Chapter 1
Are you feeling lucky?
? …Where is my husband! - Raye
Griffin
Present Day
There she is.
Angelina Rossi, soon to be Angelina Myers once she marries my best friend. And I have to watch it all happen, standing beside them at the fucking altar no less.
Fuck, she’s beautiful.
Beautiful and so off-limits.
I could get high off the sight of her alone.
I slide my hands out of my pockets and lean my elbow on the bar. “What are you doing, Angel?”
“Huh? Oh, this?” She gestures at her fancy robe with the feathered trim while her other hand clings to an oversized margarita. “I remembered I have free will.”
The clattering slot machines echo from one room over as flashing lights dance across her glistening skin. She must be wearing some kind of body glitter. Her dark hair cascades down her back in soft waves, and her lips are painted some deep red color I’d love to see wrapped around my dick.
Shit.
I can’t think of her like that anymore. She’s not mine, no matter how much I wish things were different.
She pinches a piece of paper between her index and middle fingers and holds it out to me as she brings the drink to her lips. “He’s gone,” she says flippantly.
I recognize the shoddy handwriting immediately.
Angie,
I can’t do this.
Tyler
“What the fuck!”
She gives me a sidelong glance. “I know, right? It’s like the world’s shittiest haiku ever written on honeymoon suite paper.”
I read it again. “Not enough syllables.”
She snorts into her drink, a self-deprecating smile on her perfect fucking face. “You’re right. Clearly, I wasn’t worth the effort.”
I flag down the bartender and order myself a whiskey on ice, sliding into the seat next to her. “So. What now?”
“Now I channel my dead best friend and get wasted on ridiculous margaritas in my bridal robe. After that, I’m going to blow half of our joint account on blackjack and watch some male strippers who may or may not be from Australia—the advertisement was unclear.”
“I have a better idea.”
“What’s that?”
“We get wasted together, I’ll text my asshole best friend about what a piece of shit he is, and I’ll take you back to your room to sleep it off.”
She waggles her brows suggestively. “As I recall, the last time you took me to my bedroom, we didn’t do much sleeping.”
The memory wrenches me back in time to five years ago, when I met the woman of my dreams and let her slip through my fingers.
I worshipped her from the minute that apartment door swung open.
She was tall and curvy, and I couldn’t look away.
When her palm slid into mine, it rewired my brain chemistry, and I knew I would never be the same.
I crept out of her bed while she was fast asleep, and I’ve regretted that decision ever since. I already cared way too much—more than any reasonable person should after having known her for all of two days.
I still care an unreasonable amount, but a lifetime has passed since then, and we’re not the same people we were. As much as I want it to be my ring on her finger, it’s not.
“Where’s your man of honor?” I ask. “Shouldn’t he be here with you?”
“He couldn’t make it. His husband has pneumonia, so Micah decided to stay back in Willow Valley.” She sighs. “It was probably a sign.”
My back teeth grind together as anger bubbles up inside me.
It was Tyler’s idea to have a small ceremony in Vegas, and he left her here to fend for herself.
Angie deserves so much better than this bullshit.
She’s always been ignorant of his faults.
I was, too, but as I watched them together, I witnessed the subtle changes in her over time—changes brought on by the man who claimed to love her.
As my drink is set in front of me, I slide my card across the bar. “Start a tab.” I jerk my head toward Angie. “She’s with me.”
“She already has a tab open, sir.”
“Close it.”
“It’s on our joint account.” Angie runs her delicate finger around the rim of her glass before she takes it between her lips, licking off the salty garnish.
I force myself to look away, shifting uncomfortably as blood rushes to my groin.
“In that case, add me to hers.” I pick up my card and slip it back into my wallet.
Angie gives her a nod of approval. “It’s the least my ex-fiancé can do for dragging us here.”
The bartender smiles. “Good for you.”
“Here’s to Jess,” Angie says, holding up her drink.
I clink mine against it. “Here’s to you dropping the dead weight and doing whatever the fuck you want tonight.”
