“So you skipped out on the end of lunch with Meredith and your editor to go to another lunch with the guy you just now remember banging last night?” Shanna grins as we head into the restaurant. She throws an arm around me and squeezes tight. “I knew you were doing Vegas right.”

Then she slaps my ass. Our friendship is deep and true.

“Yeah, yeah. Just enjoy the free food, all right? If we’re all going out, I’m sure it’s on Nate’s, er, dime.”

Oh God, I nearly said on Nate’s dick. I nearly said it. I’m going to hell.

Shanna might suspect my near slip of the tongue, because she looks smugly pleased.

“Over here!” Stacy calls, waving to us with a lot of enthusiasm. At least someone at this table’s happy to see me. The restaurant is very high-end Thai, the kind with waterfalls running along fake rocks, bamboo wind chimes, and Buddhas sitting on golden lotus leaves. The table’s long, with most of the people we met last night chatting together.

Shanna and I sit down next to each other, and I’m doing everything but clutching her hand under the table. I didn’t just bring Shanna along to sample Nate’s largesse—heh. Large. Stop it—I’m bringing her along to act as something of a human shield. Because now that I’ve started really remembering last night’s encounter in the closet, I find that I’m . . . kind of excited to see him again. A little nervous as well.

Basically, I want someone familiar sitting next to me, someone to keep me grounded. Something that’ll stop me from lying on top of the table screaming, “Do me now, again, harder.”

That kind of thing can put people off their Panang curry.

“Julia, look. Sit down over here,” Stacy says, patting a chair right next to her. “I want to talk a little more about your books.”

Sure she does. Because sitting right on the other side of this chair is Nate, studiously avoiding my gaze. I hope he’s memorizing that menu, because he barely looks up from it. I already know it wasn’t his idea to bring me; my stomach sinks a little at the thought. I get the feeling Stacy is good at getting what she wants. Shanna gives me a wink.

“Go ahead. Sit with the bride,” she says, flashing me a smile. Ugh. Traitorous friend. Et tu, Shanna? With no one else to turn to, I walk around the table to take my seat.

“Hey stranger,” I say to Nate, keeping my voice light and bright. He finally tears his eyes away from the Thai peanut chicken lunch special. Good. I know how riveting it must have been.

“Hey,” he says, gazing at me. An involuntary thrill runs up my spine. Why didn’t I ever notice how sexy his voice is? It’s like baritone scotch, rich and smoky. His eyes, still that perfect dark blue, seem to pierce me.

Heh. Pierce.

Shut up, David Tennant.

I’m out of my mind. I clutch my napkin, determined to keep my raging hormones under control. But I can’t help how my eyes travel down his body, remembering the silk and steel feeling of him beneath my hands, and I imagine him naked. Despite how, er, intimately we know each other, so much of him is still a mystery. Didn’t see much in all of our action last night—at least, not that I can remember. I want to see him laid out under soft lighting, maybe in that lush hotel bed from last night. And while we’re dreaming, maybe I’m on top, riding him, taking him between my . . . .

“Are you drooling?” Nate sounds kind of mortified.

“Nothing. Er, the medication,” I lie, wanting to slam my own head against the table. I discreetly wipe my mouth. “My medication, for. Stuff.”

Shut up, Julia.

He hands me the menu.

“See what you like,” he says.

Oh, I think I do see something I like, you magnificent, arrogant jerkface.

I am not using my grown-up words today. Instead, I look over the menu and finally settle on some chicken satay skewers. I’m not that hungry. I ran out on a mostly eaten club sandwich and salad back at the hotel restaurant.

Now there’s nothing for Nate and me to do but . . . talk. Stacy, for all her pretense of wanting some girl chat, is talking with Mike and Shanna about something.

Stacy. You tricksy little hobbit.

“You made it back to the hotel okay?” I ask Nate, taking a sip of ice water. Ice. Ice is good. Ice cools down the throbbing libido.

“No, I was stranded. Left alone to fend for myself in the desert,” he says, his voice so cool and under control I nearly take him seriously. This man has an expert poker face. “So I opened up this restaurant, built it with my own two hands. At least now we can get quality Thai in the desert,” he says.

I laugh, and the lines around his mouth and eyes ease. He never seemed to like my laugh before. But then again, I never used to fantasize about him fucking me senseless, so there you have it. His sarcasm doesn’t bother me. Well, not as much as it did yesterday afternoon.

