The Little Black Dress (Love in Las Vegas)

“Can I come work at the rescue with you?” I ask, batting my eyelashes at her.

“Sophie, you hate cats,” she says with an eye roll.

“I don’t hate them,” I argue, and she huffs.

Ava owns Curious Cats, a shelter that takes in strays and unwanted pets, gives them full veterinary care, and finds good homes for them all over Nevada. A noble cause, even if it only helps the evil spawn of Satan.

“You wouldn’t last a day,” she says with a knowing smile. “You’d be convinced they’re bringing you bad luck within an hour.”

“Only from the black ones,” I say defensively.

“Which makes up about seventy-percent of my residents.”

“Fine,” I grumble. “I’ll find something else.”

“That’s the spirit,” she says with a grin.

“How are you so chipper this morning? You drank more than I did.”

“Hydration, baby. I drank a glass of water for every three drinks I ordered.”

“You could’ve shared that little tip with me,” I groan, pressing my palms to my aching forehead.

“I did. Multiple times. But you refused to listen.”

“Next time… No. You know what? There won’t be a next time. I’m never drinking again.”

“Yeah, yeah. Heard it before.”

“I’m serious, Ava. Nothing but water and soda pop for me from now on. And coffee,” I add at the last second before taking a long draw from the rich, creamy brew.

“Speaking of the rescue, I have to go to work,” she says, standing.

I notice for the first time that she’s fully dressed, wearing a pair of black leggings with an oversized Curious Cats t-shirt and a pair of sneakers. Setting her mug on the bar that separates the kitchen from the living room, she picks up a sheet of paper and her purse.

Walking back over, she leans down to give me a hug and hands me the paper.

“I printed this out for you this morning.”

It’s a half-page of job listings for personal or executive assistants in Vegas. My eyes burn as I look up to meet her gaze.

“Thank you,” I say softly.

“You’re welcome. I love you. Stay as long as you want, just lock up when you leave.”

“I love you, too,” I say as she heads for the door.

Once the door closes behind her, I look back down at the list. Some of them look promising. Right up my alley. Hell, at this point, I’d take anything.

My eyes widen as I read the last job listed.

Executive/personal assistant for Jared Hart, owner and operator of The Black Hart Casino.

“Nope,” I whisper, mentally crossing that one off the list.

After running into that rich, pompous jackass there last night, there’s one thing I know for sure.

That casino is bad luck, and I’m never stepping foot through its doors again.