So,” Kelly says, sitting back on her barstool and surveying her surroundings. “This . . . is Vegas.”

“Uh-oh,” I tease. We’ve scored a couple of seats at a crowded bar inside the Cosmopolitan, all red leather banquettes and gilded light fixtures, the kind of thumping EDM I can feel in the base of my skull. “Not living up to your expectations?”

“No, it’s not that,” Kelly says. “I mean, okay, I guess it’s kind of that.” She tips her head at a group of bros hooting loudly as their friend downs what I can only assume is equal parts sugar and tequila out of a three-foot-tall plastic cup. “I guess I just imagined, like, more George Clooney in Ocean’s Eleven, and less . . .”

“Zach Galifianakis in The Hangover?” I supply.

Kelly grimaces. “Exactly.”

“Speaking of questionable vacation decisions,” I say, plucking at the plunging neckline of my short black dress, a last-minute impulse buy that felt like a much better idea back in the dressing room, “am I all boobs in this getup? I feel like I am one hundred percent boobs.”

Kelly looks at me, assessing. “You’re, like, seventy-nine percent boobs.” She grins then, her cherubic farm-girl face going wicked. “Relax, Jules,” she says. “You look amazing. You look, in fact, like a super-hot girl who just graduated from fucking law school, so should probably stop worrying and order another cocktail.”

“I’m trying,” I promise, taking a generous swig of my paloma to demonstrate. “I feel like the last three years have genetically reprogrammed me to be uptight. Did you know that Mean Sarah Lowell was going to start her bar prep this weekend?”

“We’re not talking about Mean Sarah Lowell!” Kelly chides me. “We’ll start our sad life of practice test drudgery on Monday. The whole point of this weekend is supposed to be forgetting about all that. And, you know.” She gazes around. “Objectifying men.”

“Right, obviously,” I agree with a grin. “Can’t forget about that.”

She tilts her chin at a group of hipster-y guys drinking bourbon in the corner. “He’s cute,” she says thoughtfully. “Plaid shirt and beard, ten o’clock.”

I peer through the crowd. “I mean, sure, if you’re into mountain men.”

“I am into mountain men!” Kelly declares, with such conviction that I can’t help but giggle. “Tonight, anyway. I want to be, like, the Meriwether Lewis of vacation hookups. Exploring unknown territory. Mapping uncharted terrain.”

“Spelunking into the pants of every outlaw in the west? Speaking of which,” I tell her, tilting my head in a way that probably isn’t that subtle: we’ve attracted the attention of the mountain man in question, who nods at Kelly with a wry smile that’s all invitation. “Go say hi.”

Kelly bites her lip. “Are you sure?” she asks. “I don’t want to just abandon you here.”

“Oh, please.” I raise my glass, touching it to hers with a quiet clink. “Go forth.”

Once she’s disappeared into the crowd I settle back on my barstool and scroll idly through Instagram, liking shots of my cousin’s gummy baby and some law school classmates at a wedding and what feels like roughly a hundred artfully arranged acai bowls. I’ve only been at it for a couple of minutes when I’m enveloped by an overwhelming cloud of cheap drugstore cologne. “Buy you a drink?” a man’s voice drawls.

I glance up. He’s at least twenty years my senior, with pleated khakis and an obvious combover. I shake my head and smile tightly, holding mine up as evidence. “Got one, thanks.”

“Aw, come on now,” he says, ignoring the fact that I’m staring intently at my phone and plunking himself down in the empty seat beside me. “You in town for the conference?” Then, in spite of the fact that I haven’t asked: “Medical devices.”

His name is Greg, he continues; he sells surgical equipment for a manufacturer outside of Cleveland and is on track to make a seven-percent raise this year. He’s got a hundred-dollar per diem he hasn’t blown through yet today, if I want to rethink that drink offer. “I’ll spring for nachos, too,” he says magnanimously. “I’m a generous guy.”

I’m sweeping the room for the closest exit, contemplating an escape worthy of Danny Ocean himself, when a hand lands on the back of my barstool. “Hey, babe,” a deep voice says casually. “Making friends?”

I whip around. Now this guy would look right at home with Clooney and Pitt. He’s tall and dark-haired and smoking hot, wearing a starchy striped shirt with sleeves rolled halfway to his elbows and an expression that clearly communicates, Just go with it. “I got my ass beat at roulette,” he continues with a sheepish grin. “There goes private school for the kids, right?” He sticks his hand out to medical device guy. “Cal. The husband.”

I almost choke on my paloma. Still, something about the sheer ballsyness of this particular play—and, okay, how hot this guy is—has me playing along. “Hey, hon,” I say, laying a hand on his pleasantly solid bicep. “Greg here was just telling me all about the free swag at the medical device conference in town.”

“Sounds neat,” Cal says brightly. He lifts his pint glass in a salute, then slides a pointed arm around my shoulders. “Cheers, dude.”

Greg’s gaze darts from me to Cal, then back again. “Cheers,” he echoes, sounding slightly uneasy, like he suspects we’re getting something over on him but isn’t sure exactly how. “I guess I’ll leave y’all to it, then.”

“Good to meet you,” I lie, smiling my cheeriest smile. Probably I should be annoyed that Cal’s brush-off was enough to get rid of this guy when mine blatantly wasn’t. Instead I just feel relieved.

