Page 1 of Feast

“Whatever happens in Vegas does not stay in Vegas. Don’t believe that shit.”

~ Kevin Hart

1

Spencer Nichols boarded the plane to Vegas with conflicting emotions. There was annoyance that, due to ‘mechanical difficulties’, his non-stop flight from Grand Rapids had turned into a connecting one in Chicago. There was irritation that the only food he’d been able to find in the terminal had been a pre-packaged sandwich with a questionable expiration date. And finally, there was the reluctant pleasure of sitting in first class.

Not that first class on a flight from Chicago Midway to Las Vegas was all that classy. There was no fully reclining seat or privacy pod, and he sincerely doubted a gourmet meal would be in the offing. But he had six inches of extra legroom, only one seat beside him instead of two, and the flight attendant had already brought him a whiskey, free of charge, so all in all he considered it a win.

Now if the seat next to him would stay empty, he might just enjoy the next four hours.

He closed his eyes and laid his head back, whiskey in hand, and let the sounds of feet shuffling and luggage wheels clattering down the aisle fade into white noise. It was almost soothing, and he’d fallen into a light doze when a sudden loud thud jerked him out of it.

“Oops,” a breathless voice said, and he kissed his dreams of a seatmate-free flight goodbye.

He kept his eyes closed, hoping whoever was currently wrangling their luggage into the overhead compartment would take the hint and leave him alone. He didn’t open them when the flight attendant came by to assist with the wrangling and kept them resolutely shut when the occupant of Seat 3B sat down hard enough to make him bounce. But when something landed on his foot, his eyes popped open.

“What the hell?”

“Sorry,” 3B said, and with his foot throbbing and his mood plummeting, he turned to snarl at her.

And just stared.

She was a mess.

Her hair was dark brown and long, just past her shoulders, and so tangled he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t being used as a nest by some small woodland creature. Her face was flushed bright pink and damp, so much so that he thought for a moment someone had thrown a drink in her face before he realized she was sweating. A lot.

She swiped a hand over her forehead and into her hair, which didn’t help the hair-as-nest situation at all, and offered him a surprisingly cheerful smile. “Sorry,” she said again and leaned over to retrieve the backpack that had dropped on his foot. She grunted and hoisted it up, and he blurted out the first thought that leaped to mind.

“What do you have in that thing, rocks?”

“No,” she said, her voice muffled as she bent over to shove the backpack under the seat in front of her. “Shoes.”

“How many feet do you have?” he asked, distracted. Bending over had caused her shirt to ride up and her jeans to gape at the waist, treating him to a view of the dimples on either side of her lower spine.

Nice.

“Ha,” she said and sat up, shoving at her hair. “I wasn’t sure which ones to bring, mostly because I don’t know which outfit I’m going to wear to my—”

“I don’t actually care,” he interrupted, staring at her hair again, which now stood straight up from her forehead and appeared to be increasing in volume.

“Then why’d you ask?”

“Beats the hell out of me,” he said and finally dragged his gaze away from her hair to focus on her face.

She was still sweating, which was probably why her face was bare of makeup except for the dark rings under her eyes. Her eyeliner had fought valiantly but lost the battle, and combined with the hair she looked like the morning after a hard night of partying—or other sweaty activities.

It looked good on her.

She had skin that he figured for a soft, pearly white when it wasn’t I-just-ran-a-marathon-red, a round, stubborn-looking chin, and a mouth that made him think of sweaty activities again. Wide and lush and a pale, sweet pink, it was currently being nibbled on by strong white teeth while she watched him with curious eyes the color of the whiskey he’d forgotten he was holding.

“Is your foot okay?” she asked and dropped her eyes to the body part in question. “Your toes aren’t broken, are they?”

“My toes are fine,” he grumbled, and she looked up. Her lashes had left sooty little smudges under her eyes, adding to her general vibe ofsexy mess, and since watching her chew on her lower lip wasn’t going to help him maintain his veneer of civility, he looked away.

Unfortunately, he looked away and down, where a truly magnificent rack was turning a simple white, V-neck t-shirt into a work of art. It was thin enough to mold to the flesh it covered, challenging his civility again, and damp enough to reveal that the bra she wore under it was both lacy and pink.

And doing nothing to disguise the state of her nipples, poking through her bra and t-shirt like pencil erasers. Stubby, thick, half-inch-long pencil erasers.