This Changes Everything

by Gretchen Galway

  “Why?” He smiled. “No, never mind. Good idea.”

  “I forgot to change. Even I wouldn’t wear jeans to dine with a duchess. And this way they’ll have some alone time.”

  “Good point.” He got out his phone and began jabbing at it. “I’ll tell Hugo you’d rather gamble.”

  “Hey! No, tell him you’re the one who wants to gamble.”

  “Then they’ll blame me,” he said.

  “I want them to blame you.”

  He put an arm around her. “Always looking out for me, aren’t you?”

  His tone was joking, but the muscle flexing under his forearm was serious. She turned her head to tell him to stop manhandling her but got distracted by the sexy five-o’clock shadow that made his jaw stand out. She knew he had a scar on his chin, but the stubble gave it a more exciting dimension. She stared at that for a long second before looking up into his eyes.

  Her heart tripped over itself. It was him, but it wasn’t him. It was more than him.

  It was worse.

  “I’m going back to the casino.” Twisting out of his embrace, she reached into her purse to fondle her ticket. It was worth a lot less than she’d like. “I think I’d better switch to the nickel slots.”

  “I think you’d better hand over your money to me. I’m not going to be responsible for you ruining your credit rating.”

  “I can afford to have a little fun,” she said.

  “Save it for something good, like hurling it into the fountain. No, don’t do that—the house collects that too.” He held out his hand. “Give me your wallet. I’ll watch your back.”

  She gaped at him. “No way. If I want to throw my money away, I will. All right, buddy?”

  “I’m just trying to help.”

  “You’re trying to dominate. And I know it comes naturally to you and fulfills you in a way normal people can’t understand, but back off.” She strode past an elderly couple in matching Celine Dion sweatshirts to the escalator down to the casino.

  He hurried after her, jumping onto the step behind her. “That’s the addiction talking, you know.”

  “Shut up.”

  Smiling, he looked at his phone, swiping the screen. “Uh-oh. Trixie won’t go to dinner unless you go too.”

  “What? Why?”

  He shrugged. “Hugo says he can’t convince her. Now she’s talking about going to bed early with a good book.”

  “That’s crazy! She’s in Vegas!”

  “She is an older lady,” he said.

  “Pfft. She’s half the age of most of the party animals around here. She must be afraid of being alone with Hugo.”

  Sly looked at his phone again. “I think you’re right. Hugo just sent a text saying he’s depressed.”

  “Poor man.” When they reached the next floor, she turned away from the tempting casino lights and turned back to the up escalator. “Well, we’ll have to join them after all. Did you give Hugo the new clothes?”

  “He’s already wearing them.”

  “How’d he look?”

  “Good. I hope he remembered to take off the tags.”

  She looked him up and down. “I’m surprised you didn’t change into something more snazzy yourself.”

  “What’s wrong with this?” He held his hands out, forcing her to study the tight T-shirt, the low-slung jeans, the scuffed leather jacket.

  Swallowing over the lump in her throat, she said, “You didn’t shave, either.”

  He rubbed his jaw. “Didn’t I?”

  “No. You should.”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah, you should.” The whiskers over the scar on his chin were entirely too distracting. She hurried across the marble reception floor, past the two-story fountain with the palms and the string quartet—not bad at all, she noticed—to the elevator up to their room. “You can shave while I change. And wear something other than a T-shirt. What are you doing, trying to lose a bet?”

  He joined her on the elevator, a funny smile teasing his lips.

  13

  Sly tried not to stare at Cleo while she walked ahead of him into the restaurant. There were several ornate mirrors around the fake-manor entrance hall. He didn’t want her to notice the direction of his gaze.

  It wasn’t the green dress again. It wasn’t even a dress, just a long skirt and a sweater, like a kindergarten teacher might wear. But the fabric was tight and clingy, and she had the curves underneath that filled it out in such an interesting way. A way that wouldn’t be interesting to a kindergarten class—unless that class was composed entirely of thirty-five-year-old heterosexual men.

