The Romantic Style convention is the one I look forward to every single year. I mean, how could I not? A full weekend of panels, pi?a coladas, and fabulous talk with romance-hungry readers? Sign me up. And the fact that it’s in Vegas, capital of good times and steak for under five dollars, only makes it more alluring. I’m always ready for every party, with my heels on and my makeup on point. I love my readers, I love my fellow authors, and I love love. Which, being a romance novelist, I probably should.
The fact that it’s being held at the Bellagio Hotel this year is icing on a delicious, buttercream cake. Ocean’s 11! Sabotage! Breaking into things! Hot people! Not that I’ll be doing any of those things, but I’m in close proximity to the people who do them! Yay!
But there’s always the pesky matter of being on time. And I confess that I’m not great at that. Like, for instance, right now. I have to meet my agent in the bar for a drink.
“Gangway! Coming through,” I say, hustling through the crowd, and bam. I smack into someone tall, dark, and rumpled looking. I tumble to the floor, and my bag goes flopping with me. No! Damn, I hope the fall didn’t wreck my crochet patterns. There’s a tea cozy I’m having a particularly difficult time with right now.
Fortunately, the dude is a gentleman, and helps me up.
“Man, is it hopping or what?” I laugh as I look up into his face. Then I almost choke on my words, because dreamy guy is dreamy.
His eyes are a flashing dark blue, his jaw square and impeccably shaved, his dark brown hair combed back neatly. He’s wearing a slightly rumpled business suit—probably came in first class from New York or London. I instantly start using his panty-dropping good looks as a template for my next romantic hero. Clive Razor, a sadistic billionaire who gets what he wants. That is, until a certain tenacious young woman enters his life, masquerading as his newest squash partner—
“You shouldn’t run around like that,” the dreamy guy says, sounding pissed. His handsome features collapse in a judgmental frown. And just like that, the romantic bubble pops. I don’t need dream visions of surly jerks in my life. I have enough of those in reality.
Damn. I was maybe gonna masturbate to him later. That dream is dead now.
“Thanks, Dad,” I mutter, grab my bag, and take off. Well, that was a disappointing run-in. But it doesn’t matter. I’ve got my key, and now I’ve just got to get to the bar. I can drop my stuff off in the room later—the one I’m sharing with Shanna.
There it is—the Baccarat bar. It’s right off the casino floor, modern style gray couches and chairs centered around low polished tables, a spray of blue blown glass flowers erupting out of the middle of the carpeted area. The vases of flowers and grand piano kind of contrast with the action and energy out on the gambling floor, but I think it’s great.
Some people hate Vegas, with all its flashing lights and high volume slots. Me, I love the energy.
I spy Shanna already. It’s hard to miss her, with her hair dyed bright blue and the sleeve tattoo of Japanese flowers on her right arm. She’s talking with . . . yep. That’s my agent.
“Who do I have to fuck to get served around here?” Meredith yells, holding up her now-empty Moscow Mule cup and waving it around. Meredith Chambers, hottest romance agent in New York, filthiest mouth east of the Mississippi. Or west, come to think of it. Some women walking by give her a shocked, slightly annoyed expression. She responds with aplomb. “Legs together, ladies. I’m not afraid of a little muff diving.”
“I’m pretty sure you can get sued,” I tell her, walking up to them.
Shanna beams and gives me a hug, and Meredith cackles, full on throwing her head back. She’s still dressed to the nines; I never see her in anything less than a Chanel pantsuit. Flashing the Rolex watch on her wrist, gold jewelry jangling, she checks the time. She looks all of her fifty-seven years, and she makes them look good.
Meredith keeps snapping her fingers until, finally, a nervous looking waiter comes over.
“May I get you another?” he squeaks.
“Mule or orgasm?” she asks, eyeing him up and down, sizing him up. I think he’s going to melt in fear.
All right, is this bordering on sexual harassment? Maybe. But the occasional double standard does wonders for women.
Meredith hands off her cup, and I sit. “There’s my gorgeous fucking rock star. Look, you didn’t hear this from me,” she says, looking around in an exaggerated manner, “but Forbidden Desire is coming out on the Times list. You can get on Twitter in about an hour. Number five.”
“Number five?” I gape, incredulous and exhilarated. Shanna hugs me again, and we almost fall over. But damn, does it matter? The New York Times list.
“This calls for more prosecco,” Shanna says, pouring some.
Aw, she got a bottle and an extra glass, just for me.