Mr. Reserved doesn’t say anything, but I swear his mouth almost hitches up at the corners.
“Yep,” Ty answers, a little too loudly for our close proximity. “But no matter what you decide,” he continues and places one single black casino chip in my hand. “It’s my patriotic duty to make you leave here a winner.”
“Patriotic duty?” I question, and he just winks. The other two drunk companions burst into laughter, but my eyes, they jump to the fourth man—the one who’s yet to say anything.
I glance down at the chip in my palm. Holy shit. Five hundred dollars? It sure seems like Lady Luck likes my balls just as they are.
“Wow. Thank you. This is beyond generous, and I’m not sure I can acc—”
“Yeah, you can,” the man interrupts me with a sway and a smile. “I’m not paying you for sex or nothin’. Just doin’ my patriotic duty.” He punctuates that statement by saluting me as if I’m a soldier in uniform, and it spurs a giggle to jump from my lips.
“Jesus,” the dark-haired one chastises, grabbing Ty by the shoulder and pulling him farther away from me. An apologetic smile crests his lips when he meets my eyes. “I wish I could say he’s never like this, but I’d be lying.”
“Remy’s right,” Ty agrees with a lazy grin. “I am, in fact, always this charming and resistible.”
“Resistible?” Jude, the man who is still covering his eyes, bursts into laughter. “I might be blitzed, but I think that’s the wrong word, my man.”
“Nah, I think it’s the perfect word,” Remy, the tallest and not-quite-as-drunk one, comments with a big grin.
So far, through this crazy conversation that I’m only half involved in, I’ve gathered three out of the four men’s names—Ty, Jude, and Remy.
Which only makes me more curious about the most reserved one of their group. He has yet to say a word, but somehow, his presence is the most undeniable. He’s confident without uttering a word or showing any sort of obvious expression. And for some reason, that only makes me more intrigued.
I almost open my mouth to ask him his name, but the raucous ringleader and the gifter of my chip performs a deep bow, saying, “My lady, I bid you adieu.”
The other two start to laugh, but after a silent command from the fourth stalwart companion, they turn away and leave, stumbling slightly as they walk.
Without another word or explanation, Mr. Mysterious and the gang are just…gone.
I don’t know what in the hell just happened. But seeing as it ended in me being five hundred dollars richer, maybe I need to come to Vegas more often.
Daisy
“Daisy girl!” my boss Damien greets me with a huge smile on his handsome face and walks straight over to place two European-style air kisses to my cheeks. “How was the flight in?”
“It was fine,” I remark, smoothing the satin of my blouse with a delicate hand. I swear, I just put it on five minutes ago, but the damn thing is already threatening to wrinkle.
“Fine?” he repeats with derision in his tone. “Girl, you flew commercial out of LAX. Unless you consider the pits of hell fine, I know it wasn’t anywhere close to that.”
Damien Ellis is rich, sophisticated, and one-hundred-percent spoiled to the point of not understanding what life is like for most folks. I honestly think when people reach a certain level of success and income, they lose sight of what the day-to-day is like for those without eight-figure bank accounts and investment portfolios.
“You act like flying commercial is some kind of atrocity.” I roll my eyes. “We’re not all living the luxury lifestyle, you know. Plus, you sign my paychecks and pay for my flights and accommodations…”
I mean, I can’t deny that flying commercial isn’t what it used to be. Every airline gives you the minimum amount of space and makes you pay a fortune for bags, even though they overbook their flights to the point of having to stuff carry-ons in the cargo.
Not to mention, the snacks and drinks are a thing of the past. You want a Coca-Cola on your flight? Prepare to cough up ten bucks.
But still, that flight saved me several hours of driving, so I’m not going to complain.
“Whatever, sis.” He just smirks and sassily shrugs his shoulder. “How did the setup go in Malibu?”
“You mean the ten-million-dollar beachfront home with a master walk-in closet bigger than my apartment?” I tease. “Oh, it went just fine and dandy. Didn’t make me want to move in or anything.”
He chuckles. “I can’t wait to see what you did with it.”
“Frederick was already there getting pictures before I left for the airport, so I’m sure come Monday morning, he’ll have them ready for you to look at.”
“Fantastic,” he comments. “Forcing you to emigrate from Canada and join my team was the best decision I’ve ever made. I’m never letting you go.”
Forcing me? Ha. Working on Damien Ellis’s team was the epitome of career goals. I would’ve sold both my kidneys on the black market and offered up my firstborn just to be a part of one of the most successful real estate firms in the US.
“Well, that’s good news because you’re stuck with me.”
Los Angeles, New York, Las Vegas, Miami, EllisGrey is the top name in the real estate game. If you’re not a part of Damien Ellis and Thomas Grey’s team, you want to be on their team. And if you have a small obsession with Patrick Dempsey like I do, you fantasize about having the company’s name on your business card a little more. Seriously, though, for someone like me, who specializes in interior design and staging homes for the market, unless I manage to start my own firm and skyrocket to success, there isn’t any higher achievement.
It’s the whole reason I moved from Vancouver to LA and the whole purpose I was seeking when I started Daisy Designs’s social media presence.
Though never in a million years did I think my Instagram following and popularity would get me on a guy like Damien’s radar. To this day, I still feel like there’s been some sort of mistake.
“What time did you end up getting in?”
“A little before noon.”
“Doll, you’ve practically been here all day. What in the hell have you been doing? You should’ve called me.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I know how to keep myself busy.” I waggle my brows. “Shower, nap, slot machines, and a delicious room service lunch, to be specific. Though not in that order.”
“Slot machines? For real?” he questions on a laugh. “And how did that treat you?”
“I’m up five hundred.”
He jolts his head back. “You’re up five hundred on fucking slot machines?”
“Well, technically, I broke even on this addictive buffalo game, but apparently, I was so entertaining while playing, a random stranger gave me a five-hundred-dollar chip.”
“A random stranger?” he questions. “Girl, tell me he’s tall, dark, and handsome with a big cock and you got his number.”
“Technically, he was tall, medium-brown, and handsome. His hair was a little on the lighter side.”
“And the cock?”