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“YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT I think of the suite?” Chance gave a cursory glance at the cactus-green walls. There were three footstool things in bone leather of ascending height that would have been a great place to lick Anda until she screamed. Same thing with the stretched cowhide chair.
That was still how he assessed every room, even after seven months without her.
Instead of walking past the door to the bedroom and tormenting himself more with fantasies of her on the four-poster bed, he deliberately turned away.
His sister snorted. And thanks to his excellent 4G coverage, he heard all the layers of the wet rasp. “Of course I do. I’m a mother facing two baskets of laundry and a wall Brielle doodled on next to the television with a Sharpie. Fill me in on the luxurious resort life.”
He opened the French doors to walk out on the low terrace. With a sigh, Chance threw himself down on the low lounger. Jabbed at the button on his cell to switch to speaker. “It looks like a great place to have sex.”
“TMI! I was hoping for something about thread counts and throw pillows and maybe a majestic view?”
“Got one,” he said, looking out at the reflection of the setting sun in the glassy surface of Lake Las Vegas.
“A majestic view?”
“Yup. You know what’s wrong with it?”
“Do I get two guesses? Because there’s the response you should give, and the one I know you’re going to give.”
Chelsea DiMarco was a smart-ass first and foremost. But that was okay.
Because there was a long stretch there, after her husband David died, when she hadn’t sassed him at all. Talk about scary. Chance had vowed, after month three, to take whatever she threw at him for the rest of their lives, as long as she stopped acting like an emotionless zombie.
That vow did not, however, mean that he couldn’t return her snarky volley. “How does a single mom with a full-time job have the extra hours to learn how to mind-read?”
“Very funny. Look, you should say that the view isn’t optimal because I’m talking in your ear about it, instead of keeping you company for real.”
Talk about rewriting history to get pity points. “I invited you. And Brielle.”
“It’s an adults only resort, Chance. That was more of a ‘wish you were here’ postcard greeting than a real invite.”
“I also offered to get Brielle a sitter so you could come with me,” he pointed out. Because it would be nice to have Chelsea in the lounger next to him.
They could clink their longnecks and laugh at that idiot paddle boarder who’d already fallen off three times since Chance sat down. Although she wasn’t around to appreciate it, he’d kept his promise to Anda. Weekly brunches with his sister and niece were now sacred blocks of time on his schedule.
“Which was thoughtful. But I’m not ready to be apart from Brielle overnight. She’d be fine, but I hate the thought of her not getting a goodnight kiss from a parent.”
“I get it,” he said quietly.
Chelsea was a great mom. Brielle wasn’t missing out on anything at this stage in her life by being raised without two parents. Chelsea was the one most affected. The one who was struggling so hard to make a new normal without a partner by her side.
Whereas Chance had never wanted to add someone into his life. Until Anda. Until she’d made him want to do things with her, instead of solo. She’d made him want to turn his life upside down, if that was what it took to fit her in.
Yet here he was, seven months later, all alone.
Not knowing what went wrong. Not having a chance to fix it.
The sound of ice clinking through the speaker brought him back to focus on Chelsea’s voice. “Anyhoo, I’m guessing you’re going to say that Anda is what’s missing from your luxurious, romantic lakeside patio. Because it has been all of six days since you last mentioned her. Clearly, we’re due for your weekly wallow.”
Whoa. That jab to his emotional nuts came out of nowhere. “What happened to a man in touch with his feelings being a good thing?”
“In general, yes. In practice? Since you won’t wallow to your friends or colleagues in case it makes you look pathetic? So that I have to be the sole recipient of your sensitive pining? Honestly, I’m quite over it, Chance.” Chelsea’s voice had sharpened, but now it dropped again. “Frankly, you should be, too.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” And why wasn’t there an ice bucket of beer out here to help him wade through this conversation?
“I guess it means that everyone else learned how to deal with rejection back in high school. We learned how to cope, and more importantly, how to move on. You’ve been a big, sexy stud your whole life. You never learned how to flail.”
Well, he’d lost the girl and his career in the last few months. Guess he was learning this lesson the hard and fast way. And Chance wasn’t loving it.
“Is there a secret time limit on how long my regret is supposed to last? How long I’m allowed to miss her?”
“No. I’m the last person to set a timeline on missing someone.” Chelsea’s voice cracked a little. After a noisy swig from her glass, she continued. “But for your own good, you do have to move on. Stop torturing yourself with what-ifs.”
It was like she could see inside his brain. Or...maybe...Chelsea had a point and he had been whining to her too often and/or too long.
That wasn’t how Chance rolled. You learned fast in stunt work to shake off the pain. Not dwell on it.
Why couldn’t he do that when it came to Anda?