Sometimes you have to get to know people. Even if it’s biblically.

Nate pulls out his phone, buzzing in his pocket. He frowns.

“Shit. Work. Excuse me,” Nate says, pulling out his chair and getting up. He heads off, probably to go stand outside. Stacy winks at me.

“You two had fun last night,” she says.

Would it be really wrong to grab her, shake her, and scream, “Tell me what we did because I remember almost nothing except doing a stripper dance and then fucking in a closet with a neon condom”? I think it would be wrong.

“I’m glad you guys have been, y’know, seeing so much of each other.”

Oh hardy har.

“Nate’s been a grouch for too long.”

“He was ever a not-grouch?” I ask. I’m trying not to sound as intrigued as I feel. The food arrives, and Stacy twirls some pad thai onto her fork. “I mean, you must’ve known him way young.”

“Pretty much. We all went to college together. Northwestern. Go Wildcats.” She grins. Oh man, I went to University of Wisconsin. We can discuss Big Ten rivalries later. “We graduated a decade ago, we were all friends since sophomore year. And I’m only now getting this one to commit,” she says, grinning across the table at Mike. He puts a hand over his chest, mock-wounded.

“I just wanted to wait until we could afford a condo. Was that a crime?”

Condos. Joking with each other over lunch. For the first time in a while, I feel lonely for Drew. Jerk though he was, he used to be my jerk.

“You know how he finally bought the ring and proposed?” Stacy asks me. Uh, is this a pop quiz? “Nate,” she says, answering her own question.

“Get out. Mr. Love Is a Battlefield? Mr. Grumpy Cat transformed into a human being? I’m surprised he didn’t hiss and turn into a pile of ashes when you showed him the ring.”

Nate tried to help his friends’ relationship? Nate the great divorce attorney was pushing for his friends to get married?

“He made Mike get the ring, haggled with the jeweler until he took down the price. Then he and Mike talked about where to take me to propose, everything. They decided on Wrigley Field, the very minute the Cubs lost. He knew it would cheer me up.” She smiles. “Nate pays attention to the people he cares about. He’s a genuinely good guy. I’ll admit, you didn’t see the best of him yesterday afternoon.” Stacy sighs. “Sometimes he can be a real asshole. I love him, and even I know it.”

“So does being an asshole just come with the lawyerly territory?” I ask.

Stacy smiles, but only a little. “He’s not usually this bad. I know he’s doing his best with this wedding, being the best man. But the love thing, seeing us celebrate it all weekend; I know it’s taking a toll on him.” She looks sad.

“What happened?” I ask. I smell a tragic back story. Actually, my stomach tightens just thinking about it. Is it bad that I’m curious?

“His girlfriend, Phoebe. She was almost his fiancée. Mike tells me Nate had his own ring, his own perfect spot to propose picked out. They’re both lawyers, met at U Chicago law school. Both really smart, really type A. It seemed like a match made in heaven.” Stacy shrugs. “And then she dumped him. Out of the blue. She told him on a Friday afternoon that it was over, packed her shit and headed out Saturday morning. There was a moving van waiting and everything when Nate woke up. She’d planned the whole thing. She was gone in twenty-four hours. I’d never seen Nate surprised before. Or crushed.” She sighs. “I didn’t like seeing it. He hid it fast, but those first few days.” She shakes her head.

“Jesus,” I whisper. “When did this happen?”

“Six months ago,” she says.

Holy shit. That wound’s probably still fresh, especially at a wedding. No wonder he’s been so pissed off.

“Then Nate kind of turned into robot lawyer man, and we couldn’t get him to even mention Phoebe’s name. He never talks about it, but I know it’s been eating at him.” She crunches a peanut.

“Why did she leave him? Do you know?” I ask, feeling that familiar knot in my stomach. Boy, do I know what it’s like to have abandonment issues. “There has to be a reason.”

“This was the part that really got to him. Phoebe told him she had finally met her soul mate. It was total serendipity. He was just some guy who lent her his coat at Wrigley Field one night. She told Nate the second she looked into this other guy’s eyes, she knew it was meant to be.” Stacy says it all with kind of a sarcastic bite, but I’m not so quick to make fun.

Isn’t that what I write about for a living? Two strangers meeting across a crowded room, or at a corporate meeting? Or—if I’m feeling kinky enough—in a Hungarian sex dungeon? Whatever the venue, I love to write about that moment of connection, eyes meeting, pulses elevating. That instant when you spy in someone else the missing piece of your soul.

