The Romantic Style convention is the one I look forward to every single year. I mean, how could I not? A full weekend of panels, piña coladas, and fabulous talk with romance-hungry readers? Sign me up. And the fact that it’s in Vegas, capital of good times and steak for under five dollars, only makes it more alluring. I’m always ready for every party, with my heels on and my makeup on point. I love my readers, I love my fellow authors, and I love love. Which, being a romance novelist, I probably should.

The fact that it’s being held at the Bellagio Hotel this year is icing on a delicious, buttercream cake. Ocean’s 11! Sabotage! Breaking into things! Hot people! Not that I’ll be doing any of those things, but I’m in close proximity to the people who do them! Yay!

But there’s always the pesky matter of being on time. And I confess that I’m not great at that. Like, for instance, right now. I have to meet my agent in the bar for a drink.

“Gangway! Coming through,” I say, hustling through the crowd, and bam. I smack into someone tall, dark, and rumpled looking. I tumble to the floor, and my bag goes flopping with me. No! Damn, I hope the fall didn’t wreck my crochet patterns. There’s a tea cozy I’m having a particularly difficult time with right now.

Fortunately, the dude is a gentleman, and helps me up.

“Man, is it hopping or what?” I laugh as I look up into his face. Then I almost choke on my words, because dreamy guy is dreamy.

His eyes are a flashing dark blue, his jaw square and impeccably shaved, his dark brown hair combed back neatly. He’s wearing a slightly rumpled business suit—probably came in first class from New York or London. I instantly start using his panty-dropping good looks as a template for my next romantic hero. Clive Razor, a sadistic billionaire who gets what he wants. That is, until a certain tenacious young woman enters his life, masquerading as his newest squash partner—

“You shouldn’t run around like that,” the dreamy guy says, sounding pissed. His handsome features collapse in a judgmental frown. And just like that, the romantic bubble pops. I don’t need dream visions of surly jerks in my life. I have enough of those in reality.

Damn. I was maybe gonna masturbate to him later. That dream is dead now.

“Thanks, Dad,” I mutter, grab my bag, and take off. Well, that was a disappointing run-in. But it doesn’t matter. I’ve got my key, and now I’ve just got to get to the bar. I can drop my stuff off in the room later—the one I’m sharing with Shanna.

There it is—the Baccarat bar. It’s right off the casino floor, modern style gray couches and chairs centered around low polished tables, a spray of blue blown glass flowers erupting out of the middle of the carpeted area. The vases of flowers and grand piano kind of contrast with the action and energy out on the gambling floor, but I think it’s great.

Some people hate Vegas, with all its flashing lights and high volume slots. Me, I love the energy.

I spy Shanna already. It’s hard to miss her, with her hair dyed bright blue and the sleeve tattoo of Japanese flowers on her right arm. She’s talking with . . . yep. That’s my agent.

“Who do I have to fuck to get served around here?” Meredith yells, holding up her now-empty Moscow Mule cup and waving it around. Meredith Chambers, hottest romance agent in New York, filthiest mouth east of the Mississippi. Or west, come to think of it. Some women walking by give her a shocked, slightly annoyed expression. She responds with aplomb. “Legs together, ladies. I’m not afraid of a little muff diving.”

“I’m pretty sure you can get sued,” I tell her, walking up to them.

Shanna beams and gives me a hug, and Meredith cackles, full on throwing her head back. She’s still dressed to the nines; I never see her in anything less than a Chanel pantsuit. Flashing the Rolex watch on her wrist, gold jewelry jangling, she checks the time. She looks all of her fifty-seven years, and she makes them look good.

Meredith keeps snapping her fingers until, finally, a nervous looking waiter comes over.

“May I get you another?” he squeaks.

“Mule or orgasm?” she asks, eyeing him up and down, sizing him up. I think he’s going to melt in fear.

All right, is this bordering on sexual harassment? Maybe. But the occasional double standard does wonders for women.

Meredith hands off her cup, and I sit. “There’s my gorgeous fucking rock star. Look, you didn’t hear this from me,” she says, looking around in an exaggerated manner, “but Forbidden Desire is coming out on the Times list. You can get on Twitter in about an hour. Number five.”

“Number five?” I gape, incredulous and exhilarated. Shanna hugs me again, and we almost fall over. But damn, does it matter? The New York Times list.

“This calls for more prosecco,” Shanna says, pouring some.

Aw, she got a bottle and an extra glass, just for me.

“You spoil me,” I say, toasting her.

“Best friend burden. Besides, we have more than one thing to celebrate today.” She gives me an encouraging smile. “You must be happy, Jules.”

Oh. Right. That. “Thanks,” I murmur.

“What happened? You fucked the cabana boy?” Meredith asks, scrolling through emails on her phone.

