What Happens in Vegas #3: Jasmine & Antonio

Prologue

“But he’s the only man I’ve ever kissed.” Meesha’s voice drops to a whisper in the noisy restaurant. “The only one I’ve ever...” She doesn’t finish and doesn’t need to. “I can’t help feeling like I’m missing out on something.”

Jessa and I exchange glances. The distant chime of slot machines mingles with the clink of silverware, and after four days in Vegas for Meesha’s bachelorette, the sensory overload has faded into white noise.

The three of us have been inseparable since our freshman year of college when Jessa and I discovered we were dating the same guy. Instead of turning on each other, Meesha and Jessa, who had already been best friends, brought me into their revenge plot.

We broke into Chad’s dorm room, covered his entire floor with uncooked rice mixed with glitter and corn syrup, replaced his shampoo with pink hair dye, and plastered every surface with printed screenshots of his three-timing text messages.

That was eight years ago. Since then, we’ve seen each other through graduations, career changes, family dramas and countless relationship disasters.

But Meesha and Connor had been together before I met the girls. They’ve been each other’s constant for nearly a decade now.

Jessa launches into protective mode immediately. “That’s ridiculous, Meesha. You’ve found what most people spend their lives searching for. Don’t throw it away on a whim.”

The thing about being a romance author is that you develop a sixth sense for relationship drama.

You learn to read micro-expressions and the hesitations between words.

And with Meesha second-guessing the only relationship she’s ever been in, every writer’s instinct in me screams that we’re heading toward a third-act crisis.

“Have you told him how you feel?” I ask.

“It was hard enough admitting it to you two.” Meesha blinks rapidly, fighting tears. “I don’t want him to think I’m ungrateful. I love him, I do. I just...” she swallows. “I wonder if I should test the waters before diving all the way in.”

The vibration of Meesha’s phone cuts through the moment. Connor’s smiling face illuminates her screen, and I watch her entire demeanor shift.

She reaches it. “It’s him. I should take this.”

Meesha slides from her chair, phone pressed to her ear, voice instantly brightening as she weaves through the tables. “Hey, baby...”

The transformation is instant and telling. Whatever doubts Meesha has been wrestling with vanish the moment she hears Connor’s voice. Proof that what she’s feeling is anxiety, not dissatisfaction.

Jessa turns to me. “Do you think she’s okay?”

I gather my leather purse. “I’m not sure, but I hope she doesn’t do anything to mess up her relationship.”

“I’ll be in the suite!” Meesha calls over her shoulder, already halfway to the elevators. “Connor wants to see the room!”

Before we can respond, she’s gone, leaving behind two concerned friends. We stand, watching her disappear into the crowd.

“So,” I say, recognizing Jessa’s need for distraction from problems she can’t immediately solve, “I’ve booked that contemporary art tour for this evening. Wanna join?”

Jessa wrinkles her nose. “Hard pass. I’m on vacation from educational activities.”

We wind our way out of the restaurant and through the casino. The late afternoon crowd is different from the morning desperados.

They’re fresher, still optimistic, and not yet worn down by the house’s inevitable victory. By the time we reach the elevator, the buzz of the floor fades behind the closing doors.

An hour later, Jessa’s in the shower, and Meesha’s holed up in her room talking to Connor. I should be writing, but my mind keeps wandering to relationships and their complexities.

How people can have everything and still wonder what else exists. How some of us observe love from the sidelines, writing perfect endings for fictional characters while our own stories remain unwritten.

I’ve been single for two years now, by choice mostly. My characters get their happy endings while I’m still figuring out if I want one of my own.

I stare at my laptop screen where Chapter Twenty-Three sits unfinished, my dragon prince frozen mid-seduction scene. The words won’t come because I can’t figure out if my heroine should trust him.

This is book six in the Celestial series—my first foray into romantasy, the books that launched my career and remain my most successful work. You’d think after five books I’d have the formula down, but the emotional beats still trip me up.

My phone buzzes with a text from my editor.

Pre-orders are live for spring release. Manuscript due this fall. How's it coming?

I set it aside and close my laptop.

Sometimes a writer needs solitude to truly observe, to take in the world without the noise of conversation. Maybe the art exhibit could provide inspiration for my stubborn heroine, or at least distract me from the uncomfortable truth that I’m better at writing passion than pursuing it.

I grab my cardigan, preparing for the aggressive air conditioning I’ve learned to expect everywhere in Vegas. As I head for the door, I catch my reflection: practical flats, minimal makeup and knotless braids. I look exactly like someone who documents life rather than fully living it.

The contemporary art gallery sits tucked between a high-end jewelry store and a lounge. The space is blissfully quiet, with white walls and strategic lighting that makes each piece seem to float.

I’m studying a massive abstract piece when I hear it. That laugh. Rich and unrestrained, the kind that makes everyone in its vicinity want to be part of the joke.

