1. Tatiana
1
Tatiana
T he Aria Resort & Casino in Las Vegas is a gleaming monument to excess, where the AC is cranked to arctic levels and the carpet is just busy enough to hide the sins of last night’s revelers.
“Tatiana! You’re staring at your phone again!” Sabrina yanks my attention back to our little entourage as we navigate the crowded lobby. “No work emails this weekend!”
I slip my phone into my purse with the reluctance of an addict surrendering their fix. “I was just checking the weather.”
“Uh huh,” Sabrina says, linking her arm through mine.
Our room is predictably gorgeous. Amazing what a few friends can afford when they split the bill. Jess immediately bounces on one of the luxury beds while Sabrina heads straight for the minibar.
“All right ladies, suit up.” Sabrina pulls out her hot pink bikini. “The Liquid Pool Lounge awaits!”
I unpack my modest black one-piece swimsuit, suddenly feeling like I’ve brought a library book to a nightclub. Which I’ve done, actually.
“Oh hell no,” Jess says, snatching it from my hands. “You are not wearing corporate swimwear to the sexiest pool in Vegas.”
Before I can protest, she’s rummaging through her suitcase and producing a red bikini that looks like it might cover approximately 30% of my body. “I brought extras. This one’s perfect for you. Hot color, slutty cut.”
“I don’t do slutty,” I remind her.
“Which is exactly why you need to start,” she counters. “When was the last time you got laid?”
I feel my cheeks heat up. “That’s irrelevant to our weekend activities.”
Also slightly depressing when calculated in actual calendar months. Let’s just say my vibrator and I have developed a committed relationship.
Amara laughs. “Translation: too long to remember.”
I snatch the bikini with as much dignity as possible. “Fine. But if any part of me falls out, I’m holding you personally responsible.”
Thirty minutes later, we’re lying on loungers and ensconced in the pulsing atmosphere of the Liquid Pool Lounge. The music is loud enough to drown out rational thought, which I suspect is intentional. Beautiful people in various states of undress loaf like exotic animals, sipping brightly colored drinks.
I hate it.
I adjust the bikini top for the thousandth time, convinced that a wardrobe malfunction is imminent. Despite Jess’s assurances, I feel naked.
“Stop fidgeting,” Sabrina hisses, handing me something blue and potent-smelling. “You look hot. Own it.”
I take a fortifying sip. It tastes like gasoline with a little bit of citrus mixed in. Not that I know what gasoline tastes like...
Perfect. Just what I need to forget about the fifteen unread emails sitting in my inbox. Christopher probably needs something urgent that only I can handle. Maybe I should just quickly—
“Earth to Tatiana!” Amara waves her hand in front of my face. “We’re toasting my promotion! Wake up! Here’s to finally breaking through the glass ceiling!”
I raise my glass. “To Amara, the most deserving Senior Marketing Director I know.”
“The only Senior Marketing Director you know,” she corrects with a grin.
“Details,” I shrug, taking another sip. The alcohol warms my chest and I feel my shoulders relax a fraction.
That’s when I see him.
Oh shit. What’s he doing here?
Across the pool, surrounded by laughing friends and beautiful women, is Dominic Rossi. The Dominic Rossi. Self-made billionaire, architectural genius, and my boss Christopher’s best friend.
The same man who swaggers through our office lobby every few weeks like he owns the building. From my perch at the front reception desk, I’ve had a front-row seat to the Dominic Rossi Show. Not that he’s ever bothered with more than a cursory nod in my direction. To him, I’m just another efficient cog in Christopher Blackwell’s well-oiled machine, the gatekeeper with the headset and the perfect phone voice. But even a cog notices when a Greek god walks into the room.
Especially when said god typically strides past your desk looking like he just stepped out of a GQ photoshoot, making the office temperature rise by ten degrees.
He’s wearing board shorts and nothing else. His chest is exactly what you’d expect from someone who can afford a personal trainer and whatever designer muscle vitamins billionaires secretly have access to. Defined but not excessive, with a light dusting of dark hair.
Like he wakes up every morning and tells his abs, “Just be casually perfect today, nothing too showy.” And they listen because even his muscles know better than to disappoint Dominic Rossi.
His perpetual stubble is perhaps a day heavier than when he visits Christopher’s office, and his dark, wavy hair is slightly damp, as if he’s already taken a dip.
Stop staring at your boss’s friend like he’s an ice cream cone on a hot day, you disaster. Professional boundaries, remember?
