And it’s when her head is back like this that I meet the eyes of a man across the crowded room. I can’t make out every feature in the dark bar, but he’s a few years older than we are and tall, with light brown hair and dark brows over bright, mischievous eyes. He’s watching us and smiling as if he has no need to participate in our fun; he simply wants to appreciate it. Two other guys stand beside him, talking and pointing to something in the far corner, but he doesn’t look away when our eyes meet. If anything, his smile gets bigger.

I can’t look away, either, and the feeling is disorienting because normally when it comes to strangers I’m very good at looking away. My heart trips around inside my chest, reminding me I’m supposed to be more awkward than this, maybe suggesting I focus on my drink instead. I don’t do eye contact well. I don’t usually do conversation well, either. In fact, the only muscles I never seemed to really master were the ones required for easy speech.

But for some reason—let’s blame the alcohol—and without looking away from the hot man across the bar, my lips readily form the word “Hi.”

He says it back, before pulling the corner of his lip between his teeth, and wow, he should do that every day and to every person he meets for the rest of his life. He has a dimple and I reassure myself that it’s just the lighting and shadows playing it up because there’s no way in hell something so simple could possibly be this adorable.

I feel something strange happen to my insides and I wonder if this is what people mean when they say they melt, because I am most definitely feeling less than solid. There’s a distinct flutter of interest from the vicinity below my waist, and good God, if his smile alone managed to do that, imagine what his—

Harlow grabs my arm before I can finish that thought, jerking me from my careful study of his face and into a crowd of bodies rocking and snaking to the rhythm of sex blasting from the speakers. A boy like that is way way out of my comfort zone, and so I shove the urge to go find him into the proverbial box, under the proverbial bed along with everything else.

WE MUST BE easing into Vegas, because after dancing and drinks, we’re in our room by midnight, all three of us worn-out from the commencement ceremony in the sun, the hot drive, and the alcohol we rushed into our systems without enough food.

Even though our suite has more space than we need, and even though there are two bedrooms, we’re all piled into the one. Lola and Harlow are out within minutes, and the familiar string of Harlow’s sleep-mumble starts. Lola is almost shockingly silent and still. She buries herself so completely in her bedding, I remember wondering when we were younger if she somehow disappeared into the mattress during sleepovers. There are times I actually consider checking for a pulse.

But across the hall, a party rages.

The heavy bass of music rattles the light fixture hanging above me. Male voices rumble across the empty space separating the rooms; they shout and laugh, have their own little cacophony of whoops and man-sounds going on. A ball hits a wall somewhere in the distance, and although I can only identify a few unique voices in the mix, they’re making enough noise that I can’t believe the entire suite isn’t full of drunk boys tearing up a weekend in Vegas.

Two a.m. passes the same: I’m staring at the ceiling, growing somehow both more awake and more asleep. When three hits, I’m so irritated, I’m ready to be the Vegas buzzkill just so I can get a few hours of sleep before our early spa appointments.

I slip out of bed, being quiet so I don’t wake my friends, before laughing at the absurdity of my caution. If they’ve slept through the ruckus across the hall, they’ll sleep through me padding quietly across a carpeted floor, grabbing a room key, and slipping out of our suite.

I pound my fist on the door and wait, chest heaving with irritation. The noise barely dips, and I’m not sure if I can pound hard enough for them to even hear me. Raising both fists, I try again. I don’t want to be that person—in Vegas complaining about people being joyful—but my next stop is calling hotel security.

This time the music dies down and footsteps slap on the tile just in front of the door.

Maybe I expect some older, sun-bleached trust fund douche to answer, a bunch of middle-aged investment bankers visiting for a weekend of debauchery, or a roomful of fratty guys drinking shots out of a stripper’s belly button. But I don’t expect it to be him, the guy from across the bar.

I don’t expect him to be shirtless, wearing black boxers that hang so low on his tanned stomach that I can see the soft trail of hair, lower.

I don’t expect him to smile when he sees me. And I most definitely don’t expect the accent when he says, “I know you.”

“You don’t,” I say, completely steady, if a little on the breathless side. I never stutter in front of friends or family anymore and only rarely in front of strangers I’m comfortable with. But right now my face feels hot, my arms and legs prickling with goose bumps, so I have no idea what to make of my completely stutterless words.

If possible, his smile grows, blush deepening, dimple taking center stage, and he opens the door wider, stepping out toward me. He’s even better looking than he seemed from across the room, and the reality of him immediately fills the doorway. His presence is so huge I step back as if I’ve been pushed. He’s all easy posture, eye contact, and beaming smile as he leans close, and playfully studies me.

Being a performer, I’ve seen magic like his before. He may look like any other human, but he has that elusive quality that would force every pair of eyes to track him onstage, no matter how small his role. It’s more than charisma—it’s a magnetism that can’t be taught or practiced. I’m only two feet away from him . . . I don’t stand a chance.

“I do know you,” he says with a little tilt of his head. “We met earlier. We just haven’t exchanged names yet.” My mind searches to place his accent before I trip into understanding: he’s French. The ass**le is French. It’s diluted, though. His accent is soft, mild. Instead of curling all of the words together he spreads them out, carefully offering each one.

I narrow my eyes, forcing them up to his face. It’s not easy. His chest is smooth and tan and he has the most perfect ni**les I’ve ever seen, small and flat. He’s ripped, and tall enough to ride like a horse. I can feel the warmth coming off his skin. On top of all of that, he’s wearing nothing but his underwear and seems completely unfazed by it.

