Stepping inside Funda, the upscale restaurant tucked inside the hotel, is like walking into a different planet. The hotel is loud and glittery, everything buzzing and pulsing with energy as casinos typically do. But inside the restaurant, nestled into a back corner, it’s the exact opposite.
I smooth my hands down my dress, a sheer, nude sheath dress with a turquoise embellished overlay. It has beautiful ribbons that wrap around my waist, making me look curvier than I really am. A dapper-looking man in a suit smiles as I walk into the restaurant and I nod politely, but don’t make eye contact. I’m nervous enough as it is—too nervous to risk opening my mouth. Besides, I’m here to see one man. The man that left the suite nearly five hours ago.
I didn’t hear from him all day. I headed to the pool after talking to Presley and read a little on a chair until my skin started feeling like it was going to melt off in the Nevada sun. There’s a little ice cream shop on the way to the room that I stopped in for lunch and then napped a little in the room. I was surprised that it had been two more hours and still there wasn’t a missed call or text. After showering and trying to read again, the text came to meet him at Funda.
People sit on oversized, backless sofas in the entryway as I make my way to the hostess desk. Once I identify myself as a guest of Fenton, I’m whisked through and pass other impeccably dressed diners through an archway to a more private dining room. There are five or six tables, but I don’t check them out. I’m focused on the man sitting at the table in the far corner.
Fenton’s running his finger around the brim of a tumbler, looking off into the distance. His forehead is marred, his mouth forming a thin line. The waiter clears his throat as we approach and Fenton jostles back to the present. Once again, his gaze roams slowly over my body. When it lands on my face, the stress melts from his.
He stands and whips around the table, pulling out my seat. “You look gorgeous, Brynne.”
“Thank you,” I tell him, sitting. “You look more stressed than I’d like to see you.”
He moves back around the table and takes his seat once again. He pours me a glass of wine. “I apologize for being gone so long today. Things took longer than I expected.”
“It’s fine. Like you said, you came here to work, after all.”
“True. But that doesn’t mean I’m happy about being gone all afternoon.” A stormy look passes over his features and I wonder what happened today, but I don’t ask. It’s not my place. So I go for the more general inquiry.
“How was your meeting?” I ask.
“Good. Tense. Frustrating.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too. Some people are just really hard to deal with. I wonder sometimes if they get off on just being complete jackasses.”
I laugh, having had those same thoughts before myself. “I think they do. You can completely bend over backwards for some people and it’s just not enough. They’ll press you for more and more. Or they’ll turn you around and bend you over again and stick it to you from behind.”
A waiter slips in and places a covered dish in front of each of us and is gone within seconds.
“I ordered for you. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” I say, lifting the lid. “This looks great.”
“I hope so. I didn’t want to spend any more time here than we need to.”
“Good idea.”
His eyes sparkle with promise, making my mouth water. He’s so different than any guy I’ve been with before in every way. He puts them all to shame.
We begin to eat, a comfortable silence descending on the table. Every move he makes is done in a way I’m realizing is the way he does everything—exquisitely. Each motion is purposeful, every movement executed in a precise way. He may be incredibly good-looking, but that aside, just being around him is intoxicating. I catch myself wanting to know more about him, what makes him tick.
This is a rebound, not a date.
“What did you do today?” he asks, taking a bite of his food.
“I called Presley and took a nap. I laid out for awhile today at the pool.”
His jaw drops an inch. “You were in a bikini without me?”
My insides do a flipflop, tumbling head over heels. The idea of him being annoyed by that little fact never occurred to me, but the stormy look on his face makes me deliriously happy.
“What else am I supposed to lay out in?” I taunt, watching the storm darken.
“Without me? A trash bag.”
“Fenton!”
He shakes his head and suppresses a growl. It’s the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard. Ever. “Look, Brynne, I know I told you to do whatever you wanted while I was gone. And I want you to enjoy yourself—I do. But I need you to do those things clothed.”