Riding the tram toward the southern end of the Strip, Damon first took Brenna back to the Paris. He remembered thinking she’d seemed to enjoy the atmosphere of Mon Ami Gabi—and there was much more there to see.

He led her through the casino, situated beneath the base of an imitation Eiffel Tower and flanked by faux Parisian streets complete with more cafés and patisseries. Since they’d missed breakfast, they stopped into one of the French bakeries for some fresh, flaky croissants.

“Mmm,” she purred, taking the first bite at the little café table where they’d settled. “This is heavenly.”

He couldn’t help smiling because her soft little moan reminded him of when he was touching her, just starting to get her excited.

From the Paris, they ventured across the street to the grandeur of the Bellagio, another Italian-themed hotel, famous for its “dancing fountains” that lined Las Vegas Boulevard. Although the whole place was lavish—and he’d gathered that Brenna enjoyed lavish—he mainly took her there to see the glass ceiling by artist Dale Chihuly, composed of hundreds of hand-blown, brightly colored glass discs suspended above the lobby.

“Oh my God,” she said, leaning back to peer upward. “You could look at this all day and still find new parts of it. Amazing. I wish I could just lie on the floor and stare up at it a while.”

Damon grinned at her girlish enthusiasm, then glanced around. “I’ve got a better idea.” Taking her hand, he led her to one of the plush sofas situated beneath the hanging sculpture and took a seat. “Lie down here beside me and rest your head on my lap. That way, we don’t have to worry about anybody stepping on you.”

She giggled, then did as he’d suggested, her auburn locks fanning across his thigh. He watched her vibrant green eyes as she explored the colors and shapes above, until finally she concluded, “I could get lost in this. It’s like…something you’d see in a dream.”

From there, he led her a bit farther up the Strip, crossing Tropicana Avenue to the Excalibur, where she seemed wholly entertained by the medieval theme, then onto the pyramid-shaped Luxor and classy Mandalay Bay, where they visited the shark tank and stopped to play a little roulette. He’d never seen anyone so amused by winning ten dollars on a spin as Brenna.

Of course, at each stop, he took the opportunity to pop into a bar or lounge where he knew someone—asking if they’d seen any good bands lately—and got a couple of leads. He also introduced Brenna, explaining she was joining him in A&R duties at Blue Night. He always saved an evening or two on trips like this for checking out acts he learned about along the way, and he started making notes as they hopped the tram from Mandalay back to the Excalibur, then took the elevated walkway across Tropicana Avenue to New York, New York.

As they meandered the winding streets laid out inside the resort, Brenna asked, “So, does this place do New York justice?”

He shrugged. “It’s…an entertaining facsimile. It doesn’t exactly feel like home, but I guess it’s as close as you can come on this side of the country.”

After a few hours of hotel tours and networking, Brenna announced she was hungry, so they stopped into a deli on one of the faux New York thoroughfares for sandwiches, and as he sat across from her eating, it hit him how much fun he was having. Just eating a freaking sandwich with her. Walking around with her and showing her things she’d never seen before. Watching the way her eyes lit up with wonder at every turn.

He supposed he’d just gotten so accustomed to plastic women that Brenna was a pleasant departure. He hadn’t ever actually thought of them that way before now—as plastic—but that pretty much described the women he usually hung out with. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with them—but Brenna was so different, so open, so willing to let her insecurities show. And the way she ran the gamut from eager, dirty sex nymph to wide-eyed innocent—hell, she just made them look so…two-dimensional. Flat. Unreal.

In fact, when was the last time he’d really enjoyed socializing with a woman when it didn’t involve sex?

Shit—it was a sobering question.

Because he wasn’t quite sure he…ever had.

Unless he thought back to Angie. But again, that was a lifetime ago. In another world. He was a far different person now than he’d been then.

“What’s wrong?” Brenna asked.

He jerked to attention. “What? Nothing. Why?”

“You just have a weird look on your face.”

Hell. People seldom accused him of wearing weird looks.

He considered just being honest—as honest and open and forthright as she would be if the situation were reversed—saying: I just like you, that’s all. I like you and I don’t quite remember the last time I really, honestly liked someone I was fucking. But instead he just smirked and said, “Thanks.” And, on impulse, threw a potato chip at her.

At which she laughed, then threw a small handful of them back.

Which, for some reason, made him like her even more. He pointed a scolding finger at her and said, “Knock it off,” unable to hide a slight smile. “You’re supposed to be a hip, cool A&R rep. We don’t have food fights.”

Her expression went from amused to confused. “Didn’t you throw the first chip? About ten seconds ago? I thought maybe this was part of my training.”

He tilted his head, crossed his arms, and at least tried to get honest. “Let’s just say…there are moments you make me forget we’re working here.”

Across the table, she lowered her chin. “It so happens you’re more skilled at combining work and play than anyone I’ve ever met.”

He shrugged. “It’s a gift.” And wondered what the fuck he was doing saying shit like that, about her making him forget things. Crazy talk. And it was time to change the subject. “Are you gonna eat those chips or throw them? We should take off—we’ve got a big night ahead of us.”