We take a drink at the same time to seal the toast, and she quirks an eyebrow. “Whatever I want?”
“No limits. We’re in Vegas after all. Whatever happens here stays here.”
“Then you better drink up. The stripper show starts in thirty minutes.”
“Not from down undah after all,” Angie says in a terrible Australian accent. She glances at the stage where five muscular guys are taking off their shirts. “Oh well. Still hot as fuck.”
I settle back in my chair and cross my ankle over my knee. “Bit cliché, if you ask me. Cowboy hats and leather chaps? Where’s the creativity?”
She rubs her hand across my thigh, and my pulse picks up. “Aww. Is my big, sexy cowboy jealous?”
She must be tipsy. I don’t think she realizes what she said. My dick didn’t seem to miss the compliment, though.
“What’s there to be jealous of? I could do that if I wanted.”
She snorts. “Sure, you could.”
I make a vague gesture with my hands. “They’re basically wearing my uniform.”
“So why don’t you get up there and show ‘em how it’s done?”
“I don’t think that’s how this works. This isn’t show and tell.”
Angie downs the rest of her third—maybe fourth—margarita and stumbles over to some guy standing at the side of the stage. She leans over and whispers in his ear, pointing in my direction. I shake my head and give her a warning stare.
She’s practically buzzing when she settles back in the purple velvet armchair at my side.
“What did you do, Angel?”
“Nothing,” she draws out the word in a way that tells me she definitely did something, and that I’m not going to like it.
The speaker crackles to life as the man picks up a microphone. “We have a special request from our bride-to-be, Angelina.” He says her name like some sports announcer introducing the competitors.
The spotlight scans the audience before it lands on Angie and me.
“She’s getting married tomorrow, and she wants to watch her man put on a show for all of you.” The announcement triggers a chorus of hoots and hollers from the audience. Once they quiet down, he continues. “Please help me give a warm welcome to her fiancé, Griffin!”
I turn my head. “Fiancé?”
She shrugs. “I had to say something convincing.”
I finish the rest of my drink and make my way to the stage, never one to balk at a challenge. “Just remember you asked for this.”
Angelina
Griffin takes center stage, flanked by two fake cowboys on either side. A fifth one hands him a cowboy hat and disappears behind the curtain. Griffin is much larger than all of them, and fuck, he looks good up there.
The music starts, and I realize too late that I might have made a mistake in goading him into this.
Griffin gyrates his hips along to the bass, following the others barely a step behind.
The one on his right seems to be mouthing instructions.
They toss their hats to the ground as they do some kind of synchronized line dance.
Griffin grins and says something to one of the other dancers, who nods in response.
I’m speechless. I might actually be drooling at this point. He wasn’t supposed to be good at this.
His big, capable hands reach for the hem of his shirt.
Seconds later, it’s on the floor in front of me, and I’m staring up at a bare-chested Griffin Hayes in all his glory: soft belly, hairy chest, all that muscle hidden beneath.
I’m distantly aware of the crowd cheering behind me, but all of my senses are zeroed in on my ex-fiancé’s best friend.
I still remember what it felt like to be held by Griffin all those years ago—to be cradled in his strong arms like something treasured.
He unbuckles his belt and tugs open his pants, exposing the top of his black boxer briefs. My panties disintegrate on the spot. I feel lightheaded, like I’m floating on a cloud.
The dancers drop to the floor and grind their hips, and suddenly I’m thirty-one-year-old Angie again, being fucked into the mattress by the very same man.
The curtains part, and the fifth dancer sets a chair in the middle of the dance floor. Griffin walks slowly down the stairs and holds out his hand. My pulse picks up as I slide my palm into his.
He guides me into the chair, and leaning in next to my ear, he says, “You didn’t think you were going to have all the fun, did you?”
The music shifts to something slower and more sensual. We’re alone now—just me and Griffin beneath a single spotlight.
He takes both of my hands and drags them down his chest, and I’m trembling as he wraps my arms around him, pressing my palms into his lower back. I can feel his muscles tensing with each movement.
