I burst out laughing. “I do, huh?”

Her lips come together in a sweet, thoughtful pout. “Mm-hmm.”

“Well,” I reply, “you’re pretty easy to be around yourself. It helps that you’re a fun-loving gal who likes shopping, nail polish, and...” I pretend to think some more before finally repeating, “Shopping.”

She puts her hand on my cheek, wearing a playfully adoring expression. “I love how well we know each other.”

“Same.”

In unison, we lift our empty shot glasses and clink them.

“Why did you guys get divorced?” Not-Joe asks. “You seem to really like each other.”

“Do we?” I ask, not taking my eyes off Harlow. I didn’t actually think I liked her all that much until tonight.

She finally breaks our shared look to tell Not-Joe, “The truth is, we were only married for a night and, like, half a day in Vegas. We’ve probably only spent a combined twenty-four hours together, most of it drunk or naked.”

“Or both,” I add.

“Seriously?”

We both nod.

“That is wicked.”

“It was, trust me,” she agrees, and then pretends to glare at me. “Very wicked.”

I look at her lips just as she licks them and it sends a shock of electricity down across my skin and straight to my cock. In fact, I’m nearly drunk enough to suggest she reintroduce that tongue to that cock.

“It’s something I think everyone should do once in their life,” Not-Joe muses, pulling my attention away from Harlow’s now-smiling mouth. “Everyone should: run a marathon, read Candide, and get married in Vegas.”

Harlow laughs and begins to explain to him that it was fucking expensive and actually not all that convenient. We could have banged and parted ways for free. As she tells Not-Joe about the misadventures in Vegas, I excuse myself to go hit the head.

Outside the kitchen area, the party is loud and drunk. London is belting out a song at the poker table; Mia is playing cards and wearing the sombrero while sitting on Ansel’s lap. Lola and Oliver are the only ones who seem sober, and I laugh watching them for a few seconds. Oliver is notoriously competitive about cards, and here I can see the same determination on Lola’s face. The rest of the table has dissolved into drunken debauchery, but the two of them seem to be trying their hardest to keep the game organized. It’s like trying to tie a string around raindrops.

When I come out of the bathroom, Harlow is there waiting for a turn. She slips past me with a cheeky little smile and when I turn to do something—fuck, I don’t even know, crack a joke, stare at her, kiss her—she closes the door in my face.