“April here told me.” He tips his glass her way, but she’s too busy flicking her hair and flirting with his friend, who’s currently hanging over the back of the booth.
“I’m Roman.”
“Hi.” I duck my head and slide a hunk of hair behind my ear to stop myself from blurting out that I already know. Because there’s also a possibility I might parrot back his coffee order (a double espresso), his preferred morning accompaniment (a blueberry danish), his shoe size (13), and the measurement of his inside leg (36). The latter two are calculated guesses. “It’s nice to meet you, Roman.”
“Are you ladies from Vegas?” He offers me a friendly smile.
“Oregon,” I offer, matching his expression.
“The Beaver State,” some wise-ass supplies.
“And you’re from Australia.” Gah! That accent!
“Is it that obvious?” His deep chuckle seems to reverberate through me. “So what do you do, Kennedy from Oregon?” He sets down his glass, resting his forearms against the shiny tabletop. He has nice hands. Long, elegant fingers. Strong wrists that probably lead to taut and tawny forearms. And biceps.
I bring my glass to my mouth and think better of it. Not only is this drink a little too sweet, but I also clearly don’t need alcoholic encouragement.
“I, um. I’m a student,” I answer, displaying my intelligence to its current limit of two brain cells. “At PSU. In Portland. That’s in Oregon,” I say, bringing the geography lesson to a close.
He is so gorgeous.
Maybe I should swish my hair.
Smile winsomely at him.
Or maybe winsome isn’t a Vegas vibe.
Thanks for the dubious education, Nana’s library.
Sadly, the confidence I’ve gained from being at college the past two years hasn’t exactly extended to dealing with the opposite sex. I’m not shy, and I’m no wallflower, but my flirting skills suck, mainly because I have a hard time trusting the motives of the male of the species. It’s what you might call an observational learning.
“What are you studying?” he asks, turning his glass.
“I’m majoring in psychology.”
“You want to examine the contents of people’s heads?” He leans in, his eyes skating across my face.
“I’m not sure yet.” I think I’d like to keep studying to gain a doctorate, but the cost of that kind of education probably isn’t within my grasp. I don’t want to be in debt forever. “I might go corporate, work in HR or something,” I add with a careless shrug. I can see myself working in an office, though I can see myself doing a lot of things just to keep from moving back to Mookatill. “What about you? What do you do?”
“As little as possible,” offers up one of his eavesdropping friends. “Right, Romeo?”
I try not to pull a face at the moniker. Urgh, Romeo?
“For now.” Roman takes the jibe with ease. “Holidays are for relaxing.”
His friends chorus in the affirmative.
“Well, our vacation is all about me!” April pipes up, slightly preening.
“It’s April’s birthday, in case you missed that.” There’s a hint of laughter in my explanation as my attention shifts to the way she’s flirting with Roman’s blond friend. Jake, I think. As she accepts the congratulations of our new friends, Jake insists on buying birthday shots.
It looks like April’s plans are panning out.
“Simmo’s round,” the guy says, beating a drumroll against the tabletop.
“Sime-o?” I repeat, with not quite the same intonation. Glancing Roman’s way, I’m hoping for an explanation.
“It’s short for Simon,” he explains.
“Is it, though? Really?” My words are a touch provocative, my smile, too.
“It’s an Aussie thing. Everyone gets a nickname. Well, everyone we like.”
“One where you throw an o on the end of anything?”
“Something like that.” He answers with a chuckle.
“So that would make you Romeo?”
“Without the suicidal tendencies,” he adds. I like this version better, even if his friend’s grin implies there’s more to this inside joke.
“So that would make him . . .?” I point at the guy on the left of Chelsea.
“Johno.”
“Short for John?” I say doubtfully. Because isn’t it a diminutive for a reason? Like, shorter, not longer?
“Johnathon.”
Makes sense, my nod aims to convey. I point at the final man in the group. “And him?”
“That would be Jacob.”
“Easy! Jakeo.”
“Something like that.” His smile is inscrutable.
“So tell me. How would an Aussie do me?”
The way his gaze rakes over me with a slow, heavy-lidded glance makes it hard for my mind to backtrack over what I might’ve said. He leans closer as though he’s about to tell me a secret, and in a velvety voice meant only for my ears he murmurs, “Very, very thoroughly.”
His gaze holds mine for the longest time. I feel like I’ve been heated from the inside out, every inch of my skin aflame. One tiny poof of air, and I’m sure those Kennedy embers would disperse like ash in the air. I’ve never been the subject of such looks, never felt another’s gaze like the sweep of a caress. The moment seems endless, and honestly, I think I panic because I don’t know how to process what his words do to me. Which results in another moment of absolute ridiculousness.