“Shit. I forgot my phone. I left it.” She stops and smacks herself on the forehead. “Dammit! My fiancé has it.”
“Here, type his number in my cell.” I hand her my trusty iPhone with its blue police box TARDIS case, and Stacy dials. While she talks to her fiancé, Shanna and I look at each other.
“Are you ready for well-muscled, oiled men with their shirts off?” she asks.
“Dirty jobs for dirty minds.” Our high five connects.
“Bye, babe,” Stacy says, and hangs up. “Okay,” she says, handing over the phone. “Let’s just stay put. They’re coming for us in their car. It’ll be hard to miss— they’re rolling down the street in—”
“Ahoy fair maidens! Let’s get shitfaced!”
That voice sounds familiar. A stretch Hummer pulls up alongside the curb. A smiling, frosted hair tipped guy is standing out of the sunroof, waving enthusiastically. I remember him; Tyler, that nice bro type who was with Mike and . . . .
Oh, fuck me. And not in the nice way, where I have two orgasms and someone makes me breakfast in the morning. The door opens, and Mike and that douche lizard Nate Wexler get out. At least this time, Tightass isn’t wearing his impeccable fucking suit. He’s in jeans and a black T-shirt. Looks kind of hot, honestly.
I’m not staring. I don’t stare at jerks, even if they’re hot.
“Hey babe,” Mike says, kissing Stacy as she throws her arms around his neck. “Needed a rescue?” He hands her a phone, grinning.
“More like a pick-up from a studly man. I do my own rescuing, thank you so much,” she teases, and gives him another kiss. Mike laughs.
I’ve spent enough time writing real love to know it when it’s standing right in front of me. I smile, though I have to force it a little when the Tightass Known As Nate walks over to me.
“So. You’re joining us?” he asks, hands in the pockets of his jeans.
Now that he’s closer, I get an even better look at his body in casual wear. And it’s probably the tequila talking, but he’s in pretty good shape. That black tee clings in the right ways to his torso. I can pick out the definition of sculpted pecs, and his arms are built. I admit it; I let my eyes trail down to a very firm ass in his well fitting jeans. No boxers hanging out with this boy; class all the way.
“Stop inspecting me,” he grumbles. I give an over-the-top wink.
“Like to see what you’re working with, Wexler.” I sashay into the limo, squeezing in beside Tyler and Stacy. Tyler waves in the other girls, and Meredith ends up sitting beside him.
“Hey, Merry. Lookin’ good,” he teases.
Damn, Meredith may be old enough to be his mother, but she’s bold enough to make him forget that fact. She arches a perfectly plucked and penciled eyebrow. It’s like Joan Crawford going after college frat boys.
“You being a naughty boy so far?” she asks, giving his knee an enthusiastic squeeze.
“You know it.” Still grinning, Tyler pops a bottle of champagne.
The night’s going along beautifully, so long as I can ignore Nate Wexler, certified lawyer and registered pain in the ass. He sits there with his hands on his knees, tense, like he’s holding his breath and waiting for this night to be over.
“Where to next?” Shanna calls, now wearing a plastic tiara of her own.
“We were thinking a strip club,” Nate says, with all the pain of a man who probably wanted the boys to have a sedate steak dinner and be in bed by eleven-thirty.
Aw. Poor baby.
“Yes!” Tyler shouts, clapping his hands. “Strip clubs love when you bring ladies in. They’ll probably give us some free drinks.”
“I’m not sure women enjoy going to strip clubs, Tyler,” Nate says, the disdain in his voice so obvious even Stacy blows a raspberry.
“You’re right. We like sitting at home, knitting, and watching Downton Abbey,” she mocks.
And while I do love tea, crocheting, and the Dowager Countess, I agree with her. We’re not a set of prudish wilting flowers.
“Bring on the ladies,” I say, nudging Nate with my elbow. We eye each other. Again, I find myself falling into the magnetic blue of his eyes—just for a second, of course. I don’t care how good-looking he is, though. I’m not into stiffs and snobs, and he is way both.
Nate squares his jaw, but he says nothing. Score one for me.
“The Palace Veil it is,” Mike says, arm around Stacy’s waist.
Everyone cheers but Nate and me. I know we’d both be happier if the other wasn’t there. Ah well. When in Vegas, ignore the douches, let the good times roll, and always carry a spare set of panties in your purse, just in case. That’s what Mom used to tell me.
Mom was fun.
8
Nate
Yesterday, 9:36 pm