My entire body tenses. Antonio Da Rocha. Meesha’s stepbrother.

“The use of negative space here is brilliant,” his voice carries across the gallery. “Look how the artist creates tension without a single brushstroke in the center.”

I don’t turn around. Maybe if I stay perfectly still, he won’t notice me. It’s been two weeks since I last saw him at Sunday dinner at his parents’ house, where I’d spent the entire meal hyperaware of his every movement while pretending to be fascinated by my ham.

“Jasmine?”

So much for invisibility.

I turn slowly, arranging my features into surprise. “Antonio. I didn’t know you were in Vegas.”

He’s worse than I remembered. The charcoal slacks and black Henley shouldn’t look this good on anyone. His dark hair is perfectly styled, and that crooked smile that’s haunted far too many of my late-night writing sessions spreads across his face.

The memory of our very first meeting floods back. It was Christmas break, and I had walked into Meesha’s family home and saw him in the kitchen helping his mother with dinner prep. He looked up from the cutting board, and his dark eyes held me so completely I forgot my name.

“Jaxon and I have a few business meetings here.” He comes closer, and the freshness of grapefruit, grounded by vetiver, fills my lungs. My pulse betrays me. “Meesha mentioned you three would be here for her bachelorette weekend. How’s that going, querida?”

“It’s been an experience.”

“Where are Jessa and my sister, anyway?” He looks around.

“Jessa wasn’t interested in visiting the art gallery, and Meesha’s been on the phone with Connor for over an hour now.”

“Ah.” His expression shifts to knowing warmth. “Can’t even make it through the weekend without talking to him? That’s true love.”

“It really is.”

He studies me with those impossibly dark eyes, and I feel exposed, like he can read every inappropriate thought I’ve ever had about him.

“Come on.” He extends his hand, palm up. “There’s art by a Brazilian artist I want you to see.”

I stare at his hand for a heartbeat too long. This feels like more than just navigating a gallery. But I slip my hand into his anyway, and his fingers close around mine, causing his warmth to travel up my arm.

He leads me deeper into the exhibition, where the art becomes bolder and more experimental. Our hands stay linked even though there’s no reason to hold on.

We stop in front of a mixed-media piece with photographs layered with paint and fragments of text barely visible beneath thick brushstrokes.

“What do you see?” His thumb brushes across my knuckles.

“It looks like someone tried to paint over a memory but couldn’t quite cover it up.” I trace the air near the canvas, following the lines. “See how the photographs keep showing through?”

“Mm.” The sound rumbles from deep in his chest. “The artist calls it ‘Things Left Unsaid.’”

Of course he does. I step closer to read the hidden Portuguese words, and Antonio moves with me, still holding my hand.

“Sometimes,” he murmurs, his breath stirring the braids at my neck, “the unsaid things are the loudest.”

I freeze, hyperaware of every inch of space between us. Or rather, the lack of it. My mind floods with all our Sunday dinners, the distances I’ve maintained, the way his mother, Carmen, always seats us next to each other like she knows something I won’t admit.

“You know what I’ve noticed about you, querida?”

I should step away. Create distance. Instead, I stay perfectly still as his voice drops lower.

“You’re always careful around me.” He twirls one of my braids around his finger. “For years, I wondered if I’d offended you somehow. That you didn’t like me.”

I turn to face him, which is a mistake because now we’re standing too close. “What? No, I...” I catch myself before I blurt out something mortifying like I’ve had a crush on you since I first met you.

“No?” His thumb brushes along my jaw, and there’s something almost hopeful in his expression. “Then why do you always look like you’re ready to bolt whenever I get too close?”

Because you make me forget how to breathe. Because I’ve spent years convincing myself you’re off-limits. Because if I let myself want you, I won’t be able to stop.

“I’m not comfortable around men,” I admit. “Too many foster homes, too many reasons not to trust.”

His hand drops from my neck, giving me the space he thinks I’m asking for. “Meesha mentioned it.”

Of course she did. My best friend probably hoped he’d not think I was cold, just... reserved.

A heavy, quiet pulse beats between us. “But you’re here with me now,” he says finally. “In this gallery. You allowed me to touch you. Maybe I’m not just any man to you.”

My breath catches because he’s right. I’ve had boyfriends before, but none of them made me feel like I’m standing on the edge of something I can’t come back from.

“No,” I admit. “You’re not.”

His eyes drop to my mouth, then back up. “There’s a lounge right outside. Have a drink with me, querida.”

My heart hammers against my ribs. This is the moment. Say no, stay safe, keep the fantasy intact. Or say yes and find out what happens when the distance finally closes.

“Okay,” I hear myself say. “One drink.”

The slow smile that spreads across his face is triumphant.

“One drink,” he agrees, but the way he’s looking at me suggests we both know it won’t stop there.