Page 6 of Forty, Flirty & F*cked

“Starting now,” she amends.

“Of course not.” I offer my arm. “And I’mdefinitelynot drinking until I forget how to refresh Instagram.”

“Absolutely not.” She takes my arm, laughing. And for the first time all night, I’m not thinking about Amanda’s posts, my father’s disappointment, or my sinking IPO.

I’m just thinking about how nice it is to make someone laugh.

Even if she’s covering my best suit in glitter.

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WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS... DEFINITELY DOESN'T STAY THERE

ARIANA

The thing about Vegas hangovers is that they come with bonus features.

Regular hangovers just give you headaches and regret. Vegas hangovers come with a complimentary mariachi band playing the 1812 Overture inside your skull, while your mouth tastes like something died in it, and your dress is...wait.

Why is my dress hiked up to my thighs?

Why do I feel so hot? Like, literally burning up?

The March sunrise creeping through the hotel windows is way too bright for this level of crisis, but I force my eyes open anyway.

The air is thick, stifling. Heat clings to my skin, beads of sweat gathering at my temple. My body feels weighed down, cocooned in something too warm, too solid.

Is the AC broken? Did I forget to drink water? Did I?—

A slow exhale stirs the tiny hairs on the back of my neck.

A warm exhale.

The room spins lazily, giving me glimpses of scatteredclothing, empty tequila bottles, and what appears to be an Elvis-themed Just Married sash draped over a chair.

Oh god.

The breath at my neck shifts as the weight around my waist tightens. Something firm. Solid. Warm.

Not a blanket. Not a pillow.

An arm.

A muscular arm.

Wait.

The man behind me shifts, his body pressing closer, the heat of him seeping through the thin fabric of my dress. His breath is steady, deep, as if still lost in sleep, but his grip tightens just slightly, fingers curling against my hip.

My stomach plummets.

Memories start trickling back like treacherous little time bombs.

Bar number one: Water and witty banter with a stranger.

Bar number two: Tequila and trauma bonding.

Bar number three: Something about his high school sweetheart and my cheating ex...

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