Muttering—because it always chafed a little to admit his sister was right—Chance said, “I hear you.”
“Take this getaway. You’re wallowing there anyway, right?”
“Escaping, I think is how my agent phrased the suggestion. Wallowing would be staying in L.A. and attending the premiere this week of the movie that ended my career. I came to Vegas to escape the constant barrage of media and messages to remind me that I’m not a stuntman anymore.”
“Like I said, wallowing,” Chelsea chortled.
“Thanks for your support.” Chance levered back the lounge chair until he was lying flat. Too bad looking up at the blue sky filled with white, puffball clouds reminded him of the afternoon he’d spent with Anda on the mountain. They’d played “what can you see in the clouds”—the clean and the dirty versions.
God, his sister was so right. Why did his mind always boomerang back to Anda?
“Whatever you choose to label it, Chance, you’re already all in your head for this trip. Think about your lost career one last time. Be mad at the director, be mad at your stupid, no-longer-Hercules-strong leg and be mad that Anda walked out on you. Then lock all of that shit down tight when you come back home.”
“Okay.”
“Or, you could go another way.” Chelsea hummed...something...that she probably imagined to be music fit for a porno. It was highly disturbing. “You could have a sexy fling.”
“If I’m such a pathetic wallower, I can’t imagine any woman being interested in me.”
“You’re still the most ripped man I know, Baby Bro. Plus, you’ve got all that curly hair that drives women wild. If you have any opportunity to bang away your bad mood, jump on it.”
Chance winced. “Nice double entendre.”
“Gotta keep you sharp.”
“I’m feeling a lot better about the tee shirt I bought Brielle in the airport. Says ‘It’s Only a Gambling Problem if I’m Losing.’”
“Perfect. It’ll go over great when I take her to story time at the library.”
Chance rubbed the thigh that ached from the five hour drive out. Yeah, the hour-long flight would’ve been faster, but he’d thought the drive through the desert would clear his head. Instead he had a sore leg and a speeding ticket.
But he also had the best sister in the world patiently waiting on the other end of the line. “Thanks for listening, Chelsea. It helps.”
“Right back atcha.”
“I really do wish you were here.” Chance waited a beat to let her think he was being all mushy before pulling the switcheroo. “Then I could send you down to the bar to get me a beer while I keep soaking up the rays lakeside.”
“You’re such a jerk. Now, don’t you dare order room service. Get off your ass and go see what sort of desperate hotties hang out in the bar at an adults only result. You might get luckier than you expect.”
“Okay, I’ll go. This once.” Not to appease Chelsea. He’d go because the quiet solitude was making things worse. Chance needed some noise, even if it was only the buzz from other people having fun.
Then tomorrow, he’d pack his day with so many exhausting activities he wouldn’t have the chance to think. Wallow. Pine. What if. Whatever.
“I’ll send you a pic of the most expensive drink with a ridiculous garnish to enjoy vicariously.”
“You’re all heart, Bro. I love you.”
“Love you too, Sis.” Chance plucked at his shirt. He’d change before going down. Not because he intended to pick anyone up. No, he’d change so that he was no longer that pathetic, whiny lump of a man.
He had a new job, even if he didn’t like it much. A great family. Might not have his mojo back all the way yet, but Chance knew it was still in him, ready to jump into action.
This week would be his turning point.
He’d go back to his old motto. The very last thing he needed was a woman complicating his life.
Never again.
***
THE MIRRORED WALL IN the enormous bathroom reflected a black plunge bustier covered with big pink blossoms and green leaves. Beading edged the top of the cups that seemed to increase Anda’s bust size by at least double. And the spaghetti straps looked like they were about to snap from the strain.
Crossing her arms over her chest, Anda said, “I’m not going downstairs like this. I’ll get tossed out of the bar for indecency.”
Jenny rolled her eyes. “You’ve got jeans on. Booties. You’re very covered up for Vegas, all things considered. Oh! I almost forgot the last piece. No wonder you’re freaking out.” She hurried down the hallway of the suite to dig in her overstuffed garment bag. “Here.”
Well, the top she’d handed over was black, with three-quarter sleeves rolled up. More coverage, technically. Aside from the fact that it was completely sheer. Anda promptly buttoned it all the way up. “This doesn’t hide the bustier at all.”
“Of course not. What would the point of that be? You’re here to seduce a hottie, remember? This shirt is to give you the illusion of being covered. It’s all psychological.”
“You’re right. I need to get my game face on. This is how I move forward. How I move past Chance.” Anda looked in the mirror and undid two of the buttons. There. Now it draped in between her breasts. She mentally ditched the pale pink lipstick she’d planned to wear and dug for the bright fuchsia in her bag on the marble sink.
