A Match Made in Vegas Read Online Crystal Kaswell

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For as long as I have. I'm not dwelling on the end point. I'm enjoying this. For once in my life, I'm going to enjoy something without expectations of a future.

I can do that.

In theory.

"When it is up to you," she says. "And these modern women ask you to choose, because they're just too damn tired to decide the restaurant themselves, where do you go?"

"One of the restaurants that serves Californian-style cuisine," I say. "They're nice, but they're more casual."

"And not outrageously expensive," she says.

I nod exactly. "A lot of people are uncomfortable at expensive restaurants." I raise a brow and motion to her. That's the most logical explanation for why she keeps asking, but it feels insufficient.

"I'm not, I swear. Well, it's not the price. It's the fussiness." Again, her eyes go to my watch. This time, they don't stay there. They move to my linen shirt. "You're wearing a white shirt and you ordered curry."

"I live dangerously."

She smiles wryly. "But you don't. That's the thing. I've never seen you spill. I've never seen a stain on your clothes. I've never seen you sweat."

"What was happening last night?"

"Metaphorically," she says. "You're always cool and collected. You're like Cassie that way. You two… you seem so effortless."

I lean into the bench seat. It's a strange feeling, this comparison to my sister. People see traits in common—we're both witty thinkers—but never this one. "You seem effortless."

"Sure, I'm casual." She motions to her blue tank top. "But I'm sweaty and hot and I've washed a dozen stains from this shirt. I'll stain it again today."

"I don't see any."

"They're there," she says.

"They're not as noticeable as you think." Is that true about both of us? We think our flaws are obvious, but they're not. We think we invite people into our hearts, but we don't. I know I haven't.

"Maybe." She takes another sip of tea. "I don't feel put together. You always look so put together. I bet you're a great cook."

"What's that have to do with anything?" I ask.

She nods with victory. "I knew it."

"Of course you knew it. I've cooked for you a dozen times."

The memory hits her all at once. It flashes over her face, a mix of epiphany and nostalgia. "Right. Of course. And I remember when you were still living at home, you'd cook for women you invited over, and Cassie would try to spy on you, and of course, Laurel and Zack would interrupt, and your dates always found it charming."

"Strange, right?" I ask.

She smiles. "Truly bizarre." The humor drops from her voice. "I was jealous sometimes."

She was? "You had a crush on me?"

"You didn't notice?"

No. I shake my head.

"You didn't see me that way?" she asks.

"Not when you were younger, no," I say. "When you got older, sometimes. But I never thought you'd be interested. You may not walk around, telling everyone you can how much Hole is better than Nirvana, but you're every bit as cool as Cassie. And I'm—"

"A lawyer who wears linen shirts," she says.

"Exactly."

"You look fucking hot in those linen shirts," she says. "I want to rip them off."

Back to sex. I can't say I have cause for complaint. But, still, I call her on it. "Were you timing that?"

"You're the one with the ten-thousand-dollar watch."

"Let me give you a chance this time," I say. "Tell me about the interrogation. Then I'll time you."

Her cheeks flush. "I don't know…"

"It's up to you, Daph. But if you don't tell me, I can't deliver. So… I'm here. Whenever you're ready to set the scene."

Chapter Twenty-Six

Daphne

Mercifully, the waitress saves me from answering the question. She drops off our plates and three kinds of hot sauce and takes her leave.

I taste my curry, so I don't have to answer. It's not as good as the place where I normally order takeout, but it's good all the same. The subtle mix of flavors that comes with a traditional green curry. Lemongrass, ginger, Thai basil, makrut lime leaves, and the chili peppers that bring just enough spice.

Perfect. I scoop a piece of chicken, stir-fried eggplant, and bamboo shoots over my rice and cover them with the light green sauce.

Jackson waits as I take a bite, add a few chili flakes, taste the food again. It's better a little spicy. But I don't want to add too much. I don't want to overwhelm myself or the flavor.

He tries his food. Adds more chili. Finds it just right.

And he waits.

And waits.

And waits.

The perfectly fried eggplant and the crunchy bamboo shoots don't save me.

So I swallow my bite, then a sip of water, and I begin. "I think it started after you got that trench coat." This is what I want. Honest conversation where we explore our desires. It's a little awkward, yes, but I can do it. I'm capable. "I imagined this entire scenario straight out of a 1940s movie. Where I was the femme fatale and you were the detective investigating my husband's disappearances. Sometimes, you thought I was hiding something under my clothes, so you tried to undress me."

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