“Thanks, boo.” I winked, moving away from the laptop and wiping the counter in front of me for the hundredth time that morning. Even though I had one hundred percent disability because of my illness, I chose to work. Productivity spun my straw into gold. Working was my saving grace, because when you’re my kind of sick, your whole adulthood is on probation.

“How is your hot neighbor doing?” Elle asked, her elbows pressed against the counter, her legs tapping to the tune of “I’m Shipping Up to Boston” by Dropkick Murphys that played in the background. “Still mega-rich?”

“Oh, yeah. Also, still a mega-douche.” I coughed out my answer. I wish my blonde, curvy, gorgeous friend, Elle, hadn’t met Dean last month for two seconds. I didn’t think he noticed her existence as he met us in the elevator and asked if I wanted to come, and when I asked where, he said on his tongue, but she noticed him, all right. And when she found out he was one of the CEOs to the monstrous investment firm Fiscal Heights Holdings on top of being good-looking, all bets were off. She’d pretty much been bugging me about him ever since.

“We don’t care about that.” She waved her hand around, ignoring a table of desperate customers on the far end of the shop who signaled for her to hand them the check a century ago. They could dance the “Copacabana” and she still wouldn’t notice. Elle was an amazing woman as much as she was a terrible waitress. I rang their order up and printed out their check, walking over to the table and offering them complimentary lemon cakes before returning to a still-oblivious Elle. Even though I was the barista and it technically wasn’t a part of my job, I still covered for Elle all the time.

“You don’t, but I do. Anyway, he is trying to get me to go with him to Todos Santos on Friday instead of a Saturday. I don’t want to.” I munched on my lower lip, thinking about Mama and Daddy. I haven’t told Elle about my conversation with Dean. She was away all week, visiting her parents in Nebraska. The last thing I wanted was to dump my personal crap on her and ruin her vacation.

“Screw that, hell no.” Elle waved her forefinger around, her hazel eyes skimming over two young, male customers who walked into the café, foolishly expecting her attention. “Your parents are a drag, and your mom is always on your case. Also, they still don’t know you’ve broken up with Darren, right?”

Right.

On top of my parents, I would have to hang out with Vicious and Dean, two of my least-favorite people. The week was definitely going to be challenging. I changed the subject, bypassing the self-pity fest I was tempted to throw for myself.

“By the way, I need to change my plan for my sister’s bachelorette party. My new one needs to be crazy with a touch of glitter.” I unscrewed one of the jars of chocolate chip cookies that lined the counter behind us, taking two and shoving them into my mouth. “Any suggestions?”

Don’t say Vegas, don’t say Vegas, don’t say Vegas, I inwardly prayed.

“Two words: Las Vegas.” She drew an imaginary flashing sign in the air. “Do the Sin City Tour-de-Trash. Male strippers. Booze. A Britney Spears gig. All the guilty pleasures you can pack in, basically.”

I groaned, throwing my head to the counter with a thud.

Money wasn’t an issue. If I told Vicious, he would shell out whatever sum I needed to make it happen. Even though time in Vegas meant less time with Mama and more time with Millie, it was still not my thing.

“Any other ideas?” I quirked an eyebrow. Elle had a better chance luring me into a cave full of starving vampires than getting me to consciously spend time in the same Vegas strip with The HotHoles of Todos Santos, AKA the groom’s best friends. Especially Dean Cole. His constant advances and sexual innuendos grated on my nerves.

“Honestly, Vegas is your best shot, chica. Otherwise, you can go the usual route. Do a dildo-themed party—which you don’t want to do anymore because it’s lame—or a weekend in Cabo. Now, now, no more carbs for the bridesmaid.” She placed a hand over the jar lid when I went for another cookie, shaking her head. “And remember—you can’t be an Annie.”

“An Annie?” I frowned.

“Yeah. You know, from Bridesmaids. Don’t let any of Millie’s other bridesmaids outshine you. That shit’ll haunt you for life.”

Somehow, I doubted that. Millie didn’t have many friends. I was her only bridesmaid. Her expectations were terribly low to begin with, thank God.

“I appreciate the tip,” I snorted.

“Don’t mention it.” She wiggled her bony shoulders. “Seriously, don’t. To anyone. I swore off rom-coms when I was sixteen as a part of a bet. I think it’s still going. But I broke it like once or a thousand times.”

I laughed, because with Elle, you couldn’t not laugh.

“Seriously, though, Rosie. Vegas would be perfect. Don’t think about what you want—think about Millie. It’s her week. And that’s true about your hot neighbor’s invitation to arrive earlier in Todos Santos, too.”