They’d gotten to the resort early enough for Jenny to treat her to a blowout in the salon. “Fancy bedhead,” the stylist had called the big waves. Along with the smoky grey eyeshadow, the lipstick completed her look. A “come and get me” look. A look that made Anda feel confident. Powerful. Feminine. Back in control.
This was a stellar plan.
If she could go through with it.
Jenny gave a long, low whistle. “Looking this good? You’ll be able to put the moves on anyone you want.”
“You certainly are the voice of experience. How many hookups have you watched get filmed in the past year?”
“Can’t count that high. The point is, I know what nabs a guy’s interest. You’ve got it, Anda. It’s why we cast you on Man of Her Dreams.” Jenny walked into the living room and sank into the couch opposite the fireplace. She propped her feet on the glass topped table. “Despite your being at the top of our age threshold.”
“Hey, I’m not decrepit. I’m not even thirty.” It was definitely time for Jenny to take a mini-break from television land when she talked like that even in her off-time.
Jenny gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “The camera adds ten years.”
Anda wasn’t sure if she should suck in her stomach or raise her eyebrows in response. “I thought it was ten pounds?”
“That, too. Look, in addition to being pretty, you’ve got a sweetness about you. You don’t have that brittle shell so many women wear as protection. You’re...genuine. That’s like catnip to men.”
“You make it sound like being genuine isn’t the norm. That makes me sad.” She pushed aside the gauzy drapes to look out the floor-to-ceiling windows at sunset, reflecting streaks of oranges and pinks in the lake.
“See? Right there, how you’re all caring about the state of...people? That’s the stuff. Do that more.”
“Jenny, I’m being serious.”
“Anda, so am I. Sure, Chance used you. But he had the good sense and good taste to choose the best of the best. Keep that in mind. He could’ve played the same game with any of the women. Take the compliment. Ditch the rest.”
“You’re right. He wanted me.” He just didn’t want to keep me. Ouch. That inner monologue needed a gag order. “Men shall want me. Lots of men. I shall be discriminating.”
“That’s the spirit. Want me to come with you?”
“No. I’ve had enough of being watched. I need to do this on my own. We made you a reservation at that sushi restaurant, remember? Enjoy yourself. Get your sake on.”
Anda waved, and then ran back into the bathroom. She sprayed herself liberally with her lucky perfume. Lucky in that it drove Chance wild. It wasn’t like she was sinking back into the swamp of remembering him. Merely that it would probably have an equal effect on other men.
Mmm-hmm.
I am beautiful. I am in charge of what happens next. Anda repeated the phrase down the long hallway, the short elevator ride, and through the almost empty lobby. It was that twilight hour between pool-lounging daytime and kicked-up nighttime. A few women in blinged out dresses huddled by the door. They were probably waiting for a limo to take them to the Strip.
Anda was grateful this resort was outside the main drag by a few miles. The lights of the Strip were, of course, visible in the desert darkness as a golden blur. But a casino bar or club seemed too overwhelming. Like trying to ski a black diamond run the first time out. This resort would do just fine for her next step in recovery.
The floor-to-ceiling windows of the bar actually faced downtown and its sparkling lights. An open rectangle surrounding fast-moving bartenders sat in the center of the space. It had light-streaked purple panels and matching high stools with maybe two inches of back. A few were filled with obvious couples. A bachelorette party filled the corner booth, shrieking—or maybe laughing—repeatedly while shimmying to the loud music.
But there were lone men in the bar, too. Anda’s gaze flitted over a duo in cowboy shirts, hats and bolo ties. Undoubtedly nice, but not her style. The pack of bro-dudes clinking shots of what she’d bet was Jäger would no doubt aim themselves at the bachelorettes before long.
There was one guy, though. Smart enough not to bother with the almost backless stool. He leaned, hip-shot, against the bar, which gave Anda a great view of his tight ass and the way his black slacks outlined long, muscular legs. They went well with the almost impossibly broad shoulders filling out a pale blue shirt. His physique reminded her of Chance. As did his curly hair.
But it was much shorter than Chance’s. Which made him hot but different. Which sounded right up her alley.
Anda fluffed her hair. Reminded herself that the plan was solid. A hookup that she controlled would fully recharge her feminine power. It would fully heal the gaping wound to her ego left by Chance DiMarco.
It would be fun. After seven months of moping, that was reason enough to jump in with both feet.
She splayed her hands across his shoulder blades. Popped up on tiptoe to lean over and whisper in his ear, after letting her hair fall forward to brush his cheek. “I think you’re hot. I’d like to buy you a drink and see what happens next.”
His muscles tightened to pure steel under her palms. Slowly, as if being turned by a crank, the stranger’s head angled around until it was in profile to her.
“I’d like to see what happens next myself,” Chance said.
This was not part of her plan.