“No. My divorce is final,” I say, trying to sound cheery. And I do. Mostly. Even Meredith stills for a minute. Wow, she actually looks sort of chastened.

“Sorry, kid. I have a huge fucking mouth.” She squeezes my hand. “Congratulations. I know what a prick he was.”

This is the part where I should shout “hell fucking yeah” and jump up, fist in the air, superhero style. Then we would all whirl around and turn into a bunch of bright spandex-suited ladies and run off to fight marvelous amounts of crime and eat copious amounts of cake.

But instead, I force a smile and nod. I had been married to Drew for five years. He had been a delight for four of them. Then my career had taken off, and so had he.

“Hey,” Shanna says, gently nudging me out of my funk. “Want to wave those guys over?” She points to three men walking along the casino floor. One of them’s rolling a bag. I feel that burden, brother. “Three of them. One for each of us.” She winks, and Meredith guffaws.

“I’m old enough to be their mother,” Meredith says. “So I would definitely fuck them. Let’s do this.” She whistles and waves at the masculine trio. One of them looks nice and, basically, normal. The other has a gelled hair, Axe body-sprayed, pleasant doofus look about him. And the third, with the rolling suitcase, he’s . . . .

Shit. It’s tall, dark and scowling. He surveys us with a clearly bored and sullen expression.

“What’s wrong? You look like you swallowed a NuvaRing,” Shanna says, looking alarmed.

“I’m fine,” I say quickly, and dammit, I mean it. Fuck it. I came here to drink a lot, laugh a lot, and gamble in moderation. Mr. Tightass can’t spoil my good time.

“Ladies,” Axe Bodyspray says, sliding over to us. He whips off his sunglasses; why the hell was he wearing them indoors? “Mind if we join you for an appetizer?”

“Apertif?” Shanna says, though she laughs. “I think that’s what you meant.”

To this guy’s credit, he doesn’t get flustered or douchey. He laughs right along. Hey, if there’s one thing I appreciate, it’s a good sport.

“Sounds good. Let’s get together and make some magic happen.” God, that line. He’s kind of adorable in a frisky puppy sort of way.

Axe Bodyspray takes a seat between Meredith and Shanna. The normal guy sits a little farther away, smiling at all of us but not leaning in. I get the feeling he’s taken. And that leaves only the seat next to me available for Tightass.

“Hello,” the jerk says, blandly and pleasantly. He looks like we’re meeting for the first time.

Great, I must’ve made an indelible impression when I smacked into him in the lobby and fell over. He doesn’t remember three minutes ago. Which is fine. I totally don’t want to remember it either. Even if he’s got those Clive Razor godlike looks.

“What are you boys doing here?” Meredith asks, leaning back to scope out Axe’s ass. He doesn’t seem to be put off by it.

“Bachelor party. For me,” normal guy says with a smile.

There you go. My romantic instincts are never wrong.

“Who’s the lucky lady? Or guy?” Shanna asks.

“Lady. My fiancée, Stacy. She’s around here somewhere. Name’s Mike Rosenbaum.” He shakes with us. “That’s Tyler Berkley,” he says, pointing to Axe, “and Nate Wexler.”

That would be Tightass McGee right here.

“Julia Stevens,” I say, holding out my hand to him, my eyebrow arching. “We bumped into each other back at check in.”

“I remember,” he says, giving my hand a quick, firm shake. “I remember that.” He eyes my suitcase with something like disgust.

Wow. Not talking to this dick any longer. I smile over at Mike instead.

“What are you gorgeous ladies doing all alone in Vegas?” Tyler asks, wiggling his eyebrows at Shanna.

“We’re at the Romantic Style convention. It lasts the whole weekend,” Shanna says, sipping her drink.

“You’re romance writers?” Mike asks with a smile. He seems genuinely interested. “That’s crazy. My fiancée is obsessed, maybe she’s heard of you.”

“I write under A.M Leroy,” Shanna says. “It wouldn’t surprise me if she hasn’t heard of my books, though. They’re a little—er—out there. Kind of have a niche audience.”

Shanna always sells herself short. “What she means is she writes sci-fi erotica with amazing world-building and really kinky sex,” I say. “Android bondage? Bisexual alien queens with a harem? That right there is your lady.”

Shanna blushes a little. “Julia’s the bestseller,” she says, grinning. “And she actually writes under her own name. That’s kind of rare in our profession.”

“So I can actually find Julia Stevens at the bookstore?” Mike says. “I like that.”

“Just seemed like the honest thing to do,” I say with a laugh and a shrug.

“Honest?” Nate says. And there he goes. Tightass McGee makes a harrumphing noise deep in his throat. If I were a little more polite, and hadn’t just had a glass or two of fabulous afternoon prosecco, I might let this one go. But I’m not, and I have, so I won’t.

