Brent had just finished a wildly successful run on a late-night TV show that his brother, Clay, had arranged for him. The show had generated record ratings, legions of fans, and more success than he had imagined. He’d made a purposeful decision to walk away when it was still a hit. One of the things he couldn’t abide by was wearing out his welcome. Brent had always prided himself on never staying in one place, one gig, or at one job for longer than he was wanted. So he’d “retired” from the nightly work as a comedian. He’d also hungered for a change, eager to be more than the so-called “bad boy of comedy,” with his tats, motorcycle boots, and edgy style. He craved the new challenge of building a business.
That was where Nate came in. They’d been talking about moving his first nightclub inside The Luxe, one of the most coveted properties on The Strip, and they were about ready to close the deal. Brent was in Nate’s office at the Vegas property, laptop in hand, ready to share plans.
“Man, I already miss your show. Your bit about first date waxing always killed me,” Nate said, and Brent chuckled. That had indeed been a popular routine, and had cracked him up a few times too when he’d practiced it. “But I’m glad to see the next phase of your career is working out. You want to show me your plans?”
Brent flipped open his laptop. “Here’s what I’ve got in mind for the club.” He rolled his chair closer to the computer screen, and clicked open the file, but he’d misfired, and a browser window popped open.
Fuck. He half wished it had been porn on screen, but no such luck. He’d left open the Facebook profile of Shannon Paige.
Curvy. Gorgeous. Brilliant. And probably hated him.
Nate tipped his forehead to the screen. “Doing a little Facebook stalking?” he asked him dryly.
If it were anyone else, Brent probably would’ve tossed out a quip, tried to make a joke. But he knew Nate well enough by now, because the man was friends with his brother and his brother’s wife, Julia, courtesy of the mutual friends they all shared in New York. “Ex-girlfriend,” he admitted.
“Ah. Recent breakup?”
“About ten years ago,” Brent said with a self-deprecating laugh.
“Not so recent then,” Nate said in a deadpan voice. “Sounds like she’s still got a hold on you.”
Brent shrugged, his way of saying yes. “College girlfriend. Haven’t seen her in years.”
“Well, I hope that changes—that is, if you want it to change.”
Hell, did he ever want that to change. But he had no clue what Shannon was up to these days beyond a few posts she made on her Facebook profile, and chances were he wouldn’t run into her again. He hadn’t heard much from her since he’d walked away that night ten years ago.
He closed out the window, shifting gears, and showing Nate his vision for the nightclub.
After they discussed the logistics, Brent gestured to the door, and the world of the casino beyond it. “You up for a round of blackjack?”
“Hell yeah. I’m a gambler these days,” Nate said. They left his office and headed to the casino floor at The Luxe.
“What is it that’s making you a gambling man?”
“This and that,” he said, as they parked themselves on stools at a nearby blackjack table, the hustle and bustle of the casino surrounding them, the slap of cards on tables, the cha-ching of money from slots, and the scent in the air of desire for bets to turn into bigger bets.
Brent didn’t press it. Whatever Nate was betting on these days was clearly private.
* * *
Nate was betting on change. He was betting on possibilities. He was betting on hopefully someday soon having the guts to tell Casey how he was really feeling.
That prospect scared the hell out of him. He had no clue how to find the courage to even begin to verbalize all that he felt for her, and how much she was changing his ideas of everything he’d ever wanted in his post-Joanna life. In a few short weeks she’d upended his priorities, and had him considering everything he’d sworn off since he’d stumbled across the emails from Joanna and her professor.
But then, that wasn’t entirely true. He hadn’t only started thinking of Casey that way in recent weeks. Those notions had been forming since he had first started to get to know her. They’d simply elbowed their way to the front of the pack after he’d touched her, kissed her, held her, and experienced the magic of her coming apart in his arms. He supposed that was the power of such intimacy—it could shake a man to the core. It could change a man.
If he let it.
That was the big if.
That night in London had rocked his world, and had ended their roles as teacher and student. They’d become lovers for real. They’d been together like that again and again in New York when they returned, spending nights tangled up in each other, unable to resist touching, exploring, discovering the depths of their connection. The answer? It was endless.
Which was both wonderful and terrifying.
It was the dark unknown.
Maybe that was why neither one had said more about what the night in London meant. All he’d managed was to let her know that he didn’t want this time with her to end. Which was terribly unfair because he knew deep down that he could never be enough for her long-term, and he’d have to figure out what the hell to do with this crazy mass of emotions that was rattling around in his head and in his heart.
For now, he had a soft seventeen, so he asked the dealer to hit. He was willing to take a chance on twenty-one. He overshot though, and lost a handful of chips to the house.