Nick came up behind her, the front of his body hovering like a polarized magnet at her back. Without hesitation, she put all her chips on red. Nick whispered in her ear, “Win or lose?” She would have answered immediately were it not for his voice traveling from her ear, down the inside of her neck, dropping into her chest cavity with a free-falling thunk and then pooling, seeping, into the part of her that had been swelling since dinner. She found her voice. “Win or lose.”
The croupier took the little white ball and released it with a practiced flourish. “Final bets, please.”
They watched the ball go around.
“No more bets, no more bets.”
As the ball circled the wheel, Sewanee felt Nick inch further forward. “Why red?” he murmured.
“The steak. The wine. Your tie. My lips.”
The ball circled.
Around.
Around.
Around.
As the ball slowed, she leaned further over. It bounced around; black 35; red 7; green 00; black 17; red 14. And stopped.
Red 14.
Sewanee didn’t jump up and down. She didn’t scream. She simply turned to Nick, eye wide, lips parted, and said, softly, “That was incredible.”
That made him laugh. “You’re incredible.”
She kissed him. It began as a thank you kiss, something pure and almost infantile.
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.”