The Little Black Dress (Love in Las Vegas)

“Hey,” he says as James meets him halfway for a quick peck on the lips.

“Boo!” Ava yells, balling up a napkin and tossing it in their direction.

“Told you,” Zoey mutters, grinning.

James and the newcomer—his nametag reads “Spencer”—look in our direction. James just laughs as Spencer raises his eyebrows. It only takes him a second to catch on and roll his eyes. Apparently, drunk women hitting on his man is a common occurrence.

“I licked him, so he’s mine,” he says with a smirk, pointing at James.

“Okay, that’s hot,” Ava says, her eyebrows shooting skyward.

“Oh, my God, Ava. Shut. Up,” Zoey groans, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Another round of shots?” James asks, ignoring their bickering.

“Please,” I say quickly.

James sets a beer in front of Spencer before getting to work on our shots. Taking mine with a nod of thanks, I spin around on my stool to observe the casino floor.

I like to gamble sometimes, but I don’t feel particularly lucky tonight. My little black dress is at the cleaners, hopefully getting the bad juju removed, and we walked beneath some scaffolding on our way here, which could technically be as bad as walking under a ladder.

Plus, I’m jobless, so I should really save every penny I’ve got until I find a new gig.

I throw back the shot before setting the glass on the bar behind me. The alcohol I’ve consumed tonight is hitting me hard, and I feel myself sway a bit as I fight to maintain my equilibrium. I prepare to spin myself back around, then freeze.

My eyes widen, then immediately narrow as a familiar form walks into view.

“Son of a bitch.”

“What?” Zoey asks, turning to see what—or who—I’m staring at.

“It’s him,” I grit out between clenched teeth.

“Who?” she asks, her eyes searching the faces in the crowd.

“Him,” I say, lifting a hand to point. “The asshole from the auction.”

“What?” Ava shouts, spinning around and craning her neck. “Where?”

“There,” I say, my ass already sliding off the stool.

He’s wearing a t-shirt and a pair of jeans instead of an expensive suit like the one he wore last night, but I’d recognize his stupid handsome face anywhere. It haunted my nightmares last night, laughing in evil glee as I built a new home out of cardboard boxes and old bedsheets in a dark alley.

I feel a hand grab my arm, but I shake it off and stomp forward. The man is looking off to his left, so he doesn’t see me dart in front of him and plant my feet until the very last second.

“Excuse me,” he says, his hands catching my upper arms to steady me after his big body almost bowls me over.

Even through my booze-goggles, I see the recognition flash across his features as he gets a look at me. His hands release me instantly, and he takes a big step back.

“You,” he says, his expression going blank.

“You,” I parrot angrily, my frown deepening. “I’ve got a few words for you, buddy.”