Hell, how many times have I written the plotline of “she’s engaged to marry some bland doofus and ends up running off with her hot sports manager/corporate tycoon/rock star soul mate”? Normally, those “doofuses” are only guilty of not being the heroine’s perfect match. They’re usually sweet, kind, Bill Pullman in Sleepless in Seattle types. Why don’t I ever write what happens to those people after they’re dumped?

Why don’t I talk about their quest to find love again, when they’ve been so thoroughly shafted?

I really need to think about the damage I inflict on fictional people.

“I guess this puts things in a whole new light,” I say softly.

“Give him a chance to get better. Hey, even if it’s just a fun fling in Vegas, I think it’ll be good for you both.” Stacy takes a sip of her Mai Tai. “He’s a real catch. When we were in college, I had a crush on Nate before Mike. Don’t tell him that.”

“What about hot college Nate?” Mike asks, ears perking up like a fox whose fiancée is hitting on someone else.

“What about still-hot me?” Nate asks, sitting down, putting his phone back in his pocket.

While Stacy and Mike banter some more, I clear my throat. Maybe it’s the writer in me, but now that I’m imagining Nate as the stoic, alpha lawyer whose heart was shattered and who can never love again, I’m finding a way to relate to him better.

“We were just talking about . . . stuff,” I say at last. Brilliant.

Nate smiles. “Stuff’s very interesting.” He leans a little closer to whisper in my ear. My pulse elevates, but it’s pure business talk. “So. You didn’t figure out anything else? In terms of what felonies we committed last night, that is,” he says.

I try to grin, but it’s more of a tight wince. Why the hell am I so nervous around him?

“I’m pretty sure that if our crimes were anything mafia-related, we’d have been taken down by now and stuffed into the trunk of a car. And the yakuza don’t tend to frequent Vegas in the off season,” I say.

Nate shrugs. “I always admire a woman who’s up to date on the movements of Japanese organized crime.”

“Great. It’s one of my favorite subjects,” I say, getting a Mai Tai of my own. Why the hell not? Vegas, baby. “You never found my purse, did you?” I ask.

Nate sighs. “I searched every inch of that strip club. The guys let me in early. And by the way, you don’t want to crawl around on those floors,” he says, shuddering.

“You risked stripper gunk and dried jizz to find my purse?” I clasp my hands between my breasts. “You, sir, are my valiant hero.”

“Why did you have to bring up jizz when we’re about to eat?” he grumbles. But this time, he doesn’t sound so annoyed. In fact, he smiles.

“I’m all about shaving off calories when I can,” I say primly, dunking my chicken satay in the peanut dipping sauce. “Watching the Donald Trump campaign, for example. Great way for a three-day fast.”

“Oh God. I was so hungry,” he says, sounding pained and wincing over his food. “And now I don’t think I’ll eat again.”

“I’ll shut up,” I say.

“No, it’s all right. It’s nice hearing you talk,” he says, taking a mouthful of green curry. “You’re . . . funny.”

A compliment from Nate Wexler? I nearly faint.

“Sweeter words were never spoken,” I say lightly. But I can’t help studying the way his throat works as he swallows. He smells good, too, like chlorine and sun, and some rich, musky cologne. It kind of makes me hungry.

Chicken satay, work your dark magic to prevent my horniness from overpowering me.

We get through lunch, and I don’t want to murder Nate, and he doesn’t complain about what a pain in the ass I am. In fact, we share some laughs and stories from his college days. Far as I’m concerned, we’re a massive success. We pay the check, and then all head out to grab a cab.

Damn, I didn’t realize Mike and Stacy were getting married today. They’ve got a busy few hours ahead of them. Shanna and Tyler are still talking—he seems to be into her, though it could be because she’s a cute girl with a pulse—and Mike and Stacy have their arms around each other. Young love is a beautiful thing to witness.

“They look happy,” Nate says. Even he sounds gruffly pleased for them. “At least someone is.” His gaze darkens as he says it. He squares his jaw just a bit.

Pure rejected alpha pain, right here on display.

Should I bring up the I know your tragic back story angle? No, maybe not. Right now, we’ve just entered the realm of civility.