He straddles my lap and runs his deft fingers through my hair.
We lock eyes, and my breathing turns shallow. His lips ghost over my temple as he swivels his hips, grinding on me.
This was a terrible idea.
What the hell was I thinking?
I wasn’t. It was the fourth margarita talking.
I’m only vaguely aware of what’s happening around us, too locked in on Griffin to care that we have an audience. He might as well be fucking me on this stage for the way my body is responding to him.
Griffin backs away slowly and sinks to his knees.
Fuck it. I don’t care. I deserve this.
He crawls to me and runs his palms up the outside of my legs, burying his face in my lap. My fingers tangle in his long hair, scraping along his scalp. It’s not enough to just touch him; I want to consume him.
Desire scorches through me like wildfire, catching and spreading from the tips of my toes until every part of me burns for him.
I can still remember what it felt like to have his mouth on me, his beard scraping between my thighs, and the way his hands gripped my soft curves as I shattered beneath him over and over again.
Before I lose myself completely, he jerks his head up, his gaze brimming with fiery determination as he brings my left hand to his lips, sliding my ring finger into his hot, wet mouth.
I forget how to breathe.
His teeth rake over my skin, and each second that passes feels like an eternity.
When he pulls away, he grins with my engagement ring trapped between them. The crowd around us is eerily quiet. Or maybe I’ve just tuned them out. My senses are firing on overdrive as he drops the ring into his hand and slips it into his pocket.
He lifts off his knees, gripping the chair on either side of my hips as he leans forward. “His ring doesn’t belong on your finger. It never did.”
His deep baritone settles low in my belly, my skin prickling with awareness as his warm breath ghosts over the shell of my ear.
He helps me to stand on shaky legs and spins me around, wrapping me up in a cocoon of his arms and mine. His lips dip to my collarbone, and my eyes close on instinct.
The outline of his hard cock presses against my ass, telling me he’s not as unaffected by this as I thought he was.
I inhale a shaky breath, taking in his scent: whiskey and something deeply sensual. He sways us back and forth in a move that’s much more tender than I was expecting, then he spins me to face him.
Everything around us seems to evaporate.
My chest brushes against his, and he slips his hands to my lower back. His forehead lowers. For one earth-shattering second, I think he’s going to kiss me.
I want him to kiss me.
The speakers crackle back to life, and the announcer comes over the microphone once more. “One last round of applause for our bride and groom!”
The audience cheers, bringing me back to reality.
Our eyes meet, and he lets out a hearty, contagious laugh. I can’t help but join in. Hand in hand, he helps me off the stage. Once we’re back on solid ground, I dart past everyone into the hallway that leads to the casino next door, tugging him along.
He stops me just outside the doors. “Where to next?”
I glance past the flashing lights of the slot machines to the blackjack tables. “Are you feeling lucky?”
“You have no idea, Angel.”
Griffin stares down at his seven of hearts and three of spades, shuffling his stack of chips.
He taps the table, and the dealer sets down an ace of spades, giving him his fifth consecutive win.
It turns out, Griffin is really good at blackjack.
Like… really really good. Is there anything this man can’t do?
It’s both sexy as hell and so fucking annoying.
I keep searching for his faults, but I come up empty every time.
My thoughts travel back through a tapestry of images of the last five years. Griffin is a constant in each one.
The day of Jess’s funeral, when I was deep in my grief, he stayed by my side and held me when I cried.
When I arrived in Oak Ridge during a snowstorm, Griffin rescued me from the side of the road.
The night I met Tyler at the bar, Griffin was there—a silent presence in the background of the relationship that would steal three years of my life.
He would’ve been the same silent presence at my wedding, too. He would’ve watched me give the rest of my life away had Tyler not spared me the effort.
Griffin glances over his shoulder and smirks at me. “You best stop lookin’ at me like that, or I might do something reckless.”
I take his hand in mine and weave our fingers together. “What if I want you reckless?”