Snapshot (Lessons in Love Book 2)

Three Years Earlier

Las Vegas

Out of sheer boredom, I filled my new house with strangers on a Friday night. Word spread about my little get-together after inviting just my neighbors and a few acquaintances. I haven’t met many people since I moved to town and took over the dive shop a couple months ago, so I wasn’t expecting the huge turnout. There are so many people in my four-thousand-square-foot suburban home that we’re veering away from shindig and getting dangerously close to mosh pit.

The colored strobe lights highlight random faces in the low-lit room. I don’t recognize a single person here. Just strangers, drinking my booze, smoking my cigars, and trashing my new home.

I dropped a few grand on top-shelf liquor, that no one can appreciate at this level of inebriation. The imported German beer, which can only be found at the best Oktoberfest festivals, was left out and lukewarm before being poured into red and blue SOLO cups and used for endless rounds of beer pong. I even fired up the hot tub. It’s currently a washing machine of couples’ saliva and other bodily fluids that I’d rather not dwell on. Chlorine won’t cut it. I’m going to have to drain that fucker after tonight.

I’ve seen enough. Intent on grabbing a beer for the road and abandoning my party for my bed, I head to my kitchen.

“Excuse me,” I say to the women who are lip-locked and blocking my hidden refrigerator, lying behind long, black doors that match my cabinetry. “Just trying to grab a beer.”

The blond-haired woman pulls away from the brunette and traces her lips with the tip of her finger. Her smile is wicked. “Pay the toll.” She taps her lips, then the brunette’s.

It’s too dark for them to notice the flicker of agitation in my eyes or the way my jaw clenches. “Not interested.”

She takes it as a challenge. The blonde leans back against the fridge door then shrugs her shoulders, purposely squeezing her tits together, making her ample cleavage hard to ignore. “Then no beer for you.”

This woman is wrapped tightly in a giant red flag. I don’t find this sexy. Just embarrassing. I’d like to pick her up by her shoulders and move her out of my way, but I’m not dumb enough to touch her.

The blonde giggles as I duck down to speak into her ear, clearly thinking I’ve mistaken her cheap seduction tactics for charm. By now, I’ve gone through it all. Holes poked through condoms. Full-on nudes in my DMs with no names, just addresses. Court-ordered paternity test requests filed by women I’ve never met. Most recently, baseless accusations that led to blackmail and extortion. I’ve sacrificed so much already, what’s one more beer?

“Then no beer for me,” I grumble in her ear before walking away.

For fuck’s sake. Can’t get a drink in my own goddamn house.

I slip by the sweaty clusters of people as I make my way to the stairs. Taking them two by two, my feet land heavily with each leap on the wooden steps, my eyes set on the master suite. Ignoring the loiterers in my upstairs foyer, I burst through the French doors and slam them shut behind me. The loud music from downstairs immediately dissipates thanks to the soundproofed room.

But as soon as I peel off my shirt and lob it onto my cleanly made bed, there’s a soft tapping at my door. A hesitant, noncommittal knock. I almost don’t answer, but then I realize the bedroom isn’t locked. The person on the other side of the door could’ve barged in but chose to knock and wait instead. That kind of intrigues me. Something in the realm of manners, at least.

I pull open the doors and…

There she is.

An elegant, sweet face carved with perfect angles. Her long, thick, dark-purple hair is wrapped around her like a cloak, which is ideal because her white lace top is most definitely see-through, and I have a clear visual of her bra. Her shorts have some sort of iridescent sheen to them. All paired with glittery black tennis shoes.

Basically, this woman is a hundred fucking layers of interesting.

“Hey. What’s up?” I’ll give myself credit. That sounded pretty damn casual, even though there’s a circus show of flips and kicks going on in my chest. It’s her big, dark brown eyes and the way they are locked on mine. Her eye contact is intimidating, actually.

Good thing she’s pairing her stare with a smile. She’s wearing an even-keeled, confident expression like I should have been expecting her at my bedroom door or something. “Here you go.” She raises her hands, tightly wrapped around two frosted beer bottles. Both unopened. “I saw all that go down in the kitchen. Sorry about Kendra. She loses all sense when she drinks. That was rude of her.” She glances past me into my bedroom. “I’m assuming this is your house and your party?”

“Yeah.”

She holds the beers up higher. “Are either of these what you were after? There were only a few kinds left in the fridge.”

As if we’re in some unspoken game of chicken, I keep my eyes glued on hers, matching her intense gaze. “Kendra was the blonde blocking the fridge?”

The purple-haired girl nods. “Yes.”

I smirk at her. “Did she make you pay the toll?”

She throws her head back and laughs, finally breaking her gaze. “No. Apparently, that’s just a hot guy toll. Free passage for me.”

A warm flood of satisfaction rushes through me. Not just because she thinks I’m hot but because she says it so casually. I like her bravado.