“Got a problem with your throat? Lozenge?” I ask, smiling sweetly. “Need some hot tea with honey?”

I’m not letting it go gracefully. Nate sighs.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” he says, his deep, rich voice going deeper and richer with condescension. Such condescension. Oh, do me now. “I just think the whole romance thing leads to unrealistic expectations. Expectations that do harm down the line.”

He reclines slightly in his chair, gorgeously imperious. If Mr. Darcy was a modern man with a rolling suitcase, a stick shoved way up his ass, and no actual redeemable qualities, he might be this guy.

Now everyone’s kind of stewing in awkwardness, and my blood is boiling. Mike clears his throat, obviously telling Nate to shut the hell up.

“Well, what line of work are you in?” I say, crossing my arms.

“Divorce attorney,” he replies, his tone effortless and cool. His gaze locks with mine, his eyes the deep blue of a perfect midnight sea filled with fucking nasty sharks. “Too many couples come into my office because they’re incompatible. Normally, you do a little digging and find it’s a lot of dissatisfaction on the wife’s part.” He adopts a slightly higher tone of voice. It’s a little whiny, too. “ ‘He’s not spontaneous. He’s not enthralling. He doesn’t go down on me enough.’ ”

Nate raises his hand, and a waiter instantly appears. Doesn’t surprise me that he’s the kind of guy people instinctively know to serve right away. Nate orders three scotches on the rocks—imagine that, ordering for his friends—and the waiter’s off like a shot. Nate Tightass is clearly used to getting his own way. And he is pissing me right the fuck off.

“So you blame marital issues on the romance industry?” I say, digging my nails into my thigh. Legally, it beats sinking them into his perfect, arrogant throat. Though it’s not nearly as satisfying.

Nate shrugs. “I blame it on society selling women—and men, to be fair—a bill of goods. Men, we’ve got the Sports Illustrated swimwear issue and porn to get us started down the path to inevitable disappointment. With women, it starts even earlier, in infancy. You know. Disney princesses and all that other horseshit.”

Horseshit? Fuck you. I will defend my Belle and Mulan awesome warrior princess road comedy fan fiction to the fucking death.

“So what you’re saying is that love, chemistry, mutual happiness, it’s all a huge fucking farce?” Meredith says, her voice so flat it could be mistaken for a county in Nebraska.

Tyler is staring at all of us with his mouth slightly open. Clearly, he doesn’t know what to say.

“I should be grateful. If people didn’t swallow the wrong messages, the wrong ideas about lasting love, I’d be out of a job,” Nate says, staring me right in the eyes. “How about you, Ms. Stevens? Found your happy ending yet?”

I could lie to him. But before I think to do anything that smart, I tell the truth.

“I’m divorced.” I swallow after I say it. No matter how many times I speak the words, think them, it’s still a gut punch.

“I see,” he says, no emotion in his voice. His dark blue eyes seem to sparkle with gleeful light. “Too bad you didn’t come to me. I could’ve gotten you a hell of a settlement.”

My life is in tatters, and this asshole is making jokes about it. Apparently even his friends think this is over the line.

“Nate, what the fuck?” Mike says. His eyes are flashing, angry. The normal one has had enough. “The fuck is wrong with you, man?”

And for the first time, I see Nate the Tightass freeze and look regretful. Not because of me, probably, but he’s basically pissing on the idea of lasting love at his friend’s goddamn bachelor party. Nate clears his throat.

“I’m only saying what my experience has been,” he says at last, though maybe with the tiniest hint of remorse.

And I could be the grown-up here, get up and walk away all nice and quiet. But lucky me, the booze arrives just as I’ve reached my limit. Three scotch on the rocks. Before he can take the glasses, I grab one tumbler.

“Experience this,” I say, dumping the expensive contents on his shirt. He jumps like a very alcoholic spider just bit him. I slam the glass down, grab my trusty purple suitcase, and roll away at high speed.

Blood’s pounding in my temples, and the edges of my vision are blurring with tears.

Calm down. Be one with the Force. Use every Jedi mind trick you know.

“Hey,” Shanna gasps, rushing up beside me. I slow down. Just a bit. “That got really intense, huh?” Her eyes widen. I sigh.

“Sorry. It’s been kind of a weird month.”

“‘Experience this.’ I fucking love it. What a line,” Meredith says, waltzing up beside me. She puts an arm around my shoulders. “Think of it this way, hon. This is a big city, big enough to lose even the smuggest of assholes. Feel better.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, hugging her in return. She’s got a point. One nice thing is the hotel is huge and the convention is busy. I never have to see that jackass again.