“Holy shit, is that Dominic Rossi?” Sabrina has spotted him, too, because of course she has. The woman has billionaire radar.
“Where?” Jess and Amara swivel their heads in perfect unison.
“Don’t look!” I hiss, but it’s too late. We’re now a foursome of obvious gawkers.
“Damn,” Jess whispers reverently. “This is the guy who occasionally shows up at your office, Tat? The tabloids don’t do him justice .”
I take another gulp of my drink. “Can we please not make this weird? I have to maintain professional—”
“He’s looking this way,” Amara interrupts, and I nearly choke.
Sure enough, those intense dark eyes are scanning our direction. I duck my head, suddenly fascinated by the consistency of my blue cocktail.
Please don’t recognize me. Please don’t recognize me.
“He’s with that group celebrating something,” Sabrina observes. “Bachelor party maybe?”
I risk another glance. Dom is surrounded by three other men, all laughing at something the shortest one just said. There are also two large men in casual clothes but with the unmistakable alertness of security personnel hovering nearby.
“His friend is getting married,” I say without thinking. “Marco something. Italian family, very traditional.”
Three pairs of eyes turn to me.
“What?” I shrug. “I had to send Marco’s wedding invitation back with Christopher’s regrets. You try finding the perfect ‘sorry I can’t attend’ gift basket for a billionaire. I spent three hours comparing Tuscan wine selections before Christopher decided on some rare scotch instead.”
“Of course you would know the personal details of your boss’s friend’s friend,” Jess laughs. “You probably know their blood types too.”
“Only Christopher’s,” I mutter. “In case of emergency transfusions.”
The joke lands, and they laugh, momentarily distracted from Dom-watching. We settle into our loungers, ordering another round. The sun is warm, the drinks are cold, and for a brief moment, I allow myself to relax.
That’s when everything goes spectacularly wrong.
Jess, returning from the bar with fresh drinks, trips over someone’s discarded flip-flop. She stumbles forward with a yelp, crashing into a passing server, who in turn careens directly into our area.
My lounger takes the brunt of the impact, tipping sideways and unceremoniously dumping me onto the pool deck with all the grace of a sack of potatoes.
My very full, very blue cocktail splashes across the deck as I scramble to get up, hands slipping on the wet surface. In my desperate bid for dignity, I grab onto what I think is a pool chair but turns out to be a pair of very firm, very male legs.
I look up.
Directly into the amused face of Dominic Rossi, who’s apparently chosen this exact moment to walk by our disaster zone. My hands are clutching his calves like they’re the last life preservers on the Titanic.
“Dominic!” I stutter in mortification, pushing myself upward slightly.
My wet hand slips against his leg, causing me to lurch forward. As I throw out my arm to catch myself on his muscular thigh, Jess’s flimsy bikini top loaner gives way with an audible snap.
This is it. This is how I die.
I push away from him and slap one arm across my chest in panic. I try to stand, but lose my balance and pitch forward directly into his chiseled torso.
Dom’s hands grip my upper arms, steadying me.
“I’ve had people throw themselves at me before,” Dom says dryly, “but this is certainly the most colorful approach I’ve seen.”
I’m frozen in absolute horror, one arm desperately clutching my chest, the other inadvertently planted against his stomach, my face inches from his. I’m vaguely aware of the undeniably masculine scent filling my nostrils... sandalwood and something citrusy.
Of course, notice how good he smells now of all times. If there’s a goddess of mortification, she’s definitely pointing and laughing.
“I—swimsuit—broken—sorry—” I manage to stammer, sounding like I’m playing a particularly unsuccessful game of Scrabble.
“Don’t worry about it,” Dom says, his expression shifting from amusement to something more gentlemanly. He steps back, glances over his shoulder and signals to one of his plainclothes security men hovering nearby.
The man in question produces a crisp white linen shirt from somewhere, passing it to Dom with the efficiency of someone who’s handled many a rich-person emergency. Dom takes the oversized shirt and slides it down over my torso, providing me with considerably more coverage than the bikini ever did.
“Thank you,” I mumble.
“So how are you, Tatiana Cole?” he says. “The gatekeeper no one gets past.”
“Except you,” I reply softly.
He offers a devastatingly beautiful grin. “Does Christopher know his perfect assistant is in Vegas corrupting the youth of our country?”
I bristle slightly. “I’m hardly corrupting anyone. And I’m allowed to have a personal life.”
Even if said life is usually just me, Netflix, and a pint of ice cream.
His eyebrow raises slightly, and I realize I’ve been more defensive than the situation warrants.
