Page 14 of The Proposal
She uses a few colorful words to get the behemoth over the threshold.
“You could’ve just let me pull it,” I say, repeating the offer I gave her no less than twenty times since we left her room.
“I’m capable.”
“Barely.”
She jams her elbow into my stomach. I humor her by groaning.
Her cheeks are still pink from our conversation a few minutes ago. The rosiness makes me wonder what she looks like after an orgasm—something I’ve wondered too many times to count.
How could I not think about that? Blakely Evans is a wild mix of beautiful, pretty, and sinful.
High, sculpted cheekbones. Delicate, soft shoulders. Dangerously wicked curves.
A gold fleck shines in her eyes when she’s turned on. She nibbles her bottom lip when she’s nervous. She smells like cinnamon and oranges and tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s feeling self-conscious.
Her looks got my attention many years ago, but her personality kept it. And if she wasn’t my best friend’s little sister, andifI was a man who wanted a girlfriend, I might risk asking her out. But it would be a risk because it’s Blakely. She might be the only woman who would turn me down.She’s also the only woman I’ve ever considered as the elusive what-if, too.
“Oh my God, Renn,” Blakely says, abandoning her bag in the foyer and hurrying into the suite. “This isincredible.”
“I really hoped you’d be saying that in a different capacity right about now, but whatever,” I mutter loud enough for her to hear.
She looks at me over her shoulder and grins.
Damn her.
When Brock suggested that we fly to Vegas this morning, I was on board immediately.
Being around Blakely always feels like a vacation—like a break from reality. She doesn’t treat me like I’m anything special. With her, I’m not a professional athlete who can further her career with my contact list. She doesn’t give a damn that my family is one of the wealthiest in the country.Does she even know that? I don’t have to worry about ulterior motives, or if I say or do something dumb, she will send it to the tabloids.
Or, worse, an attorney.
I lean against the wall and watch her take in the space.
“Have you stayed here before?” she asks, her fingers trailing along the wet bar. “Or did you just luck into this?”
“I’ve stayed here a couple of times.”Like the time I bought it.
She hums, strolling through the sitting room and past a spiral staircase that sold me on the property. I didn’t need, or want, a place in Vegas—or anywhere for that matter. But Dad kept chirping at me to secure a place to relax.“You need a getaway, son. You can’t be a wanderer forever.”And Gannon was on my ass about investing my money in real estate todiversify and hedge against inflation, whatever that means.
So I did the one thing that I could think of that would be taking their advice while also irritating the fuck out of them. I found a new hotel selling penthouse suites and bought one.In Sin City.
“Holy shit.Look at this,” Blakely says, getting to the other end of the sitting area.
The far side opens into an airy atrium. The ceilings are high, opening to the loft above it, and it’s enclosed on two sides by floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Strip. A long white marble table sits in the center of the room. I have no idea its purpose because the kitchen is on the far side of the suite, but it came with the place.
Blakely stops at the glass wall and stares across the sea of buildings and flashing lights.
“Wait until it’s dark,” I say. “It’s even more impressive then.”
“I don’t know how it could be.Just look at that.” She motions toward the outside, eyes sparkling. “It’s like you’re in a castle up here. It’s incredible.”
Her excitement delivers a satisfaction that knocks me sideways.
When I first met Blakely, she was dating Edward fucking DiNozzo—a giant asshole who didn’t deserve her.We’ve played on the same team a couple of times. He’s the worst. I sat across from her at dinner that night, trying not to stare.
She was timid that evening, anxious even. It was like she was a woman dying to contribute more to the conversation but was afraid the world would burn down if she did. It was a challenge that night to get her to laugh. Granted, I wanted to make it happen to piss off a haughty DiNozzo just as much as I wanted to hear it for myself. But once she gave it to me—a bright, head-thrown-back giggle, I made it my mission to get her to respond like that as often as I could.