  He rubbed his eyes, wondering what was happening to him. If he’d never touched her in Carmel, would he still be living in blissful ignorance of his own feelings? Would he be able to hang out with an old friend without craving more?

  She turned and smiled at him over her shoulder, her eyes bright, her cheeks pink, and his body heated.

  No. His realization was overdue. There was no going back.

  She looked around, smiling with unrepressed pleasure at the ornate decor. “This is fantastic.”

  “They certainly go all out in Vegas.” Just seeing her enjoy herself made him feel good. And he had to admit that hadn’t changed. He’d always wanted her to be happy. Now he just wanted to make her extra happy.

  A footman—or whatever the thin men with featureless expressions in long-tailed black suits were supposed to be—led them to a small round table beneath a turquoise ceiling adorned with chandeliers. Most of the walls were covered with tapestries, enormous mirrors, and classical paintings, mostly portraits and landscapes, in gilt frames. From the smiles on the faces around him, he gathered that nobody minded it was historically and culturally inconsistent. France, England, Prussia—whatever. Georgian, Elizabethan—same difference.

  Several dozen tables flanked the center of the room, which was cleared for dancing. Two costumed couples were waltzing there, gazing into each others’ eyes, apparently oblivious to the tourists in modern clothes seated around the room who were staring, pointing, and taking pictures of them.

  “This one isn’t quite as good as the one in the lobby,” Cleo whispered to him as they sat down. Hugo and Trixie had sent him a text that they would arrive in fifteen minutes—time for Sly to set the stage for his seduction, apparently—and to start without them.

  “One what?”

  She nodded at the musicians sitting behind a column. “The quartet.” She paused, listening. “But they’re all right. The cellist is excellent. She’s carrying the rest of them.”

  He smiled at her. Music brought him pleasure, but he didn’t hear half what she could.

  The footman cleared his throat and bowed. “May I start you off with a drink, my lady? My lord?”

  “My lady and I will have a bottle of this,” Sly said, pointing at a two-hundred-dollar bottle of Chardonnay on the wine list.

  Cleo snorted. “Hope she likes it.” She turned to the footman. “I’ll have a lemonade.”

  “We’ll also have the wine,” Sly said.

  “Excellent. I’ll return shortly.” The man bowed and withdrew.

  Cleo stared at his departing tails. “I wonder if that’s a fake accent.”

  “Probably,” Sly said. “I don’t think a real footman would sound like the Prince of Wales.”

  With an unladylike snort, she touched his leg. “That’s it. I knew he reminded me of somebody.”

  He inhaled deeply, surprised by the way his body jumped at her touch. “Why’d didn’t you want the wine?”

  “I do. But don’t get the idea I like you ordering for me.”

  He grinned. “The lord always orders.”

  “Lord Sly. Catchy.” She squeezed his leg and released him, then turned away as their drinks arrived.

  The man poured out a little wine for him to test. He sipped it, although barely aware of what he tasted, and nodded his acceptance. With uncharacteristic eagerness, he watched his glass being filled. He nee
ded a drink. His hands were unsteady.

  “Lord Sly,” Cleo repeated. “You sound like a villain in a little kid’s board game.”

  Ignoring her, trying to ignore her, he drank.

  “Better than Lord Sylly though,” she continued, laughing. “I wonder if anybody has ever called you that behind your back.”

  “People have called me Mr. Sylly before,” he admitted.

  Seeing he wasn’t sharing her mirth, she bit her lips to contain her laughter. After a moment, she asked seriously, “Do you ever regret it?”

  His first thought was that she was referring to the kiss in Carmel, and he wanted to say that his only regret was that it had taken him too long, and that she’d run away from him.

  But then he realized she was talking about his name. “It started in college. Everyone was so ambitious and driven.”

  “Unlike you.”

  “I did drop out,” he said.

  “And promptly started a business.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t want to take myself too seriously. The nickname was always there, bringing me back to earth.” He poured her a glass of wine, not ashamed to admit his odds would be better if she drank more than lemonade. “My family called me Sly. I didn’t want coworkers calling me that. Or people who worked for me.”