“You guys are being insanely loud,” I say, remembering the hours of noise that brought me out here in the first place. “I think I liked you a lot better across a crowded room than across this hall.”

“But face-to-face is the best, no?” His voice causes goose bumps to spread across my arms. When I don’t answer, he turns and looks over his shoulder and then back to me. “I’m sorry we’re so loud. I’m going to blame Finn. He’s Canadian, so I’m sure you understand he’s a savage. And Oliver is an Aussie. Also horribly uncivilized.”

“A Canadian, an Australian, and a Frenchman throw a rager in a hotel room?” I ask, fighting a smile despite my better judgment. I’m trying to remember the rule about whether or not you’re supposed to struggle when you fall into quicksand, because that’s exactly what this feels like. Sinking, being swallowed up by something bigger than I am.

“Like the beginning of a joke,” he agrees, nodding. His green eyes twinkle and he’s right: face-to-face is endlessly better than through a wall, or even across a dark, crowded room. “Come join us.”

Nothing has ever sounded so dangerous and so tempting all at once. His eyes drop to my mouth, where they linger before scanning my body. Despite what he’s just offered, he steps fully out into the hallway and the door falls closed behind him. Now it’s just me and him and his nak*d chest and . . . wow, strong legs and the potential for mind-blowing spontaneous hallway sex.

Wait. What?

And now I also remember I’m only in my tiny sleep shorts and matching tank top with little pigs all over them. I’m suddenly aware of the bright light in the hallway and feel my fingers move down, instinctively tugging the material lower to cover my scar. I’m normally fine with my body—I’m a woman so naturally there are always little things I’d change—but my scar is different. It’s not entirely about how it looks—though let’s be honest, Harlow still does the full-body sympathy shudder whenever she sees it—but what it represents: the loss of my scholarship to the Joffrey Ballet School, the death of my dream.

But the way he looks at me makes me feel nak*d—good nak*d—and beneath the cotton of my top, my ni**les tighten.

He notices and takes another step closer, bringing with him warmth and the scent of soap, and I’m suddenly sure he’s most definitely not looking at my leg. It doesn’t even seem like he sees it, or if he does, he likes how I come together enough to ignore what this scar says. It says trauma, it says pain. But his eyes only say yes, and please, and mischief. And that he’d like to see more.

The shy girl inside me crosses her arms over her chest, tries to pull me back to the safety of my own room. But his eyes pin me in place.

“I wasn’t sure I would see you again.” His voice has gone gravelly, hinting of the filthy things I want to hear him growl into my neck. My pulse is a frantic, pounding drum. I wonder if he can see it. “I looked for you.”

He looked for me.

I’m surprised my voice comes out so clear when I say, “We left pretty soon after I saw you.”

His tongue slips out, and he watches my mouth. “Why don’t you come . . . inside?” There are so many unspoken promises tucked in those five words. It feels like he’s a stranger offering me the most delicious candy on the planet.

“I’m going to sleep,” I manage finally, holding up my hand to keep him from moving any closer. “And you guys are going to be quieter or I’ll send Harlow over. And if that fails, I’m waking up Lola and you’ll find yourself thanking her for leaving you beat up and bloody.”

He laughs. “I really like you.”

“Good night.” I turn to walk back to our door on less than steady legs.

“I’m Ansel.”

I ignore him as I slide my key into the lock.

“Wait! I just want your name.”

I look back over my shoulder. He’s still smiling. Seriously, a kid in my third-grade class had a dimple and it did not make me feel like this. This boy should come with a warning label. “Shut the hell up and I’ll tell it to you tomorrow.”

He takes another step forward, feet bare on the carpet and eyes following me down the hall, and says, “Does that mean we have a date?”

“No.”

“And you really won’t tell me your name? Please?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I’ll just call you Cerise, then.”

I call out, “Fine with me,” as I walk into my room. For all I know, he’s just called me uptight, or prude, or pig jammies.

But somehow, the way he purred the two syllables makes me think it was something else entirely.

As I climb back into bed, I look it up on my phone. Cerise means “cherry.” Of course it does. I’m not sure how I feel about that because something tells me he wasn’t referring to the color of my nail polish.

The girls are both asleep, but I’m not. Even though the noise across the hall has stopped and everything grows still and calm in our suite, I’m hot and flushed and wishing I’d had the guts to stay out in the hallway just a little longer.

Chapter TWO

HARLOW ORDERS FRIES before dropping her shot into her beer and downing it.

She pulls her forearm across her mouth and looks over at me. I must be gaping because she asks, “What? Should I be classier?”

I shrug, drawing the straw through the ice in my glass. After a morning massage and facial, an afternoon spent at the pool, followed by a few cocktails, we’re all more than a little tipsy. Besides, even after chugging a beer with a shot in it, Harlow looks classy. She could jump into a bin full of plastic balls at McDonald’s Playland and come out looking fresh.

“Why bother?” I ask. “We have the rest of our lives to be sophisticates, but only the one weekend in Vegas.”

She listens to what I say, considers it before nodding firmly and motioning to the bartender. “I’ll have two more shots and whatever that monstrosity is that she’s drinking.” She points to Lola, who’s licking the whipped cream from the rim of a hideous, LED-flashing cup.

He frowns before shaking his head and says, “Two shots of whiskey and one Slut on a Trampoline, coming up.”

Harlow gives me her best shocked face but I barely have time to register it before I feel someone press up behind me at the crowded bar. Large hands grip my h*ps only a split second before “There you are” is whispered hotly—and directly—into my ear.