I’m pushing through this even though my anxiety urges me to accept her offer and hide away in our room. Just the two of us.
For her, I’m willing to come out of my shell occasionally.
I shake my head. “Nah. I didn’t bring you all this way to not follow through with what I have planned.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Plus, I’m dying to see whatever dress it is you bought today. You were mighty secretive about it.”
“Because I wanted you to get the full picture! I have to touch up my makeup.”
I roll my eyes. “You look perfect to me, but if you feel it needs it, then by all means.”
“It does.” And with an affirmative nod, she shuts the bathroom door and gets to work.
~
“Sorry! I know I took forever, but I wanted to look perfect for . . . well, I wasn’t informed what we’re doing, but beauty takes time, okay?”
“It’s fine. I wasn’t—” When I glance up from my phone, every coherent thought leaves my head instantly. My brain cells stop functioning and my world comes to a standstill like someone just hit Pause in the middle of an action scene. “I wasn’t—” Nope. Still not functioning.
Maya giggles, biting the inside of her cheek while she gives me a spin to showcase her outfit. It’s a tight pink minidress that barely grazes her midthigh. It showcases her legs and silky tan skin, and I’m drooling like a dog at the pink stilettos on her feet, which the saleswoman claimed were the same shade as her dress.
She was right.
Waves of black hair fall like the ocean at midnight down her back, and I’m itching to rake my hands through it, but that isn’t even the sexiest part about her tonight. She exudes confidence with every step she takes toward the bed where I’m sitting. I can tell that shefeelsbeautiful, and that was the goal. It radiates from the glow of her cheeks to the beam of her smile, and with the city lights reflecting off her face, I’ve never seen her look more intoxicatingly stunning than now.
I roll my lips together, trying but failing to come up with words. “You look . . .”
“Hot. I know.” She grins proudly.
“That’s the easiest word to describe you, but it’s insufficient. You’re so much more than that.”
An emotion that I don’t recognize flickers in her eyes. “You’d be the first to think so. Men usually wanted me for one thing, so every pickup line consisted of trying to get into my pants. It never went beyond that, which is—oh, fuck. I need to fix my strap.”
