Agnetha’s chuckle was low and husky. Too much singing in the clubs last night too. It had been a pretty special introduction to Vegas. This was the first time she’d been, and they’d come on a whim – actually Aaron’s whim – to celebrate her birthday.
Unfortunately, she wouldn’t be claiming the sequinned bikini because this was a short visit. They were all heading back to LA the following morning and then she and Celeste would be flying home to Glasgow, via London, in a few days’ time.
Reluctantly, she pushed herself up on the bed, to an immediate objection.
‘Woah! Where do you think you’re going?’
‘To get showered and ready. I’d like to see a bit of Vegas before we go back to LA tomorrow.’
‘Screw it. Forget going home tomorrow.’ The way he said ‘home’ gave her goosebumps, because they both knew that LA wasn’t her home. It was only his. Yet, it sounded so right, it set off a flurry of tingles in her stomach. ‘There’s another bus the day after… and the day after… and the day after,’ he insisted, as his lips found hers, the need for dental hygiene temporarily forgotten.
‘Bus’ was probably a bit of an understatement for the luxury coach that had transported them here from LA. It had picked them up at a plush hotel in West Hollywood, a few blocks from Aaron and Zac’s apartment. She’d stared out of the window the whole way, loving the transition from the beach, to the desert, to the kaleidoscopic extravaganza that was Las Vegas. At his insistence, they’d checked into Caesars Palace, courtesy of Aaron’s credit card. Unlike the card that she’d put this holiday on, she was fairly sure Aaron could more than afford to pay it back.
Not that she’d worry about her burgeoning credit balance for a single moment. Not while she was here, in a gorgeous hotel room in one of the most exciting cities on the planet with a breath-takingly gorgeous man whose hand still appeared to be wandering up the inside of her thigh.
This trip had definitely taken an unexpected turn for the incredible. She’d landed almost twelve weeks ago at LAX with her best friend, Celeste, intent on experiencing everything Tinsel Town had to offer two twenty-something Scottish girls with a thirst for adventure. They’d checked into a chain motel off Santa Monica Boulevard, then showered, thrown on dresses and heels, and headed out to explore.
It was pure chance, serendipity, that Aaron and his mate Zac were sitting at the bar in the Chateau Marmont. Agnetha had dragged Celeste in there because she’d once seen it mentioned in a Jackie Collins novel and wanted to see it for herself. It didn’t take long to get chatting to the two handsome guys at the next seats.
‘So, actors, models or musicians?’ Celeste struck up the conversation with a coy seductive smile. ‘I’m thinking models?’
Agnetha could see she was flirting, but then, it was a standing joke that Celeste would flirt with a bamboo plant just for practice. She couldn’t help herself. It was her natural default setting. However, it had got them into more clubs than they could count, got them out of more sticky situations than they wished to remember, and led to some memorable nights with unforgettable fun, so Agnetha had long ago learned to roll with it.
‘None of the above. I work at CAA. I’m the assistant to an agent that represents TV and movie talent,’ Zac had replied. He was the shorter of the two, and gave off an unusual vibe of stockbroker crossed with surfer in his white dress shirt with his tie loose, smart dark trousers and long blond hair pulled back into a messy ponytail.
Celeste’s reaction made it obvious that she liked that answer. Anything less than five degrees of separation from someone who’d actually met a movie star and she was all over it. Last year she’d made them stand outside Robert De Niro’s block in New York for two hours in the hope that he’d nip out for a newspaper. All they’d got was an enquiry from an agitated doorman as to why they were there and several small New York dogs barking in their direction.
‘And you?’ Agnetha had asked breezily, the combination of happiness, a little jet lag and her second bourbon and Coke making her feel both chilled and giddy at the same time.
The other guy was much more her type. Taller. More casually dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt. Brown hair cut so short she wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d been in the armed forces. ‘Construction. Family business,’ he said. So the biceps and the wide, muscular shoulders that shaped and stretched the white cotton fabric hadn’t come from a gym.
That night, they’d chatted for a couple of hours, then wandered down to Sunset, where they’d let the guys take them to a couple of bars, then on to a club. At every one of them, Zac and Aaron seemed to know someone on the door or behind the bar, and Agnetha loved the party atmosphere. This is what she lived for. She slogged her heart out for weeks and months on temporary catering jobs and in the family café back in Glasgow, working day and night, so she could escape to fabulous places and live wild and free for weeks at a time. Thankfully, her parents were understanding of her wanderlust and positively encouraged it, keeping her job open every time. It was an unconventional way to live, but she loved it, especially when her childhood friend, Celeste, who’d moved to London a couple of years ago, could get time off from her bar and part-time modelling work to join her. That’s when the really wild stuff tended to happen. Like checking out of their hotel and moving into Zac and Aaron’s West Hollywood apartment after their first week there. Like postponing their return home three times now, because they were making the money they saved on hotel bills last as long as possible. Like waking up naked in Vegas on the morning of her birthday with an utterly captivating man who was clearly intent on doing all kinds of blissful things to her. Maybe the sights of Vegas could wait.
The thought was interrupted by a knock at the door. Aaron grabbed a towel that he’d dropped on the floor after his shower last night and wrapped it around his waist. Agnetha pulled the sheet up to her neck and enjoyed the view. Every muscle in his back rippled as he walked. There was a sight she’d never get sick of looking at and one that was going to be tough to say goodbye to, but she had to go. The money was now running out and so was the time on their tourist visa.
The wheels of the room service trolley clanked quietly as it was trundled into the room by an impeccably uniformed waiter.
Aaron tipped the waiter, then lifted the lids of the two silver cloches on the table. Pancakes. Bacon. Maple syrup. Strawberries. With orange juice and coffee to wash it all down.
Tucking the sheet around her body like a sarong, Agnetha got up and padded over to the dining area at the window, watching as Aaron transferred the food from the trolley to the small round table. She poured two coffees from a tall silver pot, then two glasses of orange juice.
For the first few moments, they sat in comfortable silence. Agnetha, knees pulled up in front of her, nursing her coffee with both hands, stared out of the window.
Aaron tossed up a strawberry and caught it in his mouth. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘I’m thinking that this is so far away from my normal life that it all feels completely unreal,’ she answered honestly.
‘What would you be doing at home right now?’ he asked, genuinely curious.
She’d already told him the bones of her life in Glasgow. Lovely mum and dad. Only child. Lived above the West End café in Hyndland that her grandparents had passed down to her parents. Went to catering school. Became a qualified pastry chef. Now worked in the café, as well as for a temping agency, taking short-term catering and cooking jobs because she wanted the flexibility to travel and enjoy life.
‘Depends, if I had a temp job. If so, I’d be there already, prepping the food for the day. If not, then I’d have opened up the café with my dad, and I’d be up to my elbows in bread dough and cake mix.’
‘Is it wrong that I find that mental image completely sexy?’
Agnetha’s chuckle was low and throaty. ‘Completely wrong. I refuse to associate with a man who gets turned on by carrot cake.’
‘It’s not the