Thank You for Listening(19)

But it lasted long enough to reach puberty.

Nick moved deeper into her as though they had known each other for years, his hands finding hers at her sides, his mouth soft and firm and warm and powerful and everything good she’d forgotten existed in this world.

When he pulled away and she opened her eye, she found him smiling down at her. “You should collect your winnings,” he whispered.

“I already did.”

His laugh propelled them apart. The croupier exchanged Sewanee’s chips for a single $1,000 one that she dropped into her purse. Nick took her arm, steering her toward a quieter corner of the casino. Well, as quiet as a Las Vegas casino corner could be on a Saturday night.

They were both breathing heavily. His eyes looked slightly glassy and his tie was askew and her legs shook a bit and just as she said, “I don’t want you to go,” he said, “I don’t want to go.”

They broke. They laughed. Kept laughing. They laughed so hard, they bent at the waist. She pushed him gently, so he pushed her back and she tottered in her heels, crashed into a swiveling leather chair in front of a slot machine, which just made them laugh harder. Why? This wasn’t funny. Nothing about this was funny.

But it was playful. It was sexy. It was a level of intimacy she had imagined, but never experienced.

Seconds ticked by. A minute. Their breathing steadied. They straightened. Nick stepped toward her and took her face in his hands. They smiled weakly at each other.

Eventually his hands fell to her shoulders. “I’m guessing you don’t often find yourself in Dublin?”

She shook her head. She had to remind herself to use the Texas accent when she answered: “I’ve never found myself anywhere.” She heard how this sounded, so added, “Never been there, actually.”

He seemed to come out of a trance. He slid his hands down her arms and dropped contact. He took another breath.

She cupped her elbows, holding herself, suddenly cold. “Maybe this is better,” she said.

“How’s that?”

“Maybe this is the whole story. I mean, what are the chances?”

“Of what?”

“Of this being as good as we imagine it would be.”

He grinned at her. “But what if it were?”

She bit her lip.

Roys she could handle. Chuck and Jimbos–Jim and Chuckbos?–she could deal with. Nick was singular. Entirely uncharted waters.

On the one hand, Sewanee was ready for him to go, for the evening to end. Curtain closes, house lights come on, makeup comes off. On the other hand, she was ready to drop the phony accent, the fictitious persona, and make everything real. Curtain opens, lights dim, everything comes off.

But that was impossible.

So instead, she said, “How would you write the rest of the story?”

“Whaddaya mean?”

She stepped forward. “There is a quiz.”

He pointed a finger at her. “I knew I needed a pen.”

“What’s the Women’s Fiction ending? And what’s the Romance one?”

He laughed. “Right. Grand. Here goes.” He took a deep breath. “Women’s Fiction–I want it on record I still hate the name.”

“Get in line.”

He paused. “I wrestle with my decision to leave. I’ll hate myself forever, but I do it. I probably have a fiancée. And there’s probably a war on. We live completely different lives, struggle with the unfairness of it all.”

Sewanee was smiling so wide her jaw ached.

“Thirty years later, we cross paths.” He gestured at the casino. “We’re back here. So much has happened. So much sacrificed. And yet, here we are, together at last.”

Sewanee tilted her head. “Engh,” she began, but Nick held up a hand.

“But. I’ve some mysterious disease for which there’s no known cure. And I die. No HEA!” Smiling victoriously, he held out his hands as if he’d set a beautiful table and wanted her approval.

Sewanee chortled. “Bravo! And the Romance version?”

“This one’s easy.” He stepped closer. “I blow off my flight. We go upstairs. What happens is . . . well.” He whispered huskily, “Page sex.” She laughed. “A fantasy come to life, isn’t it? Next day, we part, but you . . . you’re preggo, aren’t ya? Cut to: One Year Later. A job across the pond. You bundle up your–our–infant son and show up to your first day of work and your new boss is, wait for it now . . . me. Shocking, I know. You don’t tell me about our son–I don’t know why, exactly, but you don’t–and we agree to conduct ourselves properly at work. Then. One day. My desire overtakes me and I want, nay, I must have you.”

Sewanee giggled, her cheeks pinking. Nick stepped even closer. “I drag you into my office. Lock the door. Sweep everything off the desk, all man-like, lots of growling. I pick you up, set you down on it, right there on the edge. I push up that skirt that’s been driving me mad, open your–”

“Okay, okay, Mr. Fast Learner. I get the picture.”

“You sure?”

“Tease.”

“You have no idea.”

Sewanee took the deepest of breaths. “Then what?”

“Well. After that there’s no way you can continue to work for me. So you quit. I chase after you and . . .” He looked past her shoulder, thinking. “And . . . I offer you money–because I’m a billionaire, of course–money to start the nonprofit you’ve dreamed of starting. Something with kittens. But then I hear, off in another room . . . Is that the cry of a forlorn kitten? Or is that a baby?!”