“What do you say, gorgeous?” He leans in for a kiss again, his mouth open, his lips . . . kind of dewy looking, actually.
In the haze of booze, part of my body is screaming yes, cavorting around and waving pom poms. Because it’s been a long time. Like a long, long time. Too damn long. But at the same time, much as I’d like to be Lola, Derek’s not exactly Archer. My wonderful image of me as a spy mistress falling for a debonair billionaire’s charms goes pop. I get an image of myself as I probably am right now, a sad, drunken thirty-something looking for validation from a guy who’s so bombed he’s about to pass out.
That’s not what I want my first time back in the saddle to be.
“Thanks,” I say, switching my voice from seductive Lola to chipper me. I even grab his hand and shake; it’s pretty limp. I’ll take that as a sign that any bedroom shenanigans would be pretty lacking. “I, uh, gotta go. That espionage won’t, eh, espionage itself. Bye.”
I slide out of the booth and walk back to the dance floor before Derek can answer. I also wobble a little, because man, that tequila was good and strong. Where the hell is Shanna? I turn around and around, but it’s a whirling madhouse of limbo, maracas, and what appears to be a matador egging on an actor dressed in a bull costume.
I’m just going to say it; this ambiance is very inaccurate at representing the great and rich culture of Brazil.
I burp, very sexy.
“Julia!” Shanna calls, waving to me from the bar. She and the other ladies are laughing it up with what appears to be a bachelorette party. I’d know those plastic tiaras and neon glowing necklace penises anywhere. I go over to them and hop onto a stool. I also slide off once and have to pull myself back up. Okay, maybe I’m a little drunk. But who cares? I’m awesome.
“Oh my God, you’re Julia Stevens?” the woman sitting next to me says, clutching my arm. She’s got to be the bride; her tiara has a nice little lace veil on top. She’s an attractive woman, probably in her early thirties, with sleek dark hair and a healthy tan. “I’m sorry, it’s just . . . you’re kind of my favorite author. I had no idea the Romantic Style convention was happening this weekend. I couldn’t have planned a better bachelorette party!” Her eyes are actually shiny with tears.
A slow, warm happiness spreads through my body. My favorite part of conventions is meeting with fans, hands down. And if those fans are about to walk down the aisle to a happy future of their own? Even better.
“All this is going to my head,” I say, grinning. I clutch onto the bar as well, to stop the room from lurching back and forth. “Or maybe that’s just the booze.”
“I’m Stacy Kaufman.” She shakes my hand, then gives me a hug. “Oh my God, nothing but romance authors. This is my favorite part of the night!”
“Then you are having one shitty bachelorette party,” Meredith says, knocking back a shot of something and putting the empty glass down. She’s accumulated quite a collection, but she still looks steady as anything. Taking a long drag on a cigarette, Meredith winks at us. “But if it’s a bachelorette party that makes my author money, I think it’s a great time.”
“When are you due to walk down the aisle?” I ask.
“Tomorrow. I’m half afraid we’ll all be too wasted to get married,” Stacy laughs. “Luckily, our hotel’s the venue.”
“Which one?”
“The Bellagio. Very Ocean’s 11,” she says proudly.
A woman after my own heart.
“I hope you have a lot of sexy shenanigans before the night’s over,” I tell her, putting my elbow on the bar and my cheek in my hand. I’m getting a little sleepy tipsy. It’s the kind of buzz where you either need to party harder and wake up a little, or you go home and go to sleep. I’m thinking it’ll be the latter, but then Stacy’s eyes light up.
“Listen, why don’t you all come along?” Stacy says, bouncing excitedly in her seat. “We were thinking of maybe finding a Chippendale show somewhere.”
“Oiled men with their shirts off, gyrating to music.” I put a hand over my heart in mock horror. “Do you really think I’m that kind of girl?”
“Yep,” Stacy says. We both burst out laughing. I like this woman.
“I’m absolutely down for anyone getting naked, of any gender,” Shanna says, grabbing her purse. “I’m all about equal opportunity for hot people.”
“You’ve convinced me. Let’s go,” I say.
Stacy whoops and nearly falls off her barstool. We all pay for our drinks and head for the door. The night air is sultry, still so warm that I’m starting to feel silly for having brought a sweater.
Stacy fishes around in her purse, and a look of worry crosses her face.
“You okay?” I ask her. Daphne, Meredith, and Toni are already dancing down the street, talking about a Mexican hat dance. I swear, this restaurant really doesn’t know all that much about Brazilian culture.