* * *
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
1
I’m in big trouble, Trixie thought, looking into her dance partner’s dark, dreamy eyes.
As soon as she heard the words inside her own brain, she gasped. What a ridiculous idea. She wasn’t in any trouble. She was dancing in a Las Vegas theme restaurant with an old friend. That’s all.
Right?
To distract herself from that old friend, Hugo, who was surprisingly, alarmingly graceful on his feet, she winked at a duchess waltzing past. The fake duchess broke character and winked back, a dimple forming in her left cheek.
Located above a casino on the Strip, the restaurant styled itself after a historic British manor house. Footmen served oysters and Madeira, Edwardian aristocrats danced the waltz, and every napkin was folded in the shape of a bishop’s hat.
“You’re going to get her in trouble,” Hugo murmured in her ear. “Duchesses aren’t supposed to smile at the riffraff.”
Hugo’s breath sent a shiver down her spine. She’d been friends with the handsome veterinarian for years, but now it felt as if she didn’t know him at all.
Where had he learned to dance so well? What else didn’t she know about him?
In his capable arms, wearing the sleeveless purple dress she’d designed herself, she felt about twenty-nine years old. Beautiful and strong and fun.
No. She was scared shitless.
“You’re a nice dancer,” she told her raven-haired, square-jawed partner. She’d always been fond of Hugo. Extremely fond. But she couldn’t let herself be the kind of fond that made her question her choice of nude control-top panties that morning. They looked good under the dress, but they wouldn’t look very good without it.
Like, say, if she took it off.
Or he did.
She forced herself to look away from his square jaw. No wonder they’d banned waltzing two hundred years ago.
“Thank you,” he said.
She enjoyed the way he was leading her around the floor like a pro, but she didn’t like him holding her so close. His hand burned through the soft silk at her waist—and the control-top panties— reminding her she had a body with feelings that could get her into trouble.
As the music swelled, he tipped her back and gazed into her eyes as if he wanted to kiss her soul and claim her forever.
Her breath caught in her chest. After a moment, she choked out, “You can stop now.”
She needed to do more cardio. A little dancing had winded her.
He lifted her upright and continued to hold her close. “The music is still playing.”
“Cleo and Sly have left the restaurant.” She pulled back a few inches and lifted a hand to her head. The feather in her hair had come loose. Along with a few screws. “Together.”
Her heart was racing. She wasn’t going to forget their reason for dancing together, for being in Las Vegas in the first place. It wasn’t for their own happiness, it was for their younger companions: Hugo’s nephew Sly and his friend Cleo.
Trixie didn’t like to use labels for herself or for anyone else, but even she had to admit she liked to play matchmaker on occasion. And she was proud of the series of happy unions she had helped bring about. At this moment, her newest project, Cleo and Sly, were about to discover they loved each other. She and Hugo had pretended they were lonely geezers who’d needed their company on a weekend trip to Las Vegas.
The trip wasn’t for them. It was for Cleo and Sly. Cleo and Sly. Not for them.
Unfortunately, Hugo was getting a little too enthusiastic about his part in the game.
“Cleo and Sly aren’t here,” she said, going rigid in his arms. “You can stop pretending to seduce me.”
He tilted his head and looked at her. One dark eyebrow lifted. “Do you really think I’m pretending?”
Her mouth went dry. Over all these years watching him prod and care for her dogs, she’d never noticed how long his eyelashes were. Had his ex-wife appreciated how warm and appealing those deep brown eyes were when they pierced through the flimsy veneer of her outer self?
Frowning, she looked away.
Obviously his ex hadn’t appreciated his eyes or anything else about him or she wouldn’t have divorced him decades earlier. Trixie couldn’t help but think less of her for that. Hugo would’ve failed charm school, but he was rock-solid quality under the gruff, serious demeanor.
Did they still have charm schools? Her mother had threatened to send her to one in fifth grade after she’d dropped a daddy longlegs onto Henrietta McKinley’s desk. Trixie still felt bad about that. Henrietta’s shiny loafer had pulverized the poor thing.
“I need to sit down,” she said.
“I’ll order us another bottle of wine.”
“No. Don’t,” she said. “Please.”
“We don’t have to drive anywhere.” Thanks to Sly, they had a luxurious two-room suite a short walk and elevator ride away. “Why not?”
“This isn’t our weekend,” she said. “This isn’t for us.”
His hand slid down her bare arm and clasped her fingers. He didn’t say anything, just smoldered at her. Her toes curled in her vintage lace-up heels.
“Fine,” she said, taking a step back. “We’ll have some wine.”
The corner of one sensual lip twitched.
“Cut that out,” she said.
His eyebrows rose. “Cut what out?”
“The smoldering. Cool it down, will you please? It’s giving me indigestion.”
“I can’t help it,” he said. “I’m with you.”
“You don’t act like this when we’re at the clinic.”
“We’re not at the clinic,” he said.
2
“Our first mistake.” Trixie didn’t have the willpower to remove her hand from his grasp, but she did have strong leg muscles from yoga and dog walking. She towed him to the table.
