But somehow, the way he purred the two syllables makes me think it was something else entirely.
As I climb back into bed, I look it up on my phone. Cerise means “cherry.” Of course it does. I’m not sure how I feel about that because something tells me he wasn’t referring to the color of my nail polish.
The girls are both asleep, but I’m not. Even though the noise across the hall has stopped and everything grows still and calm in our suite, I’m hot and flushed and wishing I’d had the guts to stay out in the hallway just a little longer.
Chapter TWO
HARLOW ORDERS FRIES before dropping her shot into her beer and downing it.
She pulls her forearm across her mouth and looks over at me. I must be gaping because she asks, “What? Should I be classier?”
I shrug, drawing the straw through the ice in my glass. After a morning massage and facial, an afternoon spent at the pool, followed by a few cocktails, we’re all more than a little tipsy. Besides, even after chugging a beer with a shot in it, Harlow looks classy. She could jump into a bin full of plastic balls at McDonald’s Playland and come out looking fresh.
“Why bother?” I ask. “We have the rest of our lives to be sophisticates, but only the one weekend in Vegas.”
She listens to what I say, considers it before nodding firmly and motioning to the bartender. “I’ll have two more shots and whatever that monstrosity is that she’s drinking.” She points to Lola, who’s licking the whipped cream from the rim of a hideous, LED-flashing cup.
He frowns before shaking his head and says, “Two shots of whiskey and one Slut on a Trampoline, coming up.”
Harlow gives me her best shocked face but I barely have time to register it before I feel someone press up behind me at the crowded bar. Large hands grip my hips only a split second before “There you are” is whispered hotly—and directly—into my ear.
I startle, turning and jumping away with a gasp.
Ansel.
My ear feels damp and warm, but when I look at him, I see the same playful light in his eyes he had last night. He’s the guy who’ll do a ridiculous robot dance to make you laugh, who’ll lick the tip of your nose, make a fool out of himself for a smile. I’m sure if I tried to wrestle him to the ground, he’d let me win. And enjoy every minute.
“Too close?” he asks. “I was going for seductive, yet subtle.”
“I’m not sure you could have been any closer,” I admit, fighting a smile as I rub my ear. “You were practically inside my head.”
“He’d make a horrible ninja,” says one of the guys with him.
“Oliver, Finn,” Ansel says, first pointing to a tall friend with messy brown hair, stubble, bright blue eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses, and then to the one who spoke, with short-cropped brown hair, dark backlit eyes, and what I can only imagine is a permanently cocky smirk. Ansel looks back at me. “And gentlemen, this is Cerise. I’m still waiting for her real name.” He leans in a little, saying, “She’ll have to give it up sometime.”
“I’m Mia,” I tell him, ignoring his innuendo. His eyes trip down my face and stall at my lips. It’s precisely the look he would give me if we were about to kiss but he’s too far away. He leans forward, and it feels like watching an airplane fly ten feet from the ground for miles, never getting closer.
“It’s nice to put a face with all the man shouts,” I say to break the thick sexual tension, looking around him to Oliver and Finn, then point to my wide-eyed friends beside me. “This is Lorelei, and Harlow.”
They exchange handshakes, but remain suspiciously quiet. I’m not usually the one meeting guys in situations like this. I’m usually the one pulling Harlow back from hooking up on a table within minutes of meeting someone, while Lola considers beating up any guy who dares speak to us. They may be too stunned to know how to respond.
“Have you been looking for us?” I ask.
Ansel shrugs. “We may have gone to a couple of different places, just to peek.”
Behind him, Oliver—the one in glasses—holds up seven fingers and I laugh. “A couple?”
“No more than three,” Ansel says, winking.
I spot movement just behind him, and before I have a chance to say anything, Finn steps up, attempting to yank Ansel’s pants down. Ansel doesn’t even blink, but instead asks me, “What are you drinking?” and simply grips his waistband without looking even a little surprised or annoyed.
As if I can’t see a considerable amount of gray boxers.
As if I’m not staring directly at where the distinct bulge in the cotton would be.
Is this what boys do?
“It’s nice to see you in your underwear again,” I say, struggling to restrain my grin.
“Almost,” he clarifies. “At least my pants stayed up this time.”