Page 1 of Flexible Standards

Prologue

“I’m not coming to Vegas, Jodi,” I groan, though I desperately need a change of scenery.

“It’s been four months! Come and stay with me. You can work at the library here. I’m never home, anyway; I’m at Travis’ most nights. You’ll have the apartment to yourself. Please?” she pouts, and I know damn well she’s not going to let up.

I’ve been in a downward spiral since my husband left me for his secretary; determined that I’ll remain single for the rest of my days. Maybe she’s right and Sin City is exactly what I need?

“Your bachelorette is in three months. If I can set up a job before then, I’ll stay afterward,” I concede.

“Really?” she squeals, and I have to pull the receiver away from my ear. “I can’t wait! We’re going to have so much fun.”

I’ll be gin-drunk for the entire party, but I suppose it’s expected. It isn’t easy seeing one of your best friends fall madly in love with a sweet man when you’ve had your heart trampled on. With all of her bridesmaids married, I’ll be the only divorcée in the group. Jodi’s sister is single, but she’s notorious for matchmaking.

As much as I love the idea of an attractive stranger rendezvous for a night—if only so I have sex with something other than a toy—I’m not the kind of woman who tends to be picked out of a sea of beautiful women. I look down at my cardigan and pencil skirt and laugh to myself—definitely not a hot librarian, I’m the old, stuffy librarian children make fun of.

Reluctantly, I give in to Jodi, “I’ll apply to the library this week.”

“Fuck, I love you! You’ll love it here. Hot men, sexy women, whatever floats your boat.”

Or sinks it.

This will either be an amazing adventure… or the biggest mistake of my life.

sam

. . .

Three Months Later

I’m in the middle of a battle scene in the chapter I’m reading when my alarm blares from my phone. I pick it up, turn it off, and toss it back onto the couch. I could be late if I finish this chapter; worth it to see who’ll come out on top in the end.

Are you fucking kidding me? He’s fucking dead? She offed him?

I toss my device onto my bed, disappointed that my favourite character died, and I drag my arse out of bed to prepare for a night out with my mate. He performs at the casino next door to mine, so our schedules never sync properly. I don’t remember the last time we had a drink together, but I can guarantee it’ll be short. I’m sure he’ll find a gorgeous tourist to shag for the night, leaving me to fend for myself at the bar.

I grab my keys and head out to The Standards, a small bar on the strip. Parking will be a fucking nightmare, so I pull into The Royal next door, where I work, and park in an employee space. I take a quick glance in the rearview mirror and brush a few stray locks of hair off my forehead.

Fuck, are those grey?

There are three new ones that have appeared out of fucking nowhere overnight. I’m thirty-six and in the best shape of my life, but I’m sprouting greys like I’m some kind of silver fox in his fifties.

I make my way to the bar, finding David chatting with a blonde who appears to be missing her pants. Living in Vegas, it doesn’t shock me, but I’m still surprised he’s flirting with someone who has to be half his age. We’re getting too old for this shit.

Taking a seat next to him, I clear my throat, and he turns to face me. “Sam! What the fuck took you so long?” he laughs and slides his hand around the woman’s waist. “Let me introduce you to my new friend…” She whispers to him. “Candy.”

“Pleasure,” I groan, then quickly plaster on the fake smile I'm all too accustomed to when chatting with tourists.

“You’re British? Fuck, that’s hot. You should meet my friend, Tiffany. She loves accents; she’s obsessed with that show with the guy who saves the girl.”

“Well, that certainly narrows it down.” David glares at me, so I correct, “Wonderful, where’s your friend?”

“Tiffany!” she calls across the bar. “Daniel has a hot friend.”

“His name is—” David smacks my arm and shushes me. “Seriously?” I whisper.

Candy’s friend joins us, clearly expecting me to offer to buy her a drink. She’s pretty, but she’s not my type. A one-night fuck, at best. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to use the loo.”

“He said loo,” she swoons, and I can’t seem to get away from them fast enough as I cross the bar to the toilets.

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