Page 34 of Fun at Parties
Oh, no. My bare shoulder. We’re both still under the covers, but after that last flurry of movement, they’re no longer up to my chin.
“Why are you wearing that?” he asks. “What happened to the bathrobe?”
“It was hot.” My voice is breathy. “I didn’t put it on to…” I’m not sure how to finish the sentence.
“To what?”
“Um,” I say, thinking of the hungry way he looked at me last night, after a few drinks.
His next words come out low and bashful. “To torture me?”
“You didn’t like the dress.” I know it’s not true, but I can’t think straight with his body so close to mine. His eyes drop to my mouth, and I realize I’m biting my lip.
“I liked the dress too much.” He says it with a tiny, sheepish smile. The hair on his leg brushes my calf, and I slide my ankle under his. He swallows, and the sound fills the room. “What are you thinking about?”
I let out a shaky breath. He hasn’t moved his leg away. “Back dimples.”
“What?”
It feels like we’re suspended in amber. I can’t focus on anything outside of this bed. I can’t focus on anything with my brain at all, really. I surrender to instinct and shift to face him, sliding my hands around his back and pressing a finger into each of the indentations.
He shivers and ducks his head into the crook of my neck. He’s moved closer, or I have, or both of us, and his chest presses against mine. Oh, lord. My adhesive bra cups are at the bottom of the pool.
I rake my fingers across his back, grasping for more. He grips my leg and pulls it over top of him, squeezing the inside of my thigh, and I whimper. The world is made entirely of body heat and stubble and the pressure of fingertips and—
A knock at the door. “Room service.”
“Shit.” He jumps out of bed and drags his palms across his forehead. I don’t protest. Stumbling, he pulls on a pair of gym shorts and heads to the door.
It’s probably better this way. The last thing I need to add to my mess of a life right now is a man. Even one who wanted to keep me safe last night, to get me warm and dry, who knew I was spiraling this morning—because he reads me like no one else can—so he joked around to stop me from worrying. A man who held my thigh like he never wanted to let go.
It’s a dangerous train of thought. It’s just…in the moment, there was no train of thought. I stopped thinking about everything, and it felt so good. That’s the power of Vegas. It’s the same feeling that convinced me to drink so much last night, which I can’t regret, because now I knowthe truth. But what I really need is to center myself, and taking this further will send me off course.
When Nate returns with the food, I’m wearing a pair of his sweatpants and pulling one of his T-shirts over the top of my dress. “I’m going back to my room.”
“You don’t have to.”
“It’s better if I do.”
“But your breakfast—”
“Thanks.” I stuff a forkful of eggs in my mouth and take a long drag from the glass of ice-cold soda. Damn, that’s good. “Text me later?”
Chapter 11
Back in my room, Ilie under sandpapery sheets and breathe in old cigarette smoke. Reliving what happened with Nate is not an option, so instead I fantasize about the twenty-two-dollar omelet and the comfortable hotel room I walked out on.
It’s not that I can’t afford those things, exactly. I make good money at CycleLove, and even though Los Angeles is expensive, Michelle charges me a pittance in rent. But I started off in a hole.
My mom spent freely when Jolee was doing well. It was important to show people what kind of life it provided, she said. We had a big house and luxury cars. We shopped at Neiman Marcus and Shopbop and vacationed in gorgeous places. She posted pictures of it all, shamelessly reminding people that they too could wear Valentino Rockstud sandals on a trip to Turks and Caicos that they didn’t have to take PTO for, because if they seized the opportunity she offered, they’d be their own boss.
Savings accounts don’t photograph well. And much of the fancy stuff was smoke and mirrors, financed by debt.
Unsurprisingly, I was shitty with money untilMichelle taught me how to budget. Now I hoard my pennies, because CycleLove won’t last forever. I can’t save as rapidly as I’d like, partly because of my debt and partly because my camera-facing job requires certain expenses—highlights, skincare treatments, teeth whitening, a personal trainer—but I usually make responsible choices.
That’s why I need to get my trip back on track. My focus has to be on getting motivated for my return to work. At the same time, my focusalsoneeds to be on curating an Internet personality that matches Tracy’s vision. It doesn’t feel like me yet, but it’s still new. Even though it would probably be safer for me to haul ass out of Vegas and regroup somewhere in the Utah wilderness, Tracy would call that snoozeworthy, so my only real option is sticking around to create content with Logan and his wild, famous friends.
If only he hadn’t stuck his phone in the mail and gone off the grid. None of the guys he’s with have posted today, but Nate and I agreed to reconvene this evening to come up with a plan to find him. We didn’t talk about what will happen if we can’t.