“I was joking,” he says, his lips curving into a half-smile. “I’m well aware that even the most dedicated employees occasionally escape their desks.”
One of his friends, a tall, sandy-haired man with the kind of grin that screams trouble, steps forward. “Dom, aren’t you going to introduce us to your... damp new friend?”
That’s when I realize I spilled half my drink all over myself when I fell. That white linen shirt Dom gave me? It’s got a nice blue stain forming down the middle.
“Oh my god,” I say. “I’m so sorry about your shirt!”
Dom shakes his head. “I’ve got others.” He gestures toward the newcomer. “Leo Maxwell, Tatiana Cole. Tatiana, this is Leo, a walking HR complaint who happens to be one of my oldest friends.”
Leo clutches his chest dramatically. “You wound me. I prefer ‘enthusiastic socializer.’” He gestures to the other men. “That’s Sam and our groom-to-be, Marco. He’s getting married here tomorrow. Vegas baby.”
My friends have edged closer, obviously expecting their own introduction. I’m not quite sure this is the best idea, but to hell with it. I meant what I said earlier.
I’m allowed to have a personal life. To have fun.
“And these are my friends,” I say. “Sabrina, Jess, and Amara. We’re celebrating Amara’s promotion.”
“Congratulations,” Dom says to Amara, who practically glows under his attention.
“Let me buy you ladies a drink,” Leo declares. “To celebrate both Amara’s promotion and the most entertaining collision I’ve ever witnessed in Vegas. And that’s saying something!”
“Oh, that’s not neces—” I begin, but Jess cuts me off.
“We accept! But Tatiana really needs to fix her wardrobe situation first...”
Dom’s gaze drops briefly to the shirt around me, and something flickers in his eyes... something that makes my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with embarrassment.
“Our cabana has a changing area,” he offers. “You’re welcome to use it.”
Before I can think of a professional way to decline, we’re being ushered toward a private cabana that’s approximately the size of my entire apartment. Inside, the music is slightly muted, and a private bar is stocked with top-shelf everything.
“Bathroom’s through there,” Dom points to a door at the back. “Take your time.”
Sabrina follows me in, producing a safety pin from her bag like a magician. I reluctantly remove Dom’s shirt, bringing the loose bikini top along with it. Sabrina helps me position the latter across my chest.
“Never leave home without emergency supplies,” she says, working on my bikini top. “So, Dominic Rossi, huh? I think he likes you.”
“He’s my boss’s friend,” I remind her, though the protest sounds weak even to my ears. “Professional boundaries.”
“Professional boundaries went out the window when you flashed him your goods,” she laughs. “Besides, we’re in Vegas. Boundaries are optional here.”
Once my bikini is secured (albeit precariously), I grab a bunch of wet towels and begin cleaning off the blue liquid that’s smeared all over my chest.
When we finally emerge, shots have materialized on the cabana’s center table, and Leo is holding court.
“There she is!” he exclaims. “Our blue cocktail assassin returns. Just in time for the first round.”
Dom approaches, and I hold out his shirt. “Thank you for the emergency coverage.”
He waves a dismissive hand. “Keep it. Blue isn’t really my color anyway.”
“I should pay for—”
“If you finish that sentence I might be offended,” he interrupts. “I have plenty of shirts, Tatiana.”
The way he says my name, like he’s tasting it, makes heat flood my midsection.
Leo appears between us and thrust shots into our hands. “Less apologizing, more drinking! We’re celebrating Marco’s last days of freedom and Amara’s corporate ascension.”
This is a bad idea. Shots lead to loose lips. Loose lips lead to embarrassing yourself in front of hot billionaires who know your boss.
But Dom is watching me with those dark, amused eyes, and something rebellious flares inside me. I’ve spent two years being the perfect, controlled Tatiana. Maybe, just for this weekend, I can be someone else.
I raise my shot glass. “To celebrations.”
“To celebrations,” Dom echoes, his gaze never leaving mine as we drink.
The liquor burns down my throat, and I suppress a cough. Dom doesn’t even flinch.
Of course not. He probably drinks aged whiskey distilled by monks for breakfast.
“Another!” Leo announces, already signaling the server.
As the second round arrives, I catch Sabrina’s knowing look across the cabana. I shake my head slightly, but she just grins wider.
Dom leans closer, his voice low enough that only I can hear. “You know, most people who work for Christopher are too intimidated to look me in the eye, let alone use me as a human ladder.”
“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?” I ask.
“Nope,” he says with that half-smile again. “But don’t worry, what happens in Vegas...”