Good Girl(2)

"What's your name?"

"Lydia."

"Lydia," he repeats, his eyes on mine. Hearing him say my name must be some kind of foreplay for me because my heart is about to beat out of my chest. His voice is low and smooth, commanding and sexy as hell. "Not here," he states and takes my hand in his.

His hand is warm wrapped around mine and the simple physical contact sends goosebumps across my skin. Then he's moving, my hand in his as he guides us past the bar. "Brady, I'm using your office for a minute," he calls out to someone behind the bar. He doesn't so much as pause for a response, and a moment later we're alone.

The first thing I notice is that the office is nicer than I'd have expected for a bar. A large desk is before me, its surface tidy with a closed laptop atop it and a single pen lying beside it. A leather chesterfield sofa sits along the wall with an expensive but well-worn-in vibe.

The second thing I notice is the quiet. I hadn't thought it excessively loud in the bar, but from behind a closed door I realize how quiet it is without the clink of ice and the thumps of bottles. With only our breathing and my heartbeat echoing in my ears.

That is all the time I have for observation because he's turned to face me and he's tilted my chin up with his fingertip. Okay, one more observation. He smells amazing. He smells like someone I want to lie on top of, with my head tucked against his chest while he winds strands of my hair around his fingers. I know that's technically not a smell, but trust me on this. He smells like clean laundry and spice and virility. I want to climb all over him.

His eyes are hooded, his gaze moving from my eyes to my lips and back again with an unhurried confidence. I don't realize I'm holding my breath until he reminds me to breathe. His expression is a combination of aroused and amused.

I take a breath and wet my lips with my tongue. I resist bouncing on my toes, but barely. There's a hint of a smile on his lips as he cups my jaw with one hand, the other coming to rest on my waist. His hand is so warm through the thin layer of my tank top, it almost feels like he's touching me directly. Then he bends his head to mine and kisses me.

Softly.

The hand at my waist stays where it is. The pressure of his fingers is firm, safe. An unnecessary but much-liked anchor because I'm not going anywhere. I place my palms on his chest, thrilling in the feel of the fabric pressed against my fingertips. Of the firmness of his body, the muscle and heat.

His lips leave mine, but only far enough for him to tilt his head a fraction before pressing them to my own again. His thumb sweeps across my cheek and I hum or moan in response, I'm not sure which, but I'm rewarded with another soft kiss as his lips coax mine apart. His facial hair feels stubbly against my skin and it only turns me on more. The light scratch against my own skin focuses my attention on his lips, on his strength, on the potency of his effect on me. He nips my bottom lip between his teeth and then he kisses me again, the pressure firmer, our tongues meeting, my knees weakening and my heart racing.

When he pulls back he has to steady me on my feet because I've leaned so far into him I'd have toppled over without the support. I feel breathless, like I've just run around the building. Minus a swipe of his thumb across his lower lip, he looks unaffected. He steps back and does another slow perusal of me from head to toe and I wonder what he sees. Does he see a woman he's attracted to? Or a girl he kissed as a favor? He looks a hundred times more pulled together than I feel.

"You've had your kiss. You can go home now, good girl."





Two





LYDIA



The weekend passes in a flurry of breaking down cardboard boxes from our move and carting them out to the recycle bin at our apartment complex. Trips to Target for miscellaneous supplies and WinCo for groceries. Discovering Del Taco for the first time and trying just about everything from their buck-and-under menu. All while I replay that kiss in my mind over and over and over again.

Tomorrow I start my first job. Well, not my first job, of course. I've had jobs, lots of them. Summer jobs, after-school jobs, part-time jobs.

But tomorrow is my first post-graduation, full-time job. It's kind of a big deal, right? A rite of passage, the first day of my adult life.

I'm as surprised as anyone that it's in Las Vegas.

At a casino.

But it turns out that casinos have a ton of jobs, especially brand-new luxury casinos that haven't even opened yet. The Windsor will employ five thousand people by the time the doors open later this month, and I'm one of them.

I majored in human resources because I'm a helper. I love to help people. Payton likes to help people too, but she majored in marketing because there's no degree in party planning at LSU. Her words, not mine. She likes to help people have a good time, whereas I like to help people with things like making sure their taxes are paid on time. Growing up, I was the kind of kid who filled in every line on the Girl Trooper cookie order form and placed the x securely in the middle of the column so there was absolutely no confusion between an order for a chocolate chip versus a grasshopper mint. So I was super fun, obviously.

I didn't meet Payton until college, but she once told me she got kicked out of Girl Troopers. Something about a pyramid scheme for badges. I never got the full story because I accidentally admitted that I had stayed in Girl Troopers until the end of high school and she laughed so hard she crossed her legs and then toppled over.