Copyright © 2018 Jamie Schlosser
All rights reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction meant for your enjoyment only and may not be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted without permission from the author except for brief quotations in a book review. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. All names, characters, and events are a product of the author’s imagination. Due to language and sexual content, this story is intended for readers 18 and up.
Cover design: PopKitty Design
Proofreading: Deaton Author Services
Formatting: Champagne Book Design
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Synopsis
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Epilogue
Brynne’s Mimosa Recipe
The Cocktail Girls
Other books by Jamie Schlosser
Acknowledgements
About the Author
To Drew—Thanks for asking me to marry you way too soon.
Carter doesn’t believe in love at first sight or happily ever after. When he goes to Vegas for his brother’s bachelor party, the last thing he expects is Brynne, the beautiful cocktail waitress who nurses his hangover with a drink just as bubbly and sweet as she is.
Brynne’s optimism and unfailing faith in love is a breath of fresh air, and it makes him think maybe he’s had it wrong all along.
They say what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. And Carter’s heart? It might be taking up permanent residence there.
“I haven’t even slept yet and I’m already hung over,” I grumbled, squinting against the sunrise glinting over the buildings in the distance. “How is that possible?”
“You’re an old man,” my brother replied with a laugh.
“I’m younger than you.” I gave Scott a sideways glance as we walked side by side back to The Millennium, the hotel we were were paying an arm and a leg for.
“Not my fault you can’t hang.” He smirked at me. “We didn’t even do anything crazy last night.”
I grunted in agreement. He was right about that. Lamest bachelor party ever.
First, we went to dinner at a steak house on the strip. Then we went to a Cirque Du Soleil show. After that, we hit a few bars. Regular bars—not strip clubs. Not that I was a huge fan of those anyway, but my brother’s fiancée Stephanie wouldn’t have liked it, and he didn’t want to piss her off a week away from their wedding.
Just thinking about him tying the knot gave me a bad case of the willies.
Despite the June Las Vegas heat, a shiver ran down my spine when I imagined both of them standing at the altar while making a bunch of promises neither could keep. Not to mention dropping twenty grand in one day on things like flowers, cake, and decorations. No thanks.
Yeah, I was a shitty best man. Scott probably should’ve picked someone else. Joe and Doug, the other groomsmen, were waiting for us back at the hotel. They’d been Scott’s best friends since high school, and either one of them would’ve been a better choice.
“You think I’m making a big mistake, huh?” Scott’s question drew my attention to his face, and I saw that he already knew the answer.
I averted my eyes, focusing on the flashing billboards. The white stretched limos rolling down the street. The man wearing a full-body suit that resembled a disco ball.
All the bright crap only made my headache worse, but anything was better than seeing Scott’s disappointment when I told him the truth.
“You’re just so young,” I commented, the soles of my shiny black shoes scraping against the pavement.
He huffed out a humorless laugh. “I’m thirty.”
“You guys haven’t been together very long.”
“It’ll be two years next month,” he argued, his voice clipped. “I’d say that’s long enough to know you love someone.”
I bit my tongue, because I really didn’t want to have this conversation. Not now. Not when happy people passed us by. Not when I was supposed to be making sure my brother had a good time.
Tense silence followed us as we made it through the entrance of our hotel lobby.
Once we got inside, Scott stopped next to a massive sheet rock fountain and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his black slacks. He clenched his jaw. With his dark brown hair and hazel eyes, there was no mistaking we were brothers. On the outside, we were so similar it was creepy. However, on the inside we were total opposites.
While he was laid-back and generally cheerful, I was a cynical prick. Always had been. Maybe I was born that way. Or maybe it was because I’d been so young when our parents got divorced and dragged us through one of the ugliest custody battles I’d ever heard of.
Either way, when it came to love, I was always thinking negatively and preparing for the worst-case scenario.
“Why can’t you just be happy for me?” Scott demanded.
The sadness—and something a lot like pity—in his eyes made me want to lie but lying had never been my style. Painfully honest is what people called it. I called it doing them a favor.
“Listen,” I started, rubbing at my pounding temple. “I like Stephanie. I always have. But do you really think you’re going to be together for the rest of your lives? What happens when you have kids and you split up? Are you going to toss them back and forth between two houses, two Christmases, two birthday parties—”
“Whoa.” His hand slashed through the air, cutting me off, and I dropped my gaze to the shiny marble floor to avoid the anger in his eyes. “You’re seriously planning my divorce already? I’m not Dad. I’m not going to throw in the towel when things get hard. I won’t give up on my marriage.”
“I never said you would, but I’m not just talking about our parents. Name one married couple that has stayed together.”
It took him several seconds to come up with an example. “Connor and Anna.”
I scoffed at the acquaintances he’d made in his ‘couples’ bowling league. “They said their vows six months ago. Give it time.”