Taking one beer from her, I say, “Thank you.” With the bottle steadied between my thumb and forefinger, I point to the other bottle she’s holding with my pinky. “That one is better. It’s a Hefeweizen.”

She quickly holds out the other bottle. “I brought both for you. To buy you some time before you have to go down there again. Oh, and here.” She steadies the bottle between the crook of her elbow and the side of her ribcage as she digs through her satchel. “Do you have a pitch jar or something? I didn’t see one downstairs.”

“A what?”

She’s struggling to hold the bottle as she fishes in her wallet, so I pull it free and hold onto it as I patiently wait to see what in the hell a pitch jar is.

“Everyone downstairs is drinking your alcohol, right?”

“Why do you say that?”

She scoffs like I’m missing the obvious punch line to a joke. “Because I know if my friends supplied the booze, we’d be slamming back PBR and chasing shots of Burnett’s with Monster energy drinks. You actually have good liquor and beer.” She proudly holds up a folded ten-dollar bill. “I had three drinks, so this probably isn’t enough.” Twisting her lips, she gives me an apologetic smile. “But it’s all I have on me right now.”

Her pouty, bright red lips are a distraction every time she moves them, so it takes me a little longer to register what she’s insinuating. “So, a pitch jar is where everyone financially contributes to the party booze?”

She tilts her head just slightly. “You seem surprised. Is this your first house party?”

I could explain to her the parties I’m used to are usually hosted in multimillion-dollar mansions, have valet for guests’ foreign sports cars, and caviar and cocaine are served on platinum platters. But I don’t feel like opening up that can of worms. The whole point of being in Las Vegas is to lead a very different life than I had in Miami. Even if it’s temporary.

“I can honestly say my friends have never offered,” I answer.

She twists up her face like she witnessed something obscene. “Some friends.”

“Apparently, I’ve been missing out.” I lift my eyebrows. “Keep your money. The gesture is appreciated. But I don’t need it.”

She rolls her eyes. “Such a hero. Just take the cash. Who can’t use an extra ten bucks?” She steps forward and the lace of her shirt brushes against my bare skin. Her scent wafts around us. It’s sugary and citrus, like candy. It’s the kind of smell that makes my mouth water and has me suddenly craving something sweet. Before I can fully process the smell of her, her hand is in my front jeans pocket. With a beer in each of my hands, I can’t stop her from tucking the folded bill deep into my pocket and grazing against the tip of my dick with her fingertips.

She knows what she just touched because her big eyes go from large to cartoon proportions as she rips her hand out of my pocket and leaps backward. The thin lining of my pocket and my briefs kept her accidental touch pretty tame, but she still looks mortified.

“There’s a purple stripe on the corner. It’s just nail polish. It’s how I make sure my tips don’t get mixed up at the restaurant. But it shouldn’t be a problem at the store. I use them all the time,” she explains, her eyes now on her shoes.

I want to make a joke and laugh it off. It was an innocent accident. But obviously, she wants to pretend that didn’t happen.

She takes another step backward and spins around to leave, but it’s poorly timed because a group of sloppy jackasses knocks right into her. One of them empties a full Solo cup of beer on her chest. She freezes with her back turned to me. I hear her sharp gasp. “Shit. That’s cold!”

“Oh man, so sorry, Lenny. Accident,” a man says in a drunken drawl. His hat is turned backward so I can see his red cheeks and bloodshot eyes. Then he’s pawing at her as his buddies snicker and leave him behind, thundering down the stairs like a herd of cattle. “Just lemme clean it up for you.”

Based on the disgusting smile on his face, I’m convinced he dumped his beer on her on purpose. But he said her name… Lenny? Is this her guy friend? Boyfriend, perhaps? His friends walked on by, leaving them together. Obviously, she knows him. Maybe I shouldn’t intervene like a territorial⁠—

“Get the fuck off of me, Charlie,” she barks out. “Do you think your hands are made of goddamn paper towels?”

It’s all the invitation I need.

Within two strides, my hand is on his shoulder, pushing him away from her. Once she’s at a safe distance—in case he throws a drunken punch—my hand moves to his throat. I tighten my grip until he’s sputtering. “I’m going to do you a favor and not throw you off my balcony. But in exchange for my generosity, you’re going to get the fuck out of my house. Right now. Deal?”

I’m taller than him, larger than him, and I’m sure my temper doesn’t look worth testing at the moment. He makes a smart move and nods until I release his neck. I keep my eyes on him as he tries not to trip down the stairs. He looks like the kind of sleazy piece of shit who’d strike you with something the moment your back is turned. So, I watch his sorry ass until he’s through the front door.

“He’s stupid but harmless,” she says from behind me. “He’s been high for like two years straight now.”

“It’s impressive he’s not dead,” I mutter.

