Chapter 3 #2
"I could say the same." His eyes flick to my sisters, who are watching from across the room with all the subtlety of a surveillance team. "How's the bachelorette party?"
"Chaotic. Sparkly. Slightly concerning." I take a breath. "Look, I know this is weird, but I need to ask you a favor."
His eyebrow arches. "A favor."
"My sisters signed us up for this scavenger hunt thing, and one of the items is—" I hold up the card. "Get a photo with the hottest person in Vegas."
He stares at me. At the card. Back at me.
"You're asking me to be your scavenger hunt photo."
"Yes. I mean—if you're willing. You can absolutely say no. This is weird. I know it's weird. But they dared me, and I've had four tequila shots, and—"
"I'll do it.”
I blink. "You will?"
"On one condition."
"What condition?"
He glances at Silver Hair Guy, who's now scrolling through his phone. "You stay. For one drink. Help me survive this conversation."
"Who is he?"
“A business associate.” His voice drops. "He's been talking about market trends for forty-five minutes."
“That’s…a long time to talk in a club.”
"Then you understand my predicament." He extends his hand. "One drink. One photo. Deal?"
I look at his hand. At his face. At the challenge in his steel-gray eyes.
"Deal."
His hand closes around mine—warm and firm and sending electricity up my arm—and he pulls me into the space beside him at the bar.
"Richard," Vic says smoothly. "This is Harper. She's... a friend. Harper, this is Richard Francis."
Richard looks up from his phone.
"Charmed," he says, shaking my hand. "Any friend of Victor's is welcome. Though I have to say, I didn't realize Victor had friends who attended clubs."
"I don't," Vic says. "Which is why this is such a rare occasion."
I bite back a laugh.
The bartender appears, and Vic orders a scotch. "And for you?" he asks me.
"Vodka soda. Extra lime."
"Practical.”
"Hydrating."
"After four tequila shots?"
Richard clears his throat. "So, Harper. How do you know Victor?"
"We met on a plane," I say. "I assaulted him with tomato juice."
Richard blinks. "I'm sorry?"
"It was an accident. There was turbulence. And a beverage cart. And my terrible volleyball instincts." I accept my drink from the bartender. "His shirt cost two thousand dollars."
"It was a very nice shirt," Vic agrees.
"It was an insane shirt."
"You have strong opinions about my wardrobe."
"You have twelve identical shirts organized by season. Someone needs to have opinions."
Vic's mouth twitches again—that almost-smile that makes my stomach squeeze, and Richard stares at us like we're speaking another language.
"Right." The suited businessman checks his watch. "Well, I should probably head back to my hotel. Early meeting tomorrow." He stands, extending his hand to Vic. “I’ll have my secretary send the paperwork on Monday, Vic. And it was lovely meeting you, Harper."
"You too."
The moment Richard is out of earshot, I turn to Vic.
"Was I convincing?"
"You were perfect. He looked genuinely confused, which means he stopped talking about market trends." He takes a sip of his scotch. "Thank you."
"Thank you. Now about that photo—"
"Right." He nods at my phone. "How do you want to do this?"
"I don't know. I've never done a scavenger hunt photo with the hottest person in Vegas before."
He pauses. "You're very generous with that title."
"You've clearly never looked in a mirror."
The words are out before I can stop them.
Vic's eyes darken slightly, and the air between us shifts—charged and crackling and humming with something I absolutely should not be feeling two weeks after I just finalized the World’s Longest Divorce.
A divorce I never thought I’d be having.
"Selfie mode," I manage, taking his phone before I do something stupid like close the distance between us. "Smile."
"I don't smile."
"You smiled at me across the club."
"That was a facial tic.”
"That was definitely a smile."
I hold up the phone, angling it to capture both of us. He's so close I can smell his cologne—something expensive and smoky and linen-laced—and feel the warmth radiating off him.
"Say cheese," I prompt.
"Absolutely not."
I snap the photo anyway.
When I look at the screen, I'm grinning like an idiot, and he's... not quite smiling, but there's something in his expression that's softer.
"Perfect," I say, handing back his phone. "Send that to me?"
"I don't have your number."
"Oh. Right." I rattle off my number, and he types it in.
A moment later, my phone buzzes.
Unknown Number: Scavenger hunt photo. For the record, I think you could have found someone hotter.
I type back.
ME: Impossible. But thanks for playing along.
When I look up, he's watching me.
"One drink," he says. "You promised."
"I did."
He gestures to the barstool beside him. "Then stay."
And despite every rational thought in my head—despite knowing I start my new job Monday, despite the divorce, despite the fact that this is probably the worst idea I've had all week—I sit down.
Because something about Vic makes me want to be reckless.
And in Vegas, at 11 PM on a Saturday night with tequila in my system and my sisters watching from across the room, reckless feels like exactly the right choice.