Stacy reaches into her enormous tote bag for something. She stops talking to Mike, fishes around, and then comes up with—

“Holy shit,” Stacy cries, pulling out my purse. It is definitely mine; hard to find a vinyl number in that particular shade of hot pink. Her eyes go wide. “I forgot I had this. I found it in the boys’ hotel suite this morning, and you weren’t there, and—shit. I was going to find you after breakfast, but everything started happening and . . . . I’m so sorry. You must’ve been frantic,” she says, turning back to me.

I practically tear it out of her hands. I check my important things, and they’re all there. Credit cards, driver’s license, everything.

“I didn’t know how I was going to get on the plane without my ID.” I groan, squeezing the damn purse to my chest. “I love you, Stacy. Long time. Very long time.”

“Careful now, it’s my wedding day.” Stacy laughs. I turn back to Nate, who’s eyeing my purse with curiosity.

“You think there’s anything in there? Related to what we did last night?” he asks.

Oh shit. Maybe.

“You coming?” Stacy calls, grinning widely at us as they all cram into a cab. I smile and shrug.

“We’ll, ah, catch up with you all back at the hotel.”

“Have fun,” Shanna calls, wiggling her eyebrows.

Yep. We’ll have a ton of fun tracking down whatever insane shit we did last night. A regular Nick and Nora Charles, that’s us. Except without the insane amount of drinking and the murder mystery. Well. Without one of those things. Hopefully.

While the taxi drives away, we dig through my purse. At first we find only the normal stuff, wallet, lip gloss. At least I don’t have to carry my iPhone in my pocket any longer. I dump it in with the other items.

“What’s this?” Nate asks, finally noticing my phone and its blue, British telephone box casing.

“The TARDIS. Remember, like the one on my ass now?” I grumble. “If only you were a Whovian,” I tell him, continuing to paw through my things.

“A whatvian?”

“Who, not what. I mentioned it before, it’s a show—” And then I stop dead. Because in my hand, there’s a ball of gauzy white fabric.

Nate furrows his brow and grabs it, holds it up like he’s examining it.

“Why do you have Stacy’s bridal veil?” he asks, puzzling over it. But my heart’s now wedged right in my throat. That makes breathing kind of awkward.

“Stacy’s veil was shorter. And had a tiara. Trust me, romance authors know one wedding veil from the other.”

Is it just me, or is the desert rippling in front of my eyes right now? I expect a mirage any second, a neon sign with flashing lights shimmering, spelling out YOU’RE SCREWED in bold lettering.

“So whose is it?” Nate asks. He’s sounding a little panicked as well; I think he’s putting two and two together.

“Hang on.” I turn on my phone and flip through my photos. I don’t know why I didn’t think to do this before, but I don’t have to look very far.

There we are, sloppily drunk and grinning, with our arms around each other. My veil is hanging kind of askew on my head, and my lipstick is smeared all the way down my cheek. And all over Nate’s face as well. But there’s no mistaking the Elvis Presley impersonator standing behind us, holding up two gold wedding rings and grinning that lopsided King grin.

It can’t. It can’t be.

“Did we get . . . ” Nate chokes on the last word, then manages it. “Married?”

We gaze into each other’s eyes, horror seeming to flood both of us at the exact same time. Good thing, too, because if one was super excited and the other was about to vomit all over everything, it’d be kind of awkward.

“What do we do now?” I whisper.

“We need to stay calm.” He switches right into Lawyer Mode™ and puts his hands on my shoulders. Like I’m the one who needs to be soothed right now. “Do you remember what chapel it was?”

Before I can answer that, a white van pulls up directly in front of us, sending a cloud of dust swirling into the air. We both blink at it, neither knowing what to do when the door slides open and three guys in black balaclavas jump out.

Yes. Three guys in balaclavas. I don’t believe it at first, either.

Between the face coverings and the all black clothing, for a second I think a ninja dance party is going to break out. Until one of them rolls across the sand, distracting us, and the other two grab us. One guy pins my arms to my sides, the other seems to put Nate in a headlock. I cry out in horror, kicking backwards, but it’s no use. They drag me toward the van. I start screaming, but a thick, beefy hand covers my mouth.

“What the fuck?” Nate shouts. One of the men walks up to us, his eyes—the only thing I can see of his face—narrowed and calculating.

“You’re coming with us, meester!” he hisses in a thick Russian accent. Then a bag goes over my head, and the sunlit desert gets turned out like a light.

In conclusion: Fuck Vegas. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck Vegas in its glittery ass.