Page 21 of It Happened in Vegas

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat upright, scrubbing my face when a text came in. The name Sophie popped up, and a sleepy smile spread across my face.

Sophie: Everyone is here but you.

Keaton: Miss me?

Sophie: Of course. I’ve been talking up the new brew you’re bringing for everyone to try. I tested some names we’ve been batting around to see which one they like.

Did this woman ever stop working? Not that I minded. She was good for my business.

Sophie: Everyone loves Frisky Frosty so far.

Keaton: Really? I was hoping D.E.L.F. would be the winner.

I chuckled at how she and Jessa were against that name from the start. I thought it was rather creative—Dirty Elf I’d Like to Fuck—but they’d nixed it right away.

Sophie: Sorry to disappoint you. But that name wasn’t even on my survey.

I shook my head and looked down at the huge wood twitching between my legs. I gave him a rub.

“Yeah, I know, buddy. It’s been far too long since you’ve had the pleasure of a woman. My hand will have to do once again today.” I stood and read another text from her.

Sophie: Hurry and get here. It’s hot and we all need your beer.

Keaton: Relax, city girl. Be there soon.

I nearly texted her something I shouldn’t—something flirty, something real.

But I deleted it. What good would it do?

She was here to work, not to fall for the idiot who couldn’t stop thinking about her.

In my extra long shower, my hand provided little comfort. The agony of not knowing the feel of being inside of her had better stop, or I’d drive myself insane. My poor, thick manhood, deprived of any female attention, needed relief. Under the stream of water, I stroked myself, imagining her beneath me or riding me, using every position known to me.

I moaned her name, and growled and painted the wall as I came.

Temporary solace.

She’d become my obsession.

Assholes who tried to hit on her at the Hops weren’t worthy of her. Especially that hockey player, Declan, who’d visited again one weekend. I was pretty sure they exchanged phone numbers, and positive the only thing he wanted was sex.

Hell yeah, I dreamt of having sex with Sophie. Obviously, I was the better choice for her over some jerk chasing a puck in the north.

Didn’t help one bit that Jessa reminded me—teased me—after seeing how grumpy I got that weekend, that Sophie was still on the market and didn’t have a ring on her finger.

The last woman I should want was the one using this marketing consultancy with me to get ahead. When this was all over, Sophie would move on. Nothing tied her here to Holly Creek.

My mind was a clusterfuck. The trip to Las Vegas loomed ahead of us, and all I could think about was getting lucky with her. What was I thinking, asking her to be my date?

When I finally swung my truck into the Buchanans’ driveway, they had the place dressed up as a winter wonderland. Richard with all his money—and now Vivian, too, as his wife—lived far beyond anything she and I imagined while growing up here in a tiny two-bedroom house.

I hoisted the keg out of the truck onto my shoulder and hiked around their house into their backyard. Twinkling lights draped the trees, pine garlands framed lattices, and a banquet table stretched so far it needed its own zip code. A line of red and white blooms and battery-operated taper candles spilled down the middle.

Richard waved from behind the grill in his outdoor kitchen with all the fancy gadgets. With a wrist flicking toward his refrigerator for the keg, I made my way there. Along the way, I greeted Rex and Chelsea, who were playing a game of croquet, and Vivian, Jessa, and Sophie, who were talking around the table.

“Here it is. My new formula for a holiday brew. I can’t wait to see what you think of it,” I announced to anyone in earshot.

“Neither can I. I have a few questions I’d like to ask everyone after you have all had a few sips,” Sophie called out, setting down a cinnamon-stick cocktail and producing a clipboard from her bag.

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