Shaking his head, he took a few steps back as he shot me a glare. “You know, I thought I could change your mind. I thought if you saw Steph and me together, you’d finally believe love is real.”
Steph. Sweetheart. Babe.
I had to admit the pet names were cute, and they seemed like a great couple; in love and committed. But it was hard for me to relate to that when I’d never experienced it for myself.
“Don’t be mad at me for telling the truth,” I said. “You asked, and I answered your question.”
“I’m not mad at you. I feel sorry for you. Maybe you just don’t know how to be happy, and that sucks.”
“Ouch, man.” That one actually hurt because I was terrified that he was right.
He shook his head and sighed. “Maybe you should just hang at the hotel tonight instead of coming out with us.”
“What about Celine Dion?” Yeah. We had tickets to a Celine Dion concert.
“Forget it. I don’t want you there if you’re going to bring me down. This is supposed to be the best time of my life, and you’re ruining it with your shitty attitude.”
“Scott,” I protested, but he was already walking away in the direction of the elevators.
Shit. Me and my fucking mouth. I shouldn’t have said those things. I just should’ve just congratulated him and left it at t
hat.
Loosening the tie that suddenly seemed too tight, I ran a hand through the strands on my head as I turned in a circle. I couldn’t go back to our room because Scott and I were sharing a suite, and I knew he’d need time to cool off.
Fatigue and the lingering intoxication made me sway on my feet, and I looked around for a place to sit down.
I found a plush red bench on the other side of the fountain. As soon as my ass sank into the soft seat I sighed with relief, but the loud sounds of the slot machines nearby made me wince.
This hangover was bad.
The overstimulating lights from the casino.
Pounding headache.
Cotton mouth combined with guilt.
As I seriously considered curling up on the bench and taking a nap until someone kicked me out, I watched a haggard-looking man hypnotized by the slot machine in front of his face. He ran a hand over his balding head before tossing back his liquor with one gulp.
My mouth watered with envy.
A drink sounded pretty good right now, but gambling wasn’t my thing. If my luck had anything to say about it, I’d probably be broke within an hour.
On the far side of the casino, there was a bar. The double doors were wide open, and I saw several people inside the dimly lit room.
I perked up. Good enough for me.
Striding across the red carpet, I read the overhead sign that said Little Black Dress in purple lights.
I made my way inside to be met with the sound of “I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You” by Elvis Presley softly playing through the overhead speakers.
Past the main bar in the dark recesses of the large space, I saw the silhouette of a woman sweeping up last night’s mess with a broom. She was dancing with it, swaying to the music as she cleared away the debris.
Despite my foul mood, I almost smiled.
The interior colors were everything you would expect from an upscale Las Vegas bar—dark wood, bold red, and swanky gold trim.
It wasn’t overbearing like the casinos, which was a good thing for my headache.
The place was mostly empty, except for a few people sitting at tables scattered over the floor. They were hanging out like they were in a coffee shop, with steaming mugs in their hands and muffins on their plates.
Exactly what I needed. I fucking loved muffins.
My stomach gave an impatient growl, and instead of heading straight to the bar, I took a seat at a high-top table. I picked up the small menu.
Never mind; it wasn’t a menu. It was better.
Welcome to hangover hour at Little Black Dress. Enjoy complimentary mimosas, coffee, and muffins from 6-7 a.m. seven days a week!
Only in Vegas. Maybe this weekend wouldn’t be as lame as I thought.
“You look like you could use this.”
A feminine voice drew my attention up, and my gaze locked onto the prettiest light-brown eyes I’d ever seen. It was the girl with the broom. She was still holding it, but in her other hand, she raised a champagne glass before setting it in front of me.
“What’s this?” I eyed the orange drink.
“A mimosa. They’re on the house from six to seven every morning. We call it the hangover hour.”
“I saw that.” I pointed at the laminated card. “I was going to order a coffee, but I guess this will do the trick.” Lifting the glass to my mouth, I took a sip and made a satisfied sound. I’d always thought of these as girly drinks, but I could see why people enjoyed them. It was like a sweet, carbonated orange juice with a kick. “That’s actually pretty good.”
“I have a secret ingredient.” The cocktail waitress gave me a wink as she lowered her voice to a whisper. It was cute. Did she share all her secrets with the customers or just me? “I always add a splash of grenadine. I think it really enhances the flavor.”
I agreed with a nod and tipped the glass back again, not taking the time to savor it. I just needed the alcohol, and I wasn’t even embarrassed about chugging it on the spot.
The champagne bubbles burst over my tongue, and my liver just about wept with relief.
Ah, I felt better already.
Now that the hangover fog was lifting, I noticed how sexy the woman was.
She was still standing there, smiling at me. Looking cute-as-fuck with that broom.
