I groaned, throwing my head to the counter with a thud.

Money wasn’t an issue. If I told Vicious, he would shell out whatever sum I needed to make it happen. Even though time in Vegas meant less time with Mama and more time with Millie, it was still not my thing.

“Any other ideas?” I quirked an eyebrow. Elle had a better chance luring me into a cave full of starving vampires than getting me to consciously spend time in the same Vegas strip with The HotHoles of Todos Santos, AKA the groom’s best friends. Especially Dean Cole. His constant advances and sexual innuendos grated on my nerves.

“Honestly, Vegas is your best shot, chica. Otherwise, you can go the usual route. Do a dildo-themed party—which you don’t want to do anymore because it’s lame—or a weekend in Cabo. Now, now, no more carbs for the bridesmaid.” She placed a hand over the jar lid when I went for another cookie, shaking her head. “And remember—you can’t be an Annie.”

“An Annie?” I frowned.

“Yeah. You know, from Bridesmaids. Don’t let any of Millie’s other bridesmaids outshine you. That shit’ll haunt you for life.”

Somehow, I doubted that. Millie didn’t have many friends. I was her only bridesmaid. Her expectations were terribly low to begin with, thank God.

“I appreciate the tip,” I snorted.

“Don’t mention it.” She wiggled her bony shoulders. “Seriously, don’t. To anyone. I swore off rom-coms when I was sixteen as a part of a bet. I think it’s still going. But I broke it like once or a thousand times.”

I laughed, because with Elle, you couldn’t not laugh.

“Seriously, though, Rosie. Vegas would be perfect. Don’t think about what you want—think about Millie. It’s her week. And that’s true about your hot neighbor’s invitation to arrive earlier in Todos Santos, too.”

I hated it when Elle was right.

Glancing at the time on my cell phone, I had to walk my neighbor’s dog in half an hour, and the subway was always packed that time of the year with enough tourists to populate a medium-sized country. I tipped my chin down. “Wine and sushi tonight?”

“Sashimi for me. I’m skinny-bitching this summer.” She ran her hands down her body, tracing non-existent curves before giving me the thumbs-up. Then she paused, frowning. “Hey, who are you going to invite to this bachelorette party, anyway? Your sister is not exactly a social butterfly.”

That was an understatement if I ever heard one. Other than her high school friend, Sydney, who stayed in Todos Santos, and a random older chick she met in L.A. called Gladys, who helped her set up her gallery, she didn’t really hang out with anyone. I shook my head, busying myself by rearranging coffee mugs on the counter.

“Shamelessly milking an invitation. What has the world come to?”

“Hey, lady, if you don’t care for our world, you’re welcome to move to another planet. And on that note,” Elle fist-pumped the air once, “we’re going to Vegas! High-five?”

“High-five and a thumbs-up? No, thanks, I think I’ve had a healthy dose of lame today,” I teased.

“Is your sexy neighbor going to be there, too? Vegas, I mean. He seems like the type to throw a crazy-ass party.”

“Yes,” I groaned, and as I said that, I realized that I wasn’t just annoyed with the prospect of having Dean around.

I was also excited.

Just a tad, but enough to make my stomach do that flip.

That should have tipped me off. Been the first alarm bell. Because everyone knew one thing—after the flip, comes the boom.

“Fuck if I care, Colton. We’re dropping that lawsuit on his ass faster than a load of shit after a visit to that all-you-can-eat restaurant on Broadway just to make sure he can’t buy any more stocks until further investigation. Am I clear? Colton? Colton! Goddammit.”

Oh, crap.

His voice rushed into my ears a second too late. I didn’t have the time to jump out of the elevator before he sent his arm across the barrier—the one clutching his cell phone—to make the door slide back open.

Dean walked past the elevator’s threshold wearing his navy blue, three-piece suit and cocky smile, pressing his phone to his ear as he loosened his silk maroon tie.

“LeBlanc,” he hissed seductively, ending the call. I ignored him, staring at the numbers above my head.

His body pressed against mine from behind and his lips found my ear. “Do your nipples always pucker when someone enters the elevator with you, or do you save this reaction only for me?”

Double crap.

My eyes dropped down to my black top. Horrified, I remembered I wore a thin, barely-supportive bra under my Misfits shirt that morning.

“Just kidding, but good to know you have a reason to be worried.” Dean let out a mocking snicker. Asshole.

“What do you want?” I groaned.

“You, in my bed, playing with my balls as I suck your tits until they bleed. Maybe jerk me off. Just as an appetizer, obviously. The main course will be better, but you’ll have to see for yourself.”