My Sinful Temptation

by Lauren Blakely

  “No,” said Jensen, with a bark and an eye roll. “As a contractor, you were never technically hired. Ergo, you can’t be fired.”

  What kind of douchebag says “ergo” when they’re giving someone the ax?

  All right, that shouldn’t have been a surprise. If asked that question ten minutes ago, I would have pointed at Jensen for my answer. That kind of douchebag.

  But the firing—excuse me, the termination of my contract—came out of the blue. Sure, things had been stressful lately, with bad hours and unreasonable demands, but I’d just thought that was Jensen being Jensen.

  “But . . . I left the Wynn for this position.” I sounded stunned, which I was, and defeated, which I was not. Even if he was a douche, I didn’t want to lose a job that I mostly loved. I sat up straight, ready to make my case. “The Jade came to me. Management promised me matching funds and a 401K.”

  A careless shrug came my way, then a dismissive “Sorry, sweetheart. The old management recruited you. The new ownership has decided it’s time to bring in its own people.”

  “So you’re going too?” Was I mean enough to find satisfaction in that?

  I remembered how he’d called me “sweetheart” and “babe” and “honey” whenever he could get away with it, and I decided that yes, I was that mean.

  Jensen spun his chair around and grabbed some paper from the printer, tapped it on the desk, and stapled it. “Nope. Because my contract specifies the penalty they’d have to pay to terminate it early. Always read the fine print, doll face.” He handed the packet over the desk with a sharky smile I wanted to punch off his face. “Now, take that to HR, and don’t forget that your nondisclosure remains in effect, so no talking about the buyout to anyone. Just tell your friends you’re taking some ‘me time’ or whatever you girls do.” He waved a hand as if he were talking about periods, and it was just too much.

  I snatched the papers from him, and he yelped.

  Oops. My bad. Not.

  Collateral damage? His paper cut.

  He sucked his cut finger as I suppressed a smile.

  “Is that all?” I asked coldly.

  “Yeah. Don’t forget to leave your keys after you clean out your office.” He picked up a pencil and tapped it on the desk. “Nothing personal, sweet cheeks. Come back and visit the Jade any time, and please keep us in mind if you have guests coming to town or need to host an event.”

  “Nothing personal, Jensen,” I said, opening the door to let myself out, “but I hope you get lemon juice in your paper cut.” Then I stopped, stared at him, and said, “Also, don’t call me ‘doll face,’ ‘sweet cheeks,’ ‘honey,’ or ‘babe’ ever again.”

  I only needed a handful of minutes to grab the pictures of my nieces and nephew from my desk and make sure I hadn’t left anything in the drawers. I’d never kept much in there but a few protein bars and some emergency tampons. My job hadn’t been to sit at a desk. It was to put out fires—usually figurative—or to prevent them by keeping my eyes and ears open and staying one step ahead. How sad to have been blindsided by my own firing.

  I’d never been fired.

  What was I supposed to do? What did this mean? And was it somehow my fault?

  Grabbing my phone, I dialed Lynette, my oldest sister. Between her and my brother-in-law, one of them must have lost a job abruptly. I needed someone to walk me through this, or maybe simply to tell me I wasn’t a loser.

  Lynette answered on the third ring in a whispering hiss. “Mindy! You called.”

  That was a strangely obvious observation. “Where are you?”

  “PTA meeting,” she whispered. “Are you okay?”

  Ohhh. Now I understood her surprise and worry. Lynette’s twins were preteens, and nothing short of the apocalypse rated more than a text.

  “Yes,” I assured her. “Well, nothing that involves stitches or X-rays.”

  “I’m so glad. Can I call you back later?”

  “Sure. I don’t want you to get in deep with the PTA.”

  “You probably have mafia dons in Las Vegas who I’d rather piss off more than the PTA. Talk to you later.”

  I smiled. I’d stake one of those gluten-free granola-eating soccer moms against any mafioso godfather.

  But allowing for the time-zone difference and her kids’ schedules, I didn’t hold out on her calling back tonight. If I had asked, she would have stepped out of the meeting or told the boys to eat cereal for dinner while she talked to Aunt Mindy. But why throw everyone out of whack? Presumably, I’d still be unemployed tomorrow.

  I took my work keys off my key ring and gave them to Jensen’s assistant, who was supposed to be our assistant, but he bogarted all her time. She gave me a hug, assured me not to worry about her—she already had a line on a new job—and mentioned staying in touch, which I doubted but appreciated the thought.

  My stomach growled, and I sighed. Maybe I had time to grab something in one of the Jade’s restaurants before anyone knew better than to give me the employee discount.

  Shouldering my purse, I headed that way, weaving through the maze of singing slot machines and debating whether to call one of my other sisters. But their kids were younger, so they might be in the middle of bath and bedtime. I could text Brent, but he’d probably be in the same situation with his kiddo. Like Lynette, he’d make time to talk if I asked for it, but I didn’t want to be the person texting with drama.

  That wasn’t my jam.