  “I’m flattered you let me call you Sly when I was just your piano teacher.”

  “You insisted.”

  “That was because, even though you never practiced, you thought I wouldn’t notice.”

  He looked down at his hands.

  “You’re blushing!” she cried.

  “You’re projecting.” The warmth in his cheeks couldn’t possibly be visible.

  “Why didn’t you practice?” she asked. “Nobody made you sign up for lessons, you chose it yourself. So why didn’t you put any effort into it?”

  Back then, he’d thought she was cute, a welcome change from the high-pressure high-tech world he lived in. Teresa had been his girlfriend then, and he hadn’t seen Cleo as anything other than a piano teacher. A sexy, funny piano teacher whose company made him unwind and forget the stress of his days.

  So why hadn’t he practiced the lessons she’d given him every week? “I realized early on that I wasn’t very good at it.”

  “You only do things you’re good at?”

  “Don’t you?” he asked.

  “Not at all.” Eyes twinkling, she smiled at him as she sipped her wine. “Just a few hours ago, I was happily losing my shirt in the casino, remember?”

  Involuntarily, his gaze dropped to her shirt, which was actually a tight raspberry-pink cardigan that was unbuttoned low enough for him to see a bit of lace between her breasts. Was the lace part of her shirt or one of those camisole things? Or her bra?

  She elbowed him, rolling her eyes as if he’d been staring at her chest as some kind of joke. “You didn’t give me a chance.”

  “I was—” He stopped himself. He’d been about to remind her that he’d been dating Teresa when they’d met and so hadn’t been able to give her a chance back then, before he realized she was talking about the chance to teach him piano. Not the chance of stripping down and rolling around on the floor together.

  Heart pounding, he smoothed the napkin on his lap. “I’m sorry. I had a lot going on back then.”

  “You should give it another shot. Not with me, of course.”

  “Maybe.” He tapped his glass against hers. Having her teach him would be impossible; he’d be too distracted. But someday, maybe after this itch had been scratched…

  An image flashed before his eyes: him at the piano, her laughing at his ineptitude, him kissing her to stop the laughing and then pinning her over the keys and taking her right there while the discordant notes accompanied their love.

  He realized he’d shredded the corner of the wine list into confetti.

  My God, he’d lost it. After surreptitiously brushing the torn paper onto the floor, he poured himself a second glass of wine and buried his face in it. He had to calm the hell down. Seething lust wasn’t going to win her over. Slow, he had to go slow. Tender, curious, restrained. It had to feel like a discovery that surprised them both. Her ex-husband had been a promiscuous charmer. Nothing he did could remind her of him.

  “There’s Hugo and Trixie.” Cleo stood and waved wildly. “Wow, she looks incredible.”

  Sly glanced over at Trixie, who wore a long, sleeveless purple dress and had something in her hair. A feather? Hugo, on her arm, looked happier than Sly had ever seen him. Both corners of his mouth were lifted. Some might even call it a smile.

  “Love the dress.” Cleo stood to greet them. Hugo helped Trixie into her chair before sitting himself. “Where did you get it?” Cleo asked.

  Trixie made a dismissive gesture but looked pleased. “This old thing?”

  Cleo peered closer. “Is it vintage?”

  “Oh, no. It’s not authentic. I had to make it.”

  “That’s incredible,” Cleo said. “I couldn’t darn a sock. I don’t even know what darning is. Unless it’s how I swear when I’m around my grandparents.”

  They all laughed politely and reached for the wine. Trixie and Hugo took in the atmosphere for a few minutes, admiring the dancers and the decor, and the footman came to take drink orders and ask if they were ready for the first course.

  Although at first he was grateful for the distraction of Trixie and Hugo’s arrival, he soon resented the loss of Cleo’s attention, which was now fixed on Trixie—more about the dress, her feather, the costumed dancers and servers.

  Conversation on these thrillingly feminine topics continued through the soup and the salad and two entrees.