Once he’s gone I turn around in my seat to gape at Cal, who’s looking back at me with open amusement. “So, on a scale of, like, one to Disney Princess, how badly did I look like I needed rescuing?”

Cal tilts his head to the side, considering. “I mean, your undisguised expression of misery kind of gave it away.”

“Maybe that’s just how my face is!” I protest, laughing in spite of myself. “Resting miserable face.”

“Eh. Maybe.” Cal shrugs, all confidence as he settles himself onto Greg’s recently vacated barstool. “You don’t look so miserable now.”

Right away I feel my cheeks flush, pink and obvious. It’s been a long time since I flirted—or, more accurately, since I was competently flirted with. “So how many kids do we have, exactly?” I ask, taking a sip of my drink to cover my own shyness.

“Not too many,” he reassures me, nodding at the bartender for another beer. “Like six or seven, max.”

“Six or seven!” I snort. “And here you are just gambling their lunch money away like some kind of degenerate.”

Cal nods gravely. “I’m a real scoundrel,” he agrees.

“Clearly.” I’m smiling, I can’t help it. The fact that this guy is a giant player is about as obvious as my boobs in this ridiculous dress, but it’s not like he isn’t charming. And this is vacation, right? I stick my hand out. “Jules Robinson.”

“Nice to meet you, Jules Robinson.” He gives good handshake, firm but not bone-crushing, all long fingers and the faintest scrape of callus on his palm. His eyes are a deep, friendly brown. “So what brings you to Vegas?” he asks.

“I’m with a girlfriend,” I explain. “Or I was, anyway. At the moment she’s out of pocket on an . . . exploratory mission.”

Cal grins. “Sounds exhilarating.”

“Oh, I’m sure it is,” I assure him. “What about you, huh? What are you doing in town?”

“Auditioning for Thunder from Down Under,” he says immediately. Then, off my loud, raucous cackle: “Callback, actually. I aced the first round, they couldn’t get enough of me.”

“Right, no, obviously.” The ads for the all-male revue were plastered all over the strip when we got here this afternoon: beefy, longhaired guys in bow ties, cummerbunds, and not much else. “So what’s your character?” I ask, rattling the ice in my mostly empty glass. “Sexy fireman, sexy cop . . . ?”

“Sexy medical device salesman,” he deadpans, completely serious in the moment before his face breaks open into a grin. “See, you’re laughing, but I have a whole bit I do with the X-ray machine. It’s a real crowd-pleaser.” He motions to my cocktail. “You want another one of those?”

I tilt my head to the side, pretending to think about it. “Sure.”

I have two more, actually, and so does Cal, our knees just brushing underneath the bar as we chat about all kinds of things: his mom’s neurotic golden doodle, a Netflix documentary series both of us recently binged, how I want to do women’s rights work for a non-profit once I pass the bar. It’s the easiest, least awkward conversation I’ve had with a stranger in . . . well, years, actually, unless you count my weekly Outlander debriefs with Estelle, the nighttime security guard at the law library. My heart thrums with a quiet thrill inside my chest.

Casino bars don’t ever really empty out, but this one is taking on a distinct after-hours vibe, low light and quiet conversations; the Bud-guzzling bachelor party bros are long gone. When I finally check my phone to see if Kelly’s texted—she has, she’s safe, and she’s having a truly epic time with her mountain man—I realize it’s after one a.m. “Holy shit,” I blurt. “How’d it get to be so late?”

Cal raises his dark eyebrows over the rim of his glass, looking faintly tickled. “Am I keeping you up?”

“What? No!” I blurt, immediately embarrassed by how eager I sound. “We just had an early flight out this morning, that’s all. I’ve been up for like twenty-hours.”

“I’m teasing you, princess.” He smiles at me then, slow and easy. It’s the most intimate smile of my entire life. It’s a smile like sitting in front of a campfire in October and reading the paper in bed on Sunday morning; it’s a smile, frankly, like getting good and fucked by a man who knows you down to your most essential particles. “You want to get out of here?” he asks.

I knew it was coming but still there’s something scandalous about the idea, being propositioned by a total stranger. I’m imagining it now, I can’t help it: that broad chest pressed against mine and his capable-looking mouth on my neck, long fingers reaching down between my legs and—

“Tempting,” I tell him truthfully, laying a palm against my flaming face. “But I probably shouldn’t.”

To his credit Cal keeps smiling, a little rueful; he doesn’t try to convince me, either, just touches my arm and catches the bartender’s eye to settle up. “Fair enough,” he tells me, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket. “Well, it was really nice to be married to you for five minutes, Jules Robinson.”

“Yeah,” I agree, feeling my whole body get warm. “It was nice to be married to you for five minutes, too.”

I’m surprised by the sharp pang of longing behind my ribs as I watch him go a moment later, the strange sense that I’ve somehow given up more than just a roll in starchy white hotel sheets. Still, it’s not like I’m about to just get up and follow him out of here. He probably does this every night, sure. But I’ve never had a one-night stand in my entire life.

I’ve never had a one-night stand in my entire life.

The thought stops me—after all, I’m a grown-ass woman with a newly minted law degree, aren’t I? I’ve got nobody to answer to but myself. And this is Vegas. What happens here, et cetera. I swallow down the rest of my tequila, set the glass back down on the bar. “Hey, Cal!” I call, slinging my purse over my shoulder and hopping down off my barstool as quickly as my tiny dress allows. “Wait up.”