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.
4
THE MORNING AFTER
HARPER
I wake up to the feeling that someone has taken my brain, marinated it overnight in tequila, and then tried to emulsify it with a broken blender.
