I shrug, craning my neck ’til I see the future bride’s over-highlighted head. I lean in, give Megan a quick peck on the cheek, then hobble over to Chelsea. “I’m heading up to the room,” I yell.
She waves her hand dismissively, her eyes glued to the table, the movement of our Asian coaching staff leaping in the air dominating her attention, her own voice whooping at an ear-splitting crescendo.
Great. I move before my words register and her attention moves to me, weaving through crowds of people as fast as my raw feet will take me, opening my purse and dumping my handful of chips into it.
Past blackjack. I can do this. It’s not really that bad if I don’t pause long enough for my feet to bitch.
Past poker. Damn, there are a lot of tables. I keep my eyes focused forward, like I do when I feel like I will faint. Step, hobble. Step, hobble. I can do this. Damn, I hope I’m going the right way.
Past blackjack. Shit. Are these the same tables I passed before? Or different ones? Maybe the others were in a high-roller portion of the casino. These must be different. They have to be different. I look for a sign, an arrow, a member of the casino staff. The blister on the back of my right heel is now competing with my left pinky toe, which I’d be willing to bet is bleeding.
Past slots. Okay, I think this is right. I am jostled out of place by an overweight white woman who shoots me a dirty look. Almost turn my ankle and bust my ass. Great. Just what I need. An injury to accompany my pansy-ass feet.
There is an exit before me, and I crane to see over the heads blocking my view. Please lead out of the casino. Please lead into the lobby by the shops, please … Oh, thank God. I almost cry with relief when the crowd parts, and I enter the smoke-free arena that is the rest of the hotel. Bathrooms to my left, a seating area on my right. I walk like my ninety year old grandma and collapse into the closest chair, working off my heels with trembling fingers, and moan when the heavy stilettos drop to the tiled floor. Sweet Jesus. I flex my feet and lean back in the chair. Close my eyes and cover my face for a moment, rubbing gentle patterns into my hairline as I try to massage the headache that has spent the last two hours building. Aspirin. I’ll get to the room, take aspirin, and draw a bath. Soak my feet and create enough bubbles to make Mr. Clean jealous. The prospect brings a smile to my face, and I let my hands drop. Take a moment to breathe, to relax.
It’s quieter out here. Away from the madness of the casino.
I can’t believe it’s only Friday. I got off early, our bank manager unhappy with the request, yet unable to bitch too loud, seeing as I’m the only FA our small town chain has. FA. That’s fancy country talk for Financial Advisor. In a big city I’d manage large portfolios, dispense stock advice, buy and sell quotients like Ben Affleck in Boiler Room. But in our small town? An hour from Atlanta, where Sunday sermons focus on rain prayers, and where the average household income lies right on the forty-five thousand dollar mark? My days are spent selling mutual funds, life insurance, and doing the I’m-not-qualified-for-this job of will creation and estate planning. Nothing that can’t wait ’til Monday morning, when my raw feet and hung over self will crack open the doors of Smith Bank & Trust at the ungodly hour of 7:30 AM.
I pick up my right foot and examine the damage done by my stilettos. Stilettos that are uglier by the minute, trotting their pretty selves straight into my trash can at their current rate of travel. Too bad I didn’t pack many other options. Fancy shoes take up a very small corner of my closet. Sensible black grandma heels dominate the rest of that said closet floor. Paired with my tan nylons, they help to complete the too-sexy-for-a-date vibe that I rock ninety percent of the year. Maybe I can’t pull off the cute strappy heels, sexpot in a minidress look. Maybe that ability set sail at age thirty. Maybe, at thirty-two, I should invest in some ballet flats and sundresses. I see a lot of the minivan moms with that look. And they look comfortable. They certainly don’t have the engine red feet that are currently screaming a slow death beneath my fingertips. I gingerly push on the bubble on my back heel. Uck. I can almost hear liquid squishing in it.
Fuzzy white. It is thrust in my line of vision, interrupting my new fascination with the chipped polish on my big toe. I focus on the white, fluffy soft slippers coming into view. Thick ones, where you’d sink an inch into a pillow top bed of comfort, a brand I’ve never heard of embroidered along the top. I look from the shoes, up a tan arm, my eyes tripping and already drooling over clean nails, a strong hand, golden hair light over a Rolex ten times more authentic than mine, a muscular forearm, rolled sleeves, a jaw I’d nibble to death, and a face that competed with easy superiority against any celebrity I have previously strummed myself off to in recent memory.
He smiles, a rueful grin that may have just burst my heart. I work my jaw, trying to formulate speech, glancing back and forth from the slippers to his face.
“Would you like these?” His voice. Sandpaper over the hull of a yacht. A combination of roughness and polish.
I swallow. “The slippers?” Of course the slippers. What else would he be talking about?
A surprised look crosses his face. “You’re Southern. From … Alabama?”
“Georgia.” I wince. I can’t hide the drawl; it drags through that one word with such ownership, as if the Southern notes are fused through every syllable.
He nods slowly, still holding out the slippers. His other hand moves, reaching across. “I’m Brett.”
I should stand. It’s the polite thing to do. Stand and shake his hand. But I don’t. I don’t think my feet can handle it. I just reach out, shake his hand with a firm grip, like my daddy taught me, and meet his eyes. “Riley.”
Bemused. I don’t know what about that exchange he found funny, but his mouth widened, and I got another devastating look at his teeth. God, I’d love for him to nibble my skin. Tease my neck, take the other, more sensitive parts of my body and wreak havoc on them. I shiver at the thought and pull my eyes from his. Take the slippers from his hands. “You carry around slippers?”
“I saw your hobble across the casino. It caught my eye. I wandered out, wanted to make sure a man didn’t take advantage of your ill state.”
“By what? Swooping to my rescue with ridiculously comfortable slippers?”
If possible, his grin widened. “Yes. You should probably avoid me from this point forward.”
Having no intelligent response, I pretend to distract myself from the conversation, working the soft cotton over my injured feet and sighing with relief when they are on. “Where did you get these?”
He tilts his head to the right. “The store next door. They carry matching robes if you’d like to complete the look.”
I laugh. “No, I’m good.”
“I would have offered to carry you, but it didn’t seem appropriate. When I saw that you had sat down … How far do you have to go?”
“My room.” I wave a hand dismissively in the direction of our room. “Coral Towers.”
He frowns. “A bit of a hike.”
“It was.” I wiggle my toes. “A lot better now. Please sit down.” I gesture to the seat next to me. Pull open my purse and dig through the chips there, seeing him, out of my peripheral, remain standing. Okay. I collect all of the green chips I can find. Six total. Sixty bucks worth. I close my purse and hold out the handful, watching Brett eye my closed fist. “Go on, open your hand,” I urge.
He does, wincing when I drop the chips into his palm. He frowns, rolling them over in his palm and holding them out to me.
“They’re for the slippers.” I clasp the top flap of my purse, ignoring the insistent press of his fist in my personal space. I bat off his hand. “Take it.”