Her light-brown hair matched the color of her eyes and the long straight strands fell to where I estimated her belly button would be. She wore a short, skin-tight black dress that hugged the curve of her hips and the dip of her narrow waist. The shoulder straps held up her full breasts, and her cleavage was like an arrow pointing up to the fullest red lips. Blush highlighted her cheekbones. Black eyeliner and mascara gave her that smoky-eyed look women were always trying to perfect.
She was the epitome of everything-Las-Vegas and looking at her made me feel every bit the good ole boy from the Midwest. I didn’t come from a small town by any means, but nothing compared to this larger-than-life city.
My gaze locked onto hers and I realized two things. One, I was openly ogling her like an asshole. And two, she was probably waiting to take my order.
“Do I get muffins too?” I blurted out rudely. Double-check on the asshole part.
“Oh!” Her eyes widened, and the way her ruby-red lips formed a perfect ‘O’ had my dick standing at attention. “Of course. I was in such a hurry with your drink I forgot to grab them. What flavor would you like?”
Still distracted by her mouth, I just murmured, “Surprise me.”
She hustled away, doing one hell of a powerwalk in the high heels she was wearing. The dress was like a second skin, stretched and molded to her supple backside. The hem landed a few inches below her ass cheeks, and suddenly I had visions of pulling it up with my teeth.
Since I’d already been a major creep, I committed one more offense by practically leering at her smooth legs on display. Long and lean.
Perfect for being wrapped around my waist.
I shook my head. Time to stop thinking inappropriate thoughts about a woman who just wanted to do her job and get me a free muffin.
She came back with two on a tray—one blueberry, one chocolate. “You choose.”
“Thank you.” I picked up the small plate with the blueberry muffin and took a bite.
“Oh, good,” she chirped. “I was hoping you’d pick that one because I really wanted the chocolate.”
She placed another mimosa in front of me and set the tray on the table. Then she sat down across from me and began eating the chocolate muffin, like we were two friends meeting up for breakfast.
Amused, I attempted to keep my smile to a minimum so I didn’t chew with my mouth open. Apparently, the beautiful waitress didn’t have the same concern. She wolfed down her muffin like she was starving, all teeth and smacking lips. Her eyes even rolled back a couple times as she let out a moan.
Shifting in my chair, I had to discreetly adjust the front of my pants, which had become very tight. This was a first—I’d never gotten turned on by watching someone eat before.
I abandoned the other half of my muffin and decided to guzzle the mimosa instead.
“So.” Wiping crumbs from the corner of her mouth, the woman stared at me expectantly. “What’s wrong? Besides the massive hangover you’re suffering from.”
Was I really that transparent? Or was this just something the waitresses did around here? Maybe they were supposed to lend an ear to the customers and listen to their woes, bartender style.
Normally I wouldn’t think nosiness was endearing, but I found myself wanting to answer her.
“Uhh…” I squirmed in my seat before admitting, “I’m an asshole.”
Surprised, she huffed out a laugh at my candor. “Well, at least you’re self-aware.”
I grinned.
I appreciated the fact that she didn’t try to convince me I was wrong. That I didn’t deserve to call myself that. Because it would’ve been lies, and this woman didn’t seem like the type to spout bullshit.
“No,” I barked. Damn, she went right for the jugular. “It’s not that bad. Besides, I’m not married, so that would be impossible. What’s level one?”
Tilting her head to the side, she mulled over my question for a couple seconds before answering, “You let your friends buy the drink rounds all night, then you pretended to be too drunk to remember to return the favor.”
Snickering, I shook my head because I’d never done that before. Taking a second to think about where I stood, I idly rubbed the smooth stem of my glass.
“I guess I’m somewhere in between. This morning I told my brother I thought he was making a mistake by getting married. So I guess that’s level five?”
She cringed and gave me a disapproving look. “Oh, no. That’s like a seven and a half. Yikes.”
I blew out a breath. “I know. It’s bad.”
“You need a refill.” She tipped her chin toward my almost-empty drink. “Be right back.”
I hadn’t even realized I’d been guzzling it that fast. Draining the rest in one gulp, I slid the champagne flute away from me. When the waitress returned, she had two more at the ready and placed them in front of me.
“I hope you don’t mind that I’m crashing your pity party,” she said absentmindedly as she sat down again. Kicking off her red heels, she bent down to rub one of her feet. “These things kill me.”
“Be my guest. Why do women wear those torture contraptions anyway?” I asked, gesturing to the uncomfortable shoes. “Seems like it wouldn’t be worth it if it causes you pain.”
“Same reason why you went out and got hammered last night,” she quipped. “It’s fun for a while.”
I laughed. “Touché.”
“Same reason your brother is putting his heart on the line.”
I swallowed hard. Straight-shot to the jugular again.
I didn’t have a response for that. Good thing she brought me two drinks because I needed them both. I downed one in record time, and all signs of my pleasant buzz from last night returned.
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