Page 3 of What Happens In Vegas: Jessa & Jaxon
“In that case,” he says smoothly, “I’ll keep you company.”
Without waiting for my invitation, he drags a stool closer to mine with annoying self-assuredness, shedding his blazer and rolling up the sleeves of his crisp blue button-down like he has all the time in the world.
“Did I ask you to sit here?”
“No,” he says.
“Great. Then you can take your over-inflated ego back to your table.”
“I’m waiting for Antonio,” he says, like I give a damn. “He’s running late.”
Antonio is my brother’s other best friend. The two of them, along with Jaxon, run a multimillion-dollar gaming company.
“This music is terrible,” I mutter under my breath as some EDM remix comes on.
“Holding out for Conway Twitty, JJ?”
“Only if you promise not to cry this time.”
“It was George Strait, and I was twelve,” he says stiffly. “And Mom had just died.”
I glance at him, surprised. “Right. Sorry.”
“She used to sing country songs while cooking,” he adds, softer now. “Still can’t hear Amarillo by Morning without thinking of her.”
Sometimes I forget the cocky tech mogul and my childhood nemesis was a boy who lost his mother too soon. And for reasons I don’t care to examine, it sits with me longer than it should.
I take another sip of my drink and feel the heat of a glare searing into the side of my face. The blonde. She is still at their table, watching me, her red lips pressed into a thin, irritated line.
“Your friend looks like she wants to stab me.” I set my glass down. “Should I be worried?”
Jaxon follows my gaze, then lets out a low, amused laugh. His eyes return to mine with an intensity that makes my skin tingle.
“You have nothing to worry about.”
“She’s mentally plotting my demise.”
“I met her ten minutes ago.” He dismisses her with a casual wave of his hand, then leans in slightly. “So tell me, JJ. What have you been up to in Sin City?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Actually,” he says, leaning closer, “I would.”
The next hour passes faster than I expect. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s the fact that Jaxon’s “civil” mode isn’t half bad. We talk about Vegas, politics and a weird story about a guy who did plastic surgery to become a dog.
Somewhere along the way, I feel myself relaxing and laughing more than I should. The Jaxon I know—the arrogant, insufferable one—is still there, but he isn’t as unbearable tonight.
“Let’s play a game,” I announce. “We are in Vegas, after all.”
Jaxon raises a brow. “What kind of game?”
“Never Have I Ever.”
I dig through my bag for my phone, struggling to grab it as it keeps slipping through my fingers. Finally, I pull it out like unearthed treasure.
“Okay, here we go. I’ll read the statements, and if you’ve done it, you drink. Got it?”
“Game on,” he says, leaning back.