  Funny. I’d never worried before what I would do in a big emergency, never doubting my friends and family would pull off a miracle for me if they had to. But keeping the day-to-day things—asshole bosses, car trouble, paper cuts—to myself doubled the lonely factor.

  Too bad most of life was made up of the latter.

  Though my thoughts were turned inward, my senses were tuned outward, because only the most naive tourists didn’t watch where they were going in a casino. My gaze snagged on a familiar couple before they spotted me—a willowy redhead holding hands with her tall, dark, and objectively handsome husband.

  “Annalise! Michael!” I shouted with joy, like I hadn’t seen them in ages. They broke into twin smiles when they saw me flagging them down like an air traffic controller.

  “Hey, Mindy. Good to see you,” Michael said, with Annalise adding, “You look fabulous.”

  I didn’t feel fabulous, but I was grateful nonetheless.

  My exuberance seemed out of proportion to the run-in, but it went with my out-of-proportion relief at seeing a pair of familiar faces. “You’re here!” It seemed I was taking a page from Lynette’s book and stating the obvious. “I mean, in Vegas.” I groaned silently and collected my scattered thoughts and emotions. “Also, I mean in the Jade, like a couple of conventioneers.” Taking a breath, I tried one more time. “I mean, I didn’t expect to see you, but it’s good to see you.”

  “You took the words right out of my mouth. We were on our way to have dinner here and thought we’d find you and see if you wanted to join us.” Annalise kissed one cheek and the other, very continental, then gave me a proper American hug.

  Michael smiled at his wife. He’d pined for the woman for eighteen years—until they reunited a little more than a year ago. Now, he was in mad love with her, and the look he gave her . . . For a moment, that rootless feeling gnawed at me again, and I longed for even a morsel of what they had.

  He turned back to me. “What do you say, Gamble? Sushi at the Jade? The rainbow rolls are the best on the Strip, as someone once told me.”

  He winked. That someone was me.

  But in a heartbeat, all my out-of-place exuberance drained.

  And I knew the answer to how it felt to lose a job. Flustered, mad, emotional, and like you wanted to cling to the familiar.

  My emotions plummeted from the sky to the floor as I blurted, “Good thing you came tonight, then, since it’s my last day working here.”

  “What’s this?” Annalise asked in surprise. “I know the Jade wasn’t all you’d hoped it woul
d be. Have you decided to move on?”

  My hum was ambiguous. I’d rather have let them go on and enjoy their dinner and not dump my drama on them, but I also didn’t want to hide the truth from my friends. I needed to let it out. “It wasn’t really my decision. Business politics, you know.”

  Michael, frowning, nodded. “I hear you. Our industry has seen its fair share of revolving doors these days.” His tone was sympathetic—he may have been contemplating troubles of his own. He and Ryan ran a private security firm, and he knew how the merry-go-round of politics in our industry spun.

  “What are you going to do? Want to talk about it over sake and edamame?” Annalise asked, tipping her forehead toward the sushi joint I loved.

  Briefly tempted to join them, I took a step in that direction.

  Then I stopped. “Actually, I am going to let you two enjoy your dinner.” I gave her another hug. “You can help me strategize later.”

  “If you’re sure?” she asked.

  “I’m sure.” Not only did the confidentiality agreement keep me from sharing in any detail, but I didn’t want to presume on our friendship that way.

  Because when I pictured myself leaning on a friend’s shoulder, it was someone else I had in mind.

  Someone I couldn’t stop thinking of.

  He was the one I needed right now.

  After I sent Michael and Annalise on their way, I took out my phone, starting a text.

  * * *

  Mindy: I could use a drink.

  * * *

  Mindy: And by “drink,” I mean a magic elixir that numbs your brain when you just found out you lost your job.

  * * *

  John: The hell? What moron would let you go from your job?

  * * *

  Mindy: Jensen.

  * * *

  John: Oh. Well. That’s the moron, then. What’s the reason?

  * * *

  Mindy: Do douchebags need a reason?

  * * *

  John: They never seem to.

  * * *

  Mindy: Besides, I wasn’t fired. My contract was terminated.

  * * *

  John: What a douchebag.

  * * *

  Mindy: Right?!? Maybe I don’t need a drink. Maybe I need to punch something.

  * * *

  John: Don’t text anything that can be used in court to show intent.

  * * *

  Mindy: What am I, new?

  * * *

  John: Okay, don’t text ME anything that would oblige me to interfere.

  * * *

  Mindy: I would never do that to you.

  * * *

  John: I know. I was joking.

  * * *

  Mindy: I don’t know if that’s sweet of you to say or sad for you that I couldn’t tell.

  * * *

  John: Pretty sure it can be both.

  * * *

  Mindy: Wait. Are you saying you know I wouldn’t do anything illegal or just that you trust me not to tell you about it?

  * * *

  John: . . .

  * * *

  Mindy: John?

  * * *

  John: Meet me at the gym in thirty.

  * * *

  Mindy: Make it forty. I have to change clothes.

  * * *

  As I re-read his texts, I caught myself almost smiling.

  But not because of John.

