Southern Sinner (North Carolina Highlands 3)

“Put your number in my phone.” I hold it out to her, and she takes it. “When my boys and I figure out where we’re getting a table, I’ll shoot you a text. Sound good?”

“Sounds great.”

Our fingers brush as she hands back the phone. We look at each other for a heartbeat, the pull between us kicking my pulse up a notch.

“I got lucky running into you,” I say.

She draws the toe of her shoe up my calf. “I think we’ll both get lucky tonight. Should be fun. Although I don’t want to waste your time . . .”

I’m picking up what she’s laying down. As luck (heh) would have it, I’m looking for the same kind of fun she is.

“Honey, wasting time is exactly what I’m trying to do.”

Chapter Two

Stevie

The line for XS stretches down Encore’s swanky shopping gallery. Girls in towering heels tug at the hems of teeny-tiny dresses; guys in dark jeans and blazers check their watches.

The echo of a bassline pumps through the marble floors.

A twist of excitement has me grabbing my friend Kate’s hand as we bypass the line, heading straight for the club doors.

“We’re here,” I say. “We actually made it back to Vegas. And we’re going dancing.”

“God, when was the last time we danced?” my other friend, Lauren, shakes her head. “I’ve missed it.”

Kate smiles, tucking her snakeskin clutch underneath her arm. “Imagine telling our thirty-something-year-old selves at my bachelorette that we’d be back in Vegas five years later celebrating a vasectomy, a divorce, and a big-ass birthday.”

“And judging by the way everyone’s looking,” Lauren says, surveying the line, “we still got it.”

“Forty is the new thirty,” Kate says.

Lauren lets out a throaty laugh. “Forty is freedom.”

“It’s also peeing your pants when you sneeze.”

“Not me,” I say. “Thankfully, I’ve been spared that particular indignity.”

“Lucky bitch,” Kate mutters.

A blazer with black hair looks up from his phone and gives us a disgusted look.

I refrain from giving him the finger. I ignore him and keep going.

“Let’s not forget Stevie is wearing a transparent dress.” Lauren nods at my outfit. “That could have a lot to do with all this attention.”

I pull back my shoulders, putting my generous bust on display. Another blazer we pass chokes on his cocktail.

“Damn,” I hear him say, his gaze hot on my backside.

“It’s Friday night,” I say. “Rookies may dress to impress on Saturdays, but Vegas veterans know the first night in town is always the best. The whole world is down to—”

“Party,” Kate says, returning my grin. “Hence the see-through dress.”

It’s a look, that’s for damn sure. The dress itself would be modest—black, turtleneck, long sleeves, midi length—if it wasn’t for the fact that it’s made of transparent gauze. I am wearing a black bodysuit underneath it, almost like a strapless, silky one-piece bathing suit. I’m not a reality TV star; I’m not here to flaunt my nipples.

But I am here to have a good time. And this dress? With the black strappy stilettos, simple gold hoops, and high ponytail I’ve paired it with?

I feel like a million bucks in this getup. And when I feel good, I tend to have a really good time.

“Says the mother of three under four rocking a leather miniskirt,” I tease.

“Mama doesn’t get out much. When she does, welp.” Kate sweeps her hair over her shoulder. “She makes it count.”

“As one should,” I reply with a firm nod. “I’m teasing. The skirt is hot.”

Kate’s grin becomes a smile. “I agree.”

“So the guy we’re supposed to meet up with—what’s his name?” Lauren asks as we approach a bouncer with an earpiece and a clipboard.

I dig my phone out of my purse and scroll through my text messages, biting back a smile when I pull up my exchange with Hank. His texts are flirty without being pushy—I hope you don’t blow me off tonight, blackjack babe, cuz I still got a lot to learn from you—and I can’t remember the last time someone gave me a flutter of excitement like this.

“Hank Beauregard?” I say to the bouncer, ignoring Lauren’s sharp intake of breath behind me. “We’re guests at his table.”

The bouncer’s eyes skip down my body before he glances at the clipboard. Checking off our names, he unhooks the velvet rope guarding the line marked VIP and instructs us to follow him.

“This Hank guy,” Lauren murmurs in my ear as the bassline gets louder, “is he, say, five ten, with the most beautiful biceps you’ve ever seen, hazel eyes, and short blond hair?”

I remember the way my heart skipped when Hank flashed me a smile the first time, revealing a dimple in one cheek as his eyes—more brown than green—swept over my body. He wasn’t tall, maybe a few inches taller than I am, but the breadth of his athletically chiseled body, along with his cocky, easygoing sense of humor, gave him a big presence.