“Still am.” He’s in the bathroom, setting his things on the counter. “Using those words doesn’t mean I’m not the perfect gentleman. We’re on vacation and you invited me here as your friend, so I’m going to act like one of your friends.” His head pops out. “Don’t you girls talk like that?”

Uh, well yeah. “You’re not one of my girlfriends.”

It’s a not-too-subtle reminder, and I hope he hears me.

And I certainly do not want to keep him in the friend zone. Come to think of it, I don’t exactly remember how he got there in the first place, or who put who there.

It’s gotten so convoluted thanks to that freaking dare.

He pops his head out again. “Then what am I?”

“You’re…” My mouth gapes open like I’m a trout. “You.”

It isn’t the most brilliant answer, not by a long shot, and I’m not even sure what I mean by it.

“Right.”

He disappears again and my shoulders sag, having lost the opportunity to say something a bit more profound. A bit more…flirty. Something, anything to get out of this hole I’ve dug for myself.

For the next half hour, he busies himself by freshening up then giving me use of the bathroom. It has two sinks, but I need a shower in the worst way and to do my hair before we head to dinner.

Standing under the hot spray of the beautiful all-glass shower, I turn and look into the mirror above the vanity. It’s wall to wall, and I can see myself clearly through the clear stall, the steam not having risen enough to obscure my view.

Running a hand across the flat of my stomach, I run it back up again, hands cupping my breasts. Tip my head back to wet my hair.

I watch myself lather up and rinse off, something I don’t do at home. The mirror is far too high above the counter to get a good view of anything, let alone my boobs or belly or…other things.

Not gonna lie, it’s an intoxicating view, and I’m sorry to be in here by myself, imagining that Ashley would be turned on by the sight of my naked body.

Of course he would; what man isn’t turned on by naked flesh?

I towel off before stepping out. The cold tile floor and the marble walls have me shivering, so I make quick work of drying myself.

“I’m wrapping myself in a towel if you need to get in here,” I call out in case he has to pee; I don’t want to completely hog the bathroom the way I hogged his bed.

He’s reminded me of that fact no less than a dozen times.

Little scorekeeper, that one.

Tsk, tsk.

It takes me much longer to blow-dry my hair than it normally does, probably because I’m screwing around in here, using all the things provided by the hotel instead of my own stuff—the blow dryer, the fancy folded towels that have been laid out, all the styling products.

Lotions.

I make a mental note to take the tiny sewing kit and the shower cap before we check out, even though I’ll probably never use either of them. So cute though—I have to have them!

My hair gets curled.

My makeup? Minimal.

It’s hot and muggy outside on the Strip, and the last thing I want is my foundation and mascara to run because I end up sweating it off. I’ve been doing some research online and everyone says there’s so much walking in Las Vegas it doesn’t pay to wear really high heels and a lot of makeup—your feet just end up killing you and your makeup melts.

The dress I’ve chosen for tonight is already hanging on the hook behind the door, and I slide it off the hanger so I can step into it.

It belongs to Nalla.

Bright hot pink with spaghetti straps, and the neckline dips into my cleavage, no bra needed. With a wrap-style waist, the hem hits at mid-thigh.

It’s sexier than I would’ve expected to see inside her closet while I was scouring through it, and it was even more surprising that I would choose it to bring on this trip. But this is me taking a chance, me trying to do something different. And perhaps this is my attempt to make Ashley see me in a completely different way than just as his roommate and friend.

Shoes come next.

Nude wedges that belong to Priya.

This is a special trip, and I want to feel special.

Pretty.

Sexy even.

Anxiously I slide a few gold bracelets onto my left wrist and watch myself in the mirror as I fasten hoops into each of my ears, one at a time.

I’ve forgotten to put on lip gloss and sift through my travel bag for a pretty pink color. I don’t have much makeup, either, and both of my friends were kind enough to lend me some of theirs, too.

I’m hopeless.

Nervous.

Filled with excitement and anticipation—what is he going to say when I open the door and step out into our hotel room?

I’m about to find out.

Sucking in a breath, I let it out as I pull the door open and take the first few steps forward.

He’s seated on the couch, flipping through a magazine before glancing up. Sets it down, wiping both hands down the legs of his dress pants before rising.

Dress pants.

He’s changed into slacks and a pressed baby blue shirt. The sleeves are rolled to his elbows, tattooed arms flirting with my attentive perusal.

I’m oddly flattered he made such an effort to look nice, hair combed back, stubble trimmed.

Oh god.

I bet he smells amazing.

“You look…” He pauses, searching for an adjective. “Pretty.”

I give a twirl, something I’ve wanted to do since we arrived, wanting to pinch myself.

“Thanks, so do you.”

So do you? Ugh.

“Ready to go?” He’s gathering up his wallet and cell and is stuffing them in his back pockets.

“Yes, just let me grab my purse.” I waste no time taking my ID and cash from one bag and putting them into a small, pink clutch—the bag that coordinates with this sexy, cute dress.

I catch Ashley watching me out of the corner of my eye and pretend not to notice, wanting him to look but still getting a knot in my stomach.

A few hours down, thirty-something more to go…

I can get through this. I can keep my hands off him. I can pretend we’re buddies.

Yup.

I do it every day. This shouldn’t be any different despite the close quarters.

The elevator ride to the lobby is quiet, like we’re two strangers riding down together, trying not to stare or make eye contact.

My fingers fiddle with the chain on this purse, wanting to stay busy.

The sidewalk is insane.

Packed.

Swarming with people.

The street? Jammed with traffic—cars and taxis and tour buses, bumper to bumper. Honking. Shouting.

Music streams from somewhere above and I glance up—a three- or four-story video plays for the entire city, promoting the artist in residence at that hotel.

Someone isn’t watching where they’re going and smashes into me; I tip, unsteady on these heels I have little practice walking on and should have left in the room.

“We have to go this way,” he shouts close to my ear, helping me right myself. “You okay?”

I nod.

“Follow me.”

Watching his strong back, muscles flexing with his every motion, I do my best to stick with him. It’s not impossible, not until we come to a landmark hotel with its famous fountain dancing out front.