If coming to Las Vegas for the weekend was her first mistake, agreeing to dance with him was her second.
She loved dancing. Her late husband hadn’t been much of a dancer, and he’d been gone for years. The only dancing she’d done this century had been at the YMCA. Her Zumba instructor was an attractive girl, but she wasn’t Hugo Minguez.
After helping her into her seat, the troublesome vet ordered them champagne—and raspberry meringue pudding, the scoundrel—and stared at her over the table.
Ruggedly handsome. Sure of himself. Strong and silent. As if he knew he looked like a cross between Cary Grant and Antonio Banderas and dared her to resist a moment longer.
“Why didn’t you ever get married again?” she asked.
“Why didn’t you?”
She rolled her eyes. He wasn’t playing fair. “My situation was different. We had children. Teenagers.”
“They haven’t been teenagers for a long time.”
“Chronologically, perhaps, but they were late bloomers. Look at April. She just got serious about life this year. She’s already in her late twenties.” She scooped a spoonful of meringue off the tray and stuffed it into her mouth. It was the perfect dessert to seduce a woman.
Feeling herself getting weak and receptive to advances as the creamy sugars hit her bloodstream, she reached into her purse for her phone.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I need to text Sly about this dessert. Cleo would love it. He can call and get it sent to the room.”
Hugo put his hand over hers. “Leave him alone.”
“You don’t realize how powerful a quality dessert can be.”
“I ordered it, didn’t I?”
Ooh, he was dangerous. She watched him through narrowed eyes as she slipped another forkful between her lips. “It’s not going to work. I like being single.”
He put a hand on his chest. His broad, strong-looking chest. “And I don’t?”
Fixing her gaze on the dance floor, she inhaled
the rest of the dessert. If she hadn’t been so annoyed, she might’ve been able to enjoy it. After a few minutes stewing, she felt the pudding form a heavy, greasy mass in her stomach. She sipped her water and wondered if vomiting on the duchess would guarantee a quick getaway.
What was the matter with her? Since when had she been a coward? She’d wanted to come to this restaurant for a long time. Why let a little harmless flirting ruin her weekend? As soon as they got back to Oakland, she’d scope out her Zumba class for a woman who’d love Hugo’s attentions. That curvy redhead with different New Balance sneakers for every day of the week would be perfect. Francine, her name was. Francine was divorced too. And lonely. Not that Trixie knew that for certain, but she assumed so. How couldn’t she be? Everyone was lonely.
Not her, but everyone else.
“I’ve got my children,” she said. “A grandchild. I don’t want anything else. I really don’t.”
Smiling, he leaned back in his chair. “I understand.”
“I’ve taken up beading,” she said. “And I was thinking about signing up for the new Golden Booty Boot Camp class at the Y. I just don’t have time.”
He nodded. “Neither do I.”
“What?”
He lifted his own glass to his mouth. Nodded again. “Might as well admit it. I like my life the way it is. Work fulfills me.”
“You don’t want… you know…” She spiraled her finger in the air.
“What?”
“You know,” she said.
“Sex?”
Men. “More than sex,” she said.
“Ah. No. It wouldn’t be practical.”
“Practical,” she said, making a face. Such an irritating word. A weasel word. The kind of word that stopped people from doing something that mattered.
“Especially not with a friend.” He patted her hand.
It was exactly the way he patted his Newfoundland, which irritated her even more. “But what about—”
“It’s nice to dream. But it’s just a dream.” He frowned into his drink. “My first marriage scarred me for life. Why, after all these years, would I suddenly want to get involved? I’m a single vet in a major metropolitan area. I’ve met countless women over the years. Plenty have let me know they’re interested.”
She could believe that. She’d seen it for herself when she’d brought the dogs in. It used to amuse her. “Why don’t you ever take these multitudes up on their offer?”
“The last thing I want is romance. It’s fine for young people, people who don’t know what they have to lose, but I know. You know. Being single is the purest, happiest way to live.”
“That is not true,” she said. “You’re just trying to get my goat.” It was impossible not to use animal metaphors around a vet.
“You know it’s true. We’re older and wiser. It’s why you spend all your energy setting up other people. It keeps you well out of it.”
Speechless, she folded the napkin in her lap into its original bishop’s hat shape.
He got the waiter’s attention, talked for a moment quietly, then looked at his watch. “The show’s in less than an hour. That comedian from TV. What do you think? Any interest in going?”
He’d stopped smoldering. The serious, businesslike vet had returned.
She had been looking forward to a show. Even more than dancing with duchesses. “I’m willing to go,” she said slowly.
“OK. I’ll text Sly and see if he’d like to join us.”
“No, don’t. You’re right. They need to be alone.”
With a nod, he returned his phone to his pocket. “The waiter said Sly’s picking up the tab for all of this, so I don’t mind letting a couple tickets go to waste.” He stood and yawned into his hand. “You know, it has been a long day. Are you sure you want to keep going?”
“Don’t you?”
“We’re here,” he said. “Shame to waste the tickets. But if you’re tired—”
“I’m not the one yawning,” she said. “I want to go.”
