Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Erik looks to the left as he merges onto the highway, and I take the opportunity to study him. It’s not the first time I’ve observed how handsome he is, but tonight, he’s even more so. There’s dark stubble on his rugged jaw, and the way his brown hair is tousled, longer on top and fading to a short buzz at his neck, has me feeling like I’m seeing him for the first time.
I’m accustomed to his presence in my life; I’ve known him since we were children, but now there’s a sense of mystery about him, something unfamiliar, and he’s even more appealing because of it. His arm, resting on the center console, is more defined, more muscular than I realized. He looks so strong.
“I have gambled, yes,” he says, glancing my way, “but it’s not something I make a habit of. Will this be your first time in a casino?”
“I’ve been in the big resort hotels for events like weddings, but I haven’t done more than walk through the gambling areas.”
“Ah, if I had a dollar for every sermon we heard that preached the sins of gambling,” Erik says.
“We’d have enough money to buy our own casino.”
When he laughs at my joke, his hand comes to briefly rest on my knee. Him touching me isn’t new. I’ve always been aware of it, and it made me feel warm and safe, but tonight it’s making me feel something else, too.
“We’re going to a small place,” he says. “The big casinos can be overwhelming, not to mention they make it harder to win, if you’re interested in trying slot machines.”
“That would be truly sinful,” I say, and his hand gives my leg a squeeze before returning to the gear shift.
The casino is called Metro Station, which I learn from the logo on its doors as we enter from the parking garage. It’s on Las Vegas Boulevard, but not on the Strip proper.
“This is nice.” My head is swiveling, trying to take it all in. The decor is done in tasteful shades of copper and blue. Elaborate light fixtures look like they could be art museum installations. Along a far wall, floor-to-ceiling video screens flash images of impossibly stylish people.
As for the actual patrons, most of them don’t look too fancy, and I’m relieved that I don’t feel out of place. Many people are in jeans, a good portion of them looking much more casual than I do.
It’s crowded, but not uncomfortably so. Sounds of a live band filter in from some unseen stage.
“Do you want to try your luck at a slot machine?” Erik asks.
Banks of machines stretch out as far as the eye can see. The only place that’s clear of them is a lounge to our left, where a shimmering bar is backed by a striking abstract mural.
“I’d like a drink,” I say on impulse, before I can overthink it.
Erik’s eyebrows shoot up. “Have you ever had liquor?” He’s well aware of the church’s teachings on the debauchery of drinking.
“No. That’s the point.” I’ve had wine before, but not much, and not often.
I’ve been legally allowed to drink for over five years, yet I’ve avoided it due to the messages so ingrained in me. Of course, people can overindulge and do stupid or even dangerous things when they drink, but surely having one cocktail wouldn’t be so bad.
Erik takes my hand and steers us over to the bar, where I slide onto a stool. A flicker of fear chills through me, my stomach goes tight, and I wonder if I’ve made a mistake. What if someone from church sees me here?
Never mind the rationale that someone from church wouldn’t be here. Not the faithfuls, anyway—only the wayward souls like me.
As I’m trying to calm my nerves, the bartender comes over. I look up to see a ridiculously handsome man whose dark hair and intensely bright blue eyes make me think of fallen angels.
My misgivings about coming to the bar evaporate as the man smiles at me. When I realize I’m staring, I look away, my face heating as if I’m standing out in the desert in mid-July.
When I risk another glance, I find him leaning down, elbows on the bar right in front of me. Completely ignoring Erik, who’s on the stool next to me, the man speaks in a low voice. “What’s your name?”
I swallow and lick my lips, remembering my lipstick, and tell myself to behave like someone who belongs here and knows what they’re doing. I force myself to look up and meet his smoldering gaze. “Ava. What’s yours?”
“I’m Gray.” That smile. “What can I get for you, Ava?”
“Um …” It’s impossible to pretend that I’m not flustered by the power of this man’s attention, and by my own attraction to him. When I realize I have no idea what to order, I look to Erik for help.