His lips quirked up in a smile, and he shook his head. “No, it’s the other way around. You’ve seduced me.”

22

Las Vegas, later that week . . .

“Do you ever miss the stage?”

Brent Nichols tilted his head to the side and considered the question that Nate Harper posed to him. He leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs and nodded. “Yeah, I definitely miss the stage. But not as much as I thought I would,” he said. “I still moonlight, doing a show once a month, and that seems to be enough to feed me. The late-night TV circuit kept me pretty satisfied for a few years. Better to go out on a high note.”

Brent had just finished a wildly successful run on a late-night TV show that his brother, Clay, had arranged for him. The show had generated record ratings, legions of fans, and more success than he had imagined. He’d made a purposeful decision to walk away when it was still a hit. One of the things he couldn’t abide by was wearing out his welcome. Brent had always prided himself on never staying in one place, one gig, or at one job for longer than he was wanted. So he’d “retired” from the nightly work as a comedian. He’d also hungered for a change, eager to be more than the so-called “bad boy of comedy,” with his tats, motorcycle boots, and edgy style. He craved the new challenge of building a business.

That was where Nate came in. They’d been talking about moving his first nightclub inside The Luxe, one of the most coveted properties on The Strip, and they were about ready to close the deal. Brent was in Nate’s office at the Vegas property, laptop in hand, ready to share plans.

“Man, I already miss your show. Your bit about first date waxing always killed me,” Nate said, and Brent chuckled. That had indeed been a popular routine, and had cracked him up a few times too when he’d practiced it. “But I’m glad to see the next phase of your career is working out. You want to show me your plans?”

Brent flipped open his laptop. “Here’s what I’ve got in mind for the club.” He rolled his chair closer to the computer screen, and clicked open the file, but he’d misfired, and a browser window popped open.

Fuck. He half wished it had been porn on the screen, but no such luck. He’d left open the Facebook profile of Shannon Paige.

Curvy. Gorgeous. Brilliant. And probably hated him.

Nate tipped his forehead to the screen. “Doing a little Facebook stalking?” he asked him dryly.

If it were anyone else, Brent probably would’ve tossed out a quip, tried to make a joke. But he knew Nate well enough by now, because the man was friends with his brother and his brother’s wife, Julia, courtesy of the mutual friends they all shared in New York. “Ex-girlfriend,” he admitted.

“Ah. Recent breakup?”