“All right. Then we will.” He held out his hand.
After a slight pause, she took it.
3
When the show was over, Trixie and Hugo walked out of the theater onto the Strip, still grinning and chuckling to themselves.
Trixie didn’t know why she’d been so melodramatic at dinner. Something must’ve been off with those Edwardian oysters. Now she felt fine. Hugo had his arm around her shoulders and it didn’t bother her a bit. She even let herself snuggle against his side as they were jostled in the crowd spilling out onto the noisy sidewalk.
“He was pretty good,” Hugo said. “I’ll have to watch his show sometime.”
“You don’t mind the swearing?”
“Well, no. Do you?”
Trixie smiled. “Afraid not. I swear like a sailor when I can get away with it.” She’d trained herself to keep it G-rated around the kids, but the poor dogs had quite a vocabulary. Luna bolted out of the room if she ever said “shit.” Sensitive dog. Never could handle any excitement.
Her companion dropped his arm and looked up the street. “I’ll see if I can catch us a cab.”
“I don’t mind walking.”
“Are you sure? You’re not cold?”
“I’m not cold.” In fact, she was a little too warm. She lifted her hands to her cheeks, felt how flushed she was.
They set out walking down the sidewalk, weaving through the throng. There were men offering ads for strippers, there were towering digital billboards with blinking letters two stories high, there was a live mariachi band at the base of a three-story escalator. There was a McDonald’s and a 7-Eleven. There were families with kids who could’ve walked off the set of a minivan commercial.
Distracted by the sights—and the enormous digital billboards in particular—Trixie wanted to grab onto Hugo’s arm for balance, but she didn’t dare. He’d withdrawn into silence, a serious look on his rugged, handsome face. This was the man she knew from the clinic.
“It’s nice to be out in the fresh air,” she said, having to shout over the sounds of traffic, amplified music from all sides, laughter, voices.
He flared his nostrils. “Not quite fresh. Smells like shit.”
She laughed in surprise.
“Pardon my language,” he said, briefly touching her arm.
“I told you. I don’t mind.” Patting his arm in return, she sniffed the air. “The sewage smell doesn’t bother me as much as all the cigarette smoke.”
“It’s not all cigarettes.”
“No, of course not,” she said. “Some of it is vape steam. Vapor. Vapage. Whatever they call it.”
He smiled faintly and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I wouldn’t know.”
Realizing that she really wanted to see him smile again, she slipped her arm through his, dislodging his hand in his pocket. “Did you enjoy the show?”
“Yes. Very much.”
“Then why do you look so serious?”
“I always look like this.”
“You didn’t earlier,” she said.
“At the show? The guy was funny, but it kind of wears off after a few minutes.”
“No,” she said. “Earlier. When we were dancing. I’ve never seen that side of you before.”
After a pause, he said, “I enjoy dancing. Forgot how much I missed it.”
“You look like you dance every day. I mean, you’re so good.”
“I haven’t danced like that in fifteen years.”
“But that’s a crime!”
“Actually, as it happens, it isn’t. Not even a misdemeanor.”
“Your talent shouldn’t go to waste.”
He chuckled. “Oh, come on. You’re making me blush.”
She loved seeing him laugh. Even if it was repressed and fleeting. “We’ll go dancing right now.”
“That’s sweet of you, but you don’t have to do that.”
“Nothing sweet about it. I love dancing.”
“But you mu
st be tired,” he said. “We’ve had a long day. We flew on an airplane this morning.”
“An hour and twenty-five minutes on Southwest Airlines hardly counts as flying.”
“And there was all the effort you put into getting Sly and Cleo together.”
“Effort? If you think that was me making an effort...” She laughed. “I haven’t even begun to make an effort.”
He sighed. “I almost feel sorry for them.”
“No, no, don’t say that. They’re about to begin the happiest days of their lives.”
“Whether they want to or not.”
“Exactly.” She pinched his chin. It was a very nice chin, dammit. “Of course they want to. Who wouldn’t—”
His eyes fixed on hers. After a moment, he said, “Other than us, you mean.”
“Exactly.”
“Nobody,” he said. “We’re too smart.”
She didn’t want him smiling about this. “It’s not about smart.”
“I completely agree,” he said, clasping her hand in his. “So, shall we dance?”
“You want to?”
“Will it make you happy?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Will it make you happy?”
Taking her hands in his, he turned to face her, the current of humanity in varying stages of civilization breaking around them. Orange and yellow lights from the massive digital billboards overhead shimmered in his eyes. “Being with you always makes me happy, Trixie.”
Her heart began to pound as hard as that evening poor little Luna had been run by over a bicycle.
I’m in big trouble, she thought again.
4
If Las Vegas held within its city limits a quiet supper club with a mellow, uncrowded dance floor for bodies that were over forty and no longer interested in willing public undress, Hugo and Trixie didn’t find it.
“What did you say?” Trixie shouted to Hugo, although they were pressed together from knee to shoulder, caught in a herd of swaying, bouncing, writhing, perfumed, sweaty bodies.
Quick Takes Page 12