  Well, maybe a little because of John.

  Because his humor—dry as it was—proved the world wasn’t ending simply because I’d lost my job. The people in my life were the same as they were yesterday, would treat me the same way they always had.

  Pensively, I scrolled through the exchange, then up to the messages before them. Genial. Supportive. Friendly.

  Consistency is good, I reminded myself sternly. I wouldn’t be happy with anyone whose feelings turned on a dime.

  God knew I was consistent—still longing for the same guy, no matter how many signs pointed to us staying just friends.

  Like the fact that we were gym partners.

  That screamed be my friend.

  It didn’t whisper be my lover.

  Tonight, I needed the friend, but I wanted a little of both.

  7

  John

  Mindy’s eyes narrowed, lasering in on the punching bag. “This is for calling me ‘doll face.’” She turned her body, angled her hips, and flicked a kick at the heavy bag. Mad as she was, she still had great form.

  Objectively speaking.

  Subjectively too.

  I was pretty sure there was a rule against asking a woman out within four hours of her losing her job. If not, there should be.

  I’d have to table those plans, no matter how much I’d wanted to seize the moment earlier today. No matter how ready I finally was to level up from coffee to drinks to maybe a whole lot more.

  And no matter how damn sexy the woman looked taking out her anger on the bag. There was just something hot as sin about a woman who knew how to channel her frustration into the physical.

  And that had me wondering about other ways she might want to work off her frustration.

  Ways I’d like to help.

  But Mindy had more punches in her.

  And I was smart enough not to start sparring until she’d taken some of her anger out on the literal punching bag. Just steadying the bag for her was workout enough.

  She bounced on her toes, her blonde ponytail bobbing as she shifted her weight. “And this is for enjoying it so much.”

  Jab, jab, jab. Hook. Jab, jab, and . . . kick.

  Oof. I felt that last one through the seventy-pound bag.

  Perhaps that final kick did the trick, because she lowered her guard and shook out her hands, pacing now.

  “Feeling better?” I asked.

  “Much. Better. I needed that. Oh hell, did I need that.”

  I surveyed her up and down, taking stock—her breath was coming in a rush. Her chest was heaving. Her eyes were wild. “You look . . . good.”

  Fuck.

  That came out all wrong.

  Or rather, it came out too right. Too direct. Too crystal clear. “Better, I meant.” I backpedaled because . . . four-hour rule, right. “Like you feel more like yourself?”

  She looked at me like I’d switched to speaking Swedish.

  Goddammit.

  I had a well-practiced poker face, but it required firing up my brain before my mouth.

  I blamed Sophie. I’d been sparring with Mindy for nearly a year, keeping my thoughts on the straight and narrow, even when it took some willpower. Because when it came down to it, I’d rather have a successful friendship with her than an unsuccessful romance.

  I didn’t cross boundaries I set for myself. Not even in the gym when she wore those tops that made it impossible to tell if they were a bra or a shirt.

  That was what she was wearing tonight, and it didn’t help my resolve to be her shoulder to lean on.

  She was flushed to a rosy glow and sweating the sexiest sweat a woman had ever sweated. It was like someone had opened all the blinds and I couldn’t ignore the sunlight anymore.

  “I do feel better,” she answered.

  “Want to spar a bit?” I asked, hoping it might keep my thoughts in line if she was trying to knock my block off.

  “You sure?” She cocked an eyebrow. “You wussed out earlier.”

  “I did not wuss out. I didn’t want to get my head caved in as a stand-in for your boss.”

  “Aw, it’s sweet that you think I could dent your thick skull, Detective.”

  “Money where your mouth is, Ms. Gamble.”

  Working defense while Mindy let out more of her angst kept me focused where I should be. We maintained a comfortable silence as she set a slow, deliberate pace. I could tell she was thinking about something other than her strike placement but didn’t ask what.

  “Maybe this is a sign,” she said as she edged up her speed. “Sometimes you need something to shake up the status q
uo.”

  She tried to sneak a hook in, but I blocked it. “But the hotel let you go because of a regime change,” I pointed out. She’d sworn me to secrecy then explained about the buyout. “Not for a weakness or anything you can control.”

  “Not that.” She threw a flurry of quick strikes against the pads on my hands. “But work is the only stable thing in my life. Or was.”

  “How can that be true? You have friends and family who aren’t going to abandon you.”

  “I know.” With a sigh, she lowered her hands and straightened from her fighting crouch. “But, John . . .” Her voice was more vulnerable than I’d ever heard it, and those two words, the sound of my name like that, dug into me and took root. “When Jensen dropped that bomb, it felt like he’d ripped the floor out from under me. I was mad, sure, but I was also really scared.”

  All my instincts told me to wrap her in my arms, to pull her tight for a hug. But I couldn’t swear I could keep all touching friendly. It would be a dick move to make a move while she was so vulnerable.

  “I can understand how that would knock you for a loop.” Work took all my time, sometimes all my energy, but my job was part of my identity, private and public. “I’d feel adrift if I suddenly wasn’t a detective.”