  He met Hugo’s gaze over the table. Instead of bored, his uncle seemed excited, alive, happy. Sly remembered Hugo’s ex-wife as an aloof, serious kind of woman who kept to herself. Never having had any children, she and Hugo had divorced when Sly was in high school, and he had never seen her again. Last he’d heard, she’d moved to Phoenix and married a banker. Hugo had always told Sly he was as good as a son of his own, and hadn’t ever remarried. As far as Sly knew, he’d never been seriously interested in any woman until Trixie.

  That was almost twenty years of waiting. Sly felt a renewed burst of motivation to help him out.

  When the last of the dishes were cleared, he refilled Hugo’s glass from the third bottle of wine he’d ordered for the table. “How’s Mouse?” Then he turned to Trixie. “Did you know Hugo adopted a new dog? A Newfoundland. He barely fits in the Fiat. The owner moved out of the country and couldn’t take him with her. She was lucky her vet had such a big heart.”

  “Newfies make great companions,” Trixie said. “Nanny in Peter Pan was a Newfie.”

  Hugo frowned, maybe not liking the comparison of him to a child in the nursery. “He has special needs. Your average person might have trouble meeting them.”

  Trixie sighed. “We do love to spoil our babies, don’t we?”

  Having his heroic efforts dismissed made Hugo’s shoulders slump a little.

  “Mouse is really lucky to have found you, Hugo,” Cleo said. “Who’s taking care of him over the weekend?”

  Hugo gave her a grateful smile. “One of the vet techs at the clinic took him home with her. Bella has cats, but Mouse doesn’t mind cats.” He lifted his coffee. “Mouse doesn’t mind much of anything. Easygoing breed.”

  “Just because he doesn’t complain doesn’t mean he isn’t suffering,” Trixie frowned into her wineglass, her sunny mood vanishing.

  “What’s the matter, Trixie?” Cleo asked.

  Hugo put a hand on Trixie’s shoulder. “She’s worrying about her little guys. The dogs are just fine, Trixie. I called to check right before dinner.”

  “But they’re at Liam and Bev’s house,” Trixie said.

  “I know. That’s why they could tell me how they were doing.” Hugo offered a lopsided smile. “That granddaughter of yours might need a puppy of her own someday soon. She got out of her crib to sle
ep with all three of them on the floor this afternoon. The nanny found them napping together in a big pile.”

  Trixie’s face lit up. “Merry would love a puppy of her own.” She looked around the table with a smile. “She’s walking now. Of course she must have a puppy. I’m going to find her one as soon as we get home.”

  “You might want to check with her parents on that one,” Sly said.

  Hugo kicked him in the shin under the table. Flinching, Sly gestured at the dance floor, where a waltz was just coming to an end and the costumed duchess was clapping her gloved hands together with detached, chilly poise.

  “Why don’t you two show us your moves on the dance floor?” Sly asked. “You might not know this, Trixie, but Hugo is a great dancer.”

  Hugo kicked him again, this time harder. “Sly’s joking.”

  “I am not. I saw you dancing at Camila’s wedding.” Camila was a cousin on Sly’s mother’s side. “You’re certainly better than I am.”

  “I’m sure you’re a lovely dancer, Sly,” Trixie said. “And even if you’re not, any woman would love to be in your arms. Isn’t that right, Cleo?”

  Cleo visibly recoiled. Annoyed, Sly stood up and held out his hand. “Looks like they’ll need company, Cleo. Let’s make it easier for them.”

  She put her hand over her purse. “One of us should stay here so our things don’t get stolen.”

  “I’m happy to stay.” Trixie stood up and tugged at Cleo’s chair. She must’ve pulled hard, because Cleo fell forward and clutched the table.

  “Only if you promise to try the next dance,” Cleo said, finally getting to her feet. She set her napkin down and walked over to the dance floor without waiting for Sly.

  “Just try not to step on her feet too hard,” Trixie said. “Make lots of eye contact, tell her how beautiful she is. Not just her eyes. Tell her she’s got nice lips.”

  “I’m not going to tell her she’s got nice lips,” Sly muttered, even though he’d just been thinking the same thing. Talking about her body parts was the last thing that would put her at ease. He caught up to her near the musicians, where she’d stopped to listen.