I hated it when Elle was right.

Glancing at the time on my cell phone, I had to walk my neighbor’s dog in half an hour, and the subway was always packed that time of the year with enough tourists to populate a medium-sized country. I tipped my chin down. “Wine and sushi tonight?”

“Sashimi for me. I’m skinny-bitching this summer.” She ran her hands down her body, tracing non-existent curves before giving me the thumbs-up. Then she paused, frowning. “Hey, who are you going to invite to this bachelorette party, anyway? Your sister is not exactly a social butterfly.”

That was an understatement if I ever heard one. Other than her high school friend, Sydney, who stayed in Todos Santos, and a random older chick she met in L.A. called Gladys, who helped her set up her gallery, she didn’t really hang out with anyone. I shook my head, busying myself by rearranging coffee mugs on the counter.

“Shamelessly milking an invitation. What has the world come to?”

“Hey, lady, if you don’t care for our world, you’re welcome to move to another planet. And on that note,” Elle fist-pumped the air once, “we’re going to Vegas! High-five?”

“High-five and a thumbs-up? No, thanks, I think I’ve had a healthy dose of lame today,” I teased.

“Is your sexy neighbor going to be there, too? Vegas, I mean. He seems like the type to throw a crazy-ass party.”

“Yes,” I groaned, and as I said that, I realized that I wasn’t just annoyed with the prospect of having Dean around.

I was also excited.

Just a tad, but enough to make my stomach do that flip.

That should have tipped me off. Been the first alarm bell. Because everyone knew one thing—after the flip, comes the boom.

“Fuck if I care, Colton. We’re dropping that lawsuit on his ass faster than a load of shit after a visit to that all-you-can-eat restaurant on Broadway just to make sure he can’t buy any more stocks until further investigation. Am I clear? Colton? Colton! Goddammit.”

Oh, crap.

His voice rushed into my ears a second too late. I didn’t have the time to jump out of the elevator before he sent his arm across the barrier—the one clutching his cell phone—to make the door slide back open.

Dean walked past the elevator’s threshold wearing his navy blue, three-piece suit and cocky smile, pressing his phone to his ear as he loosened his silk maroon tie.

“LeBlanc,” he hissed seductively, ending the call. I ignored him, staring at the numbers above my head.

His body pressed against mine from behind and his lips found my ear. “Do your nipples always pucker when someone enters the elevator with you, or do you save this reaction only for me?”

Double crap.

My eyes dropped down to my black top. Horrified, I remembered I wore a thin, barely-supportive bra under my Misfits shirt that morning.

“Just kidding, but good to know you have a reason to be worried.” Dean let out a mocking snicker. Asshole.

“What do you want?” I groaned.

“You, in my bed, playing with my balls as I suck your tits until they bleed. Maybe jerk me off. Just as an appetizer, obviously. The main course will be better, but you’ll have to see for yourself.”

Triple crap. Now I was wet.

The elevator pinged. I darted out, jerked my door open, throwing the keys into a handmade bowl Mama made in pottery class that was supposed to be an Egyptian figure but looked more like a crying monkey, kicking my flip-flops against the wall with a thud. Padding barefoot to the kitchen, I opened my fridge and grabbed the orange juice, taking two big gulps straight from the carton. It wasn’t until I wiped my mouth with my forearm that I realized Dean was in the kitchen with me, pinning me down with the most vivid green eyes I’d seen in my life.

“Rent reevaluation.” He smacked his lips together. “Before you throw another hissy fit, hear me out. There’s a good offer on the table.”

“Just tell me the price. Your offers are sexual harassment suits waiting to happen.”

Dean smirked when his phone buzzed again. Then he looked down and frowned, his nostrils flaring. Ignoring the buzz, he met my eyes again.

“It’s not harassment when you’re obviously game.”

I walked to the sink, washing my hands to buy time, abstaining from answering him.

“It’s time to pack a bag to Todos Santos, Rosie-bug.”

Just hearing the name my daddy nicknamed me on his tongue made me shudder.

“Is it? I’m boarding a plane Saturday evening. That’s what my plane ticket says.”

“Not the one you’re going to use.” He leaned his waist against my sink, his eyes undressing me item by item. The call on his phone died, but another one started, making the screen flash. He ignored it, too. “Make that very early Friday morning, meaning tomorrow.”

“I’m not coming with you.”

He chuckled, shaking his head like I was an adorable, silly puppy. “Wanna bet?”