One Time in Paris (Wanderlust Contemporary Romance #3)

1. Isla

ISLA

LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

The weight of a male arm around Isla Scott’s waist registered for half a second before her stomach did a full somersault.

Nope. Bigger problem. She was going to hurl.

Scrambling for the side of the bed, Isla tripped, her foot still tangled around the bedsheet. Thunk. Her hands smacked against the tiled floor, and she winced, then straightened, scanning the unfamiliar bedroom.

Oh God. Where the hell is the bathroom?

And why was this whole—absurdly enormous—suite so blindingly white? It looked like a spa threw up in here.

Do not think about vomit.

Barreling toward the first door she saw, Isla caught sight of herself in the mirror—tanned skin, light brown hair streaked with pink, wearing nothing but a pink cheetah-print thong and a matching bra that screamed shots were involved.

Head pounding, she opened the first door she found, hoping—praying—it was a bathroom.

It was a closet.

And she was too late.

The stomach-souring taste of last night’s shots came back up with full force as she vomited.

Isla shakily wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, trying to get her bearings.

A groan from the bed. A shuffle of sheets. Isla squeezed her eyes shut for a beat before turning, stomach still churning.

He propped himself up on his elbows, disheveled dark hair falling into sharp blue eyes. Familiar. Too familiar.

Her pulse stuttered.

Oh hell no.

Not him.

Aiden Camden.

Waking up practically naked after a drunken night in Vegas was bad enough. But waking up beside someone she’d known all her life? A man who was one of her older brother’s best friends?

Aiden winced, looking as rough as she felt. His blue eyes narrowed. “Isla? Oh. Bloody brilliant.”

“Please, for the love of my future mental health, tell me we did not have sex.” She tiptoed toward the bed, yanking a blanket from the edge to wrap around her.

“Um—” He moistened his lips, dark eyebrows furrowing as he slumped back onto the pillow. “I don’t believe so.”

“Pants. Are you wearing any pants?”

Aiden peeked under the covers, then shook his head. His well-muscled arms flexed as one arm crossed his bare chest, rubbing a knot out of his shoulder.

Fucking fantastic. I can’t remember if I had sex with my brother’s best friend.

They’d kissed. She was sure of that. The flash of his smile, the Eiffel Tower glowing behind him, the warm press of his hands against hers?—

Then his mouth on hers. It had been unexpected. Rough and desperate and— God help her —exhilarating. A low laugh. His fingers brushing the strap of her dress. Her breath hitching?—

Blank.

Aiden Camden was infuriatingly good-looking. He knew it, and so did a string of brokenhearted women. Isla had sworn she’d never be one of them. And she wouldn’t be.

So how the heck did we get here?

Goddammit.

“Um...” Isla glanced over her shoulder toward the closet.

“You feeling poorly?” Aiden squinted at her like she might spontaneously combust.

On the other hand, she wouldn’t mind spontaneously combusting right now. Where’s a good bolt of lightning when you need it?

She nodded. “Uh...yeah. Your closet has seen better days. So has my dignity.”

He grimaced. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Then you can start by helping me find my clothes.” All she wanted to do was get the hell out of there. Right now. Get back to her room and find out why Davy had abandoned her in the middle of the night. Where had the rest of the girls in the bachelorette party gone?

Wrapping a sheet around his waist, Aiden stumbled out of the bed. It wasn’t fair, really. He was just as hungover as she was, but she looked like she’d been dragged by a bus and he looked, well, beautiful. Chiseled abs. Dark hair just slightly ruffled. Five o’clock shadow.

Damn those Camden brothers. Every single one of them was stupidly good-looking.

Even if she wasn’t slightly interested in Aiden, she could admit that fact.

Okay, so maybe being here proved that some subconscious drunken part of her was interested, but it didn’t make the situation any better. Callum would kill her if he knew. For that matter, Callum would kill Aiden.

Aiden grabbed a pair of trousers from the floor as he scooted past her, then left the room, going farther into the suite. A minute later, he returned—trousers on—with her slinky silver minidress in his hand. “Found this by the door. Presumably flung there in a moment of artistic abandon.”

She did her best not to react. By the door? Her clothes had come off that quickly?

Holy shit.

“Turn around,” she demanded, taking the dress from him.

He didn’t hesitate. “We need to get our story straight. Callum...he cannot know about this.”

“There’s nothing to figure out,” she said, shimmying into her dress. “I won’t tell him and neither will you. That’s simple enough. You’ve got a girlfriend anyway, so I very much doubt either of us wants anyone to find out.”

“Lola’s not my girlfriend,” Aiden said flatly. “I told you that last night.”

“ Currently. ” Isla checked around for the strappy heels and clutch she was sure must be somewhere nearby. “Every other time I see you, you’re back together again.”

Aiden didn’t respond, going over to the closet. He opened it, blinked once, then promptly shut it again. “Right. Well. That’s traumatizing.”

Good God, the embarrassment. How was she ever going to look Aiden in the eye again?

It wasn’t like she never saw him. She’d be seeing him soon enough at Liddy and Callum’s post-elopement party in London, which her brother and his new wife had finally managed to plan despite the logistical nightmare of having Isla’s divorced parents agree on one place to celebrate.

Isla had suggested they do the party in Costa Rica at La Hacienda , which would have been perfect because she wouldn’t have had to travel now that she was running the boutique inn full-time.

But her parents hadn’t agreed to Isla’s suggestion, and now she had to go all the way to London for a party where the Camden brothers would all be in attendance since they lived in London and were Callum’s closest friends.

“Um. Yes, well. This ...was...something. I’ll see you in London.” She slung her clutch’s strap around her wrist and started for the door.

“Isla, wait.”

She turned in the hallway to find Aiden standing there, hands in his pockets. She bit the inside of her lip, stomach roiling with the same nausea she’d woken up with.

“For what it’s worth—not that I have much memory of the blessed event, thanks to a massive amount of gin—I don’t think much happened between us. I was practically non-functional. I can’t even remember the last time I got this smashed, and as soon as you leave, I’m going straight back to sleep.”

“Okay...thanks?” She furrowed her brows. Was he trying to make her feel better? Piss-poor attempt, if so. They’d ended up in bed together, and the fact that neither of them remembered how did nothing to alleviate that problem. “Good to see you,” she managed, then continued forward.

“But—”

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell Callum,” she said, not bothering to glance back at him. Her hand was already on the knob. Her stomach was really starting to churn.

“I just don’t want to leave you thinking I have a habit of preying on unconscious women in cheetah print.”

“Let’s just forget you ever saw my knickers.” Isla’s fingers tightened around the doorknob. “But for your peace of mind, I don’t believe that.”

“Good.”

She opened the door.

And froze.

Standing in the doorway, suitcase at her side, sunglasses perched low on her nose, was Lola. Her red lips parted with surprise. “Isla?”

A bubble of anxiety rose in Isla’s stomach.

No. Not anxiety.

Then she threw up on Lola’s Louis Vuitton suitcase.

If humiliation were an Olympic sport, she’d just stuck the landing.