Can't Take the Heat Read Online Free

penultimate floor of the Barrows high-rise casino on the strip. They’re all equipped with multiple bedrooms and full kitchens, so they might as well be apartments, except that you can get both room service and maid service if you want. Plus, of course, our rent is free—the apartment comes with Wes’s position as Chief Operating Officer.
    Those might seem like big advantages—especially the rent-free part—but they come with a big price. The first is that we live cheek to jowl with Wes’s parents, whose apartment is right across the hall. The second is that it means Wes is at his father’s beck and call, day and night, seven days a week. And believe me, Sam takes advantage of that. Whenever there’s a management crisis, he drags Wes into it, even if it’s the middle of the night or a day off.
    “What’s the problem?” Sam will say. “Just get on the damn elevator and get down here.”
    Even before we got engaged, Wes and I started talking about buying our own house. Someplace close enough to town that the commute isn’t ridiculous, but far enough so Wes can easily decline a two a.m. summons to deal with a player who’s counting cards at blackjack. Yet, here we are, three years later, living in the same apartment. I don’t get it. Although it explains why we haven’t decided to have kids. Being out of the casino was always one of my prerequisites.
    As I walk into the living room, however, I can’t shake the eerie, almost supernatural sensation of wrongness. The feeling is the opposite of déjà vu: a kind of certainty that although I’ve been here before—because I certainly have—I don’t belong here now.
    Maybe it’s just that the décor is different. Since the casino owns all the furniture, it gets changed periodically to keep pace with current trends. If Sam ever decides to get a paying tenant for this unit, he'll want it to go for top dollar. Plus, redecorating is a tax write-off, and Sam never met a tax shelter he didn’t love.
    In place of the plush, tan-suede sofa and chairs I remember is a set of very square, very stern-looking black leather furniture that would look more at home in the lobby of a law firm than in our apartment. I guess that’s the style now, though. I suppose I should be grateful that hardwood floors are still fashionable, because those haven’t been replaced. From my vantage just inside the door, I can also see that the kitchen still has its classic Shaker cabinets topped by the soapstone counters I love so much. I always swear that when we move, I’m taking them with me.
    Ha, what if we’ve never bought a house because I refuse to give up those counters?
    The other big change I notice is the television. In fact, “big” is an understatement. The damn thing is huge , easily double the size of the thirty-two-inch flat screen that used to occupy one niche in the wall unit. Now there’s no room for a wall unit because the entire wall is engulfed by the massive screen and two tower speakers that sit on either side. The whole ensemble is so imposing, it competes for attention with the incredible view of the city and surrounding mountains.
    Wes catches the direction of my gaze and chuckles. “I…we hardly ever watch it. Although it is nice to have during the playoffs.”
    For Wes, playoffs means hockey. How a guy who was born and raised in Vegas managed to get so addicted to a game played on ice is a mystery to me. Especially since Sam’s game is football. But then, that probably explains it. Wes would never launch a full-scale rebellion against his father, but he’s more than willing to engage in petty skirmishes.
    “I can see that it would be useful for that,” I say with a smile. “I might actually be able to see the puck.”
    That’s always been my complaint about hockey. I can’t follow it because the puck is so tiny and moves so fast, it’s impossible to track who has it. Wes says I should watch the players, not the puck, but I’ve never mastered that. As