“Just high off weed,” she explains. “Nothing that could kill him.”

I smile as I turn to face her. “No, I mean I’m impressed with my self-control. I really wanted to throw him off my balcony. You think he’d bounce like a skipping stone?”

My smile is wiped clean when I see the front of her shirt. She looks like she’s been hosed down. Her flowy lace top is glued to her skin, and her white bra is now see-through, her thick, dark nipples completely on display.

What might be worse is that her shorts must be made out of tissue paper or something because they basically melted, and I can see the outlines of her lower body in great detail.

She cringes when she sees my expression. “Oh no. How bad is it?”

First, I check to make sure no bystanders are gawking at her the way I am. Then, I lean down and ask in a low murmur, “You’re not wearing underwear, are you?”

“Shit.” She crosses one leg over the other. “Okay, so it’s bad.”

I clamp one eye shut and nod solemnly. “Want to use my bathroom to get cleaned up?”

“Thank you.” She doesn’t wait for me to lead, shuffling into my bedroom in a hurry. I’m right behind her, this time shutting the door and locking it behind me. Snagging my shirt off the bed, I pull it overhead before following her into the bathroom.

There’s no door to my ensuite, just a large archway that leads into the walk-through closet and then opens to the bathroom. She’s busy rinsing her lace top under the sink, so I knock on the doorframe to let her know I’m behind her.

“Lenny, do you want some soap?”

After plugging the sink, she glances over her shoulder. “Did you just call me Lenny?”

“Is that not your name? I thought I heard that guy call you Lenny.”

She’s standing in just her bra top, already having shed her sheer outer top, clenching it in her small fist. She goes back to watching the running sink water. When there’s a deep enough pool of water in the sink, she plunges the entire top in to soak, then helps herself to the navy hand towel to her right. Never once has the right sink in my bathroom been used. That towel has hung there pristine and untouched for a month.

“Lennox,” she clarifies. “And that guy is Charlie. My ex. I hate when he calls me that.”

“Sorry. Lennox, then. I’m Dex.”

“It’s okay. You didn’t know.” Her flushed cheeks bunch into bubbly half-spheres when she smiles. “Nice to meet you, Dex.”

“So, were you guys serious?”

“I was serious. Him? Not so much. See this?” She taps her collarbone as she abandons the sink and approaches me. I have to duck down to read the small tattoo. My stomach churns when I realize it’s Charlie’s name in an elegant calligraphy. “My constant reminder of the dumb things I’ve done drunk. This stupid tattoo…and Charlie.”

“Why’d you guys break up?”

“About a week after this mistake”—she rubs her finger against her collarbone like his name is a smudge she can remove—“I caught him balls deep in a girl from the restaurant he manages. And you want to know the gaslighting bullshit he threw my way when I found out?”

God, I feel bad. She’s trying to play it cool, but I see the way she sucks in her lips to keep her reaction under control. I know that face. This girl doesn’t like to cry. Or doesn’t want me to see her cry.

“What’d he say?”

“He told me that I was too high maintenance in expecting him to remain monogamous. All the ‘woke girls’ are into open relationships these days.”

“He said that right to your face?” She nods. “Wow. He’s got a pair. I’ll give him that. I hope you kicked his ass. And if you didn’t, you’ll need to excuse me for a moment so I can.”

“That’s sweet… And you’re hot.” She scrunches her face. “Just tell me that you’re the kind of guy to ignore texts and only call me when you want some ass. And if I have the nerve to call you first when I haven’t heard from you for weeks, please tell me you’d tease me for being needy.”

I cross my arms. “Now, why in the hell would I ever tell you that?”

A mischievous grin spreads across her face. “Because then you’d be exactly my type.” She half-curtsies. “My superpower is knowing how to pick the cream of the crop when it comes to dickwads. I’m basically a walking magnet for epic stupidity. Which is why, from now on, I’m only dating men I’m not remotely attracted to.” She shrugs. “So, sorry, you’re out.”

“Ah, damn. I can be less attractive if that helps? Maybe chew with my mouth wide open.”

“That’d definitely help.”

“Wear khakis with a brown belt and black suede shoes.”

She laughs. “Getting warmer.”

“Skip a few showers and cut my toenails at the kitchen table.”

“There you go. Basically, become disgusting, and I think we’d have a real shot at happily ever after.”

Our laughter fades and then we’re sitting in the first lull of conversation since she showed up at my door.

“I don’t get it. You party with your ex when he was that big of a jerk to you?”

She crosses her arms and hangs her head, looking vulnerable for the first time since I met her. “I don’t party with him. He just always pops up wherever I am. We run in the same circles. It’s just easier to keep the peace, I guess.”

I nod but I must seem unimpressed because she reaches out to touch my forearm, like she assumed I was going to leave and was trying to prevent me from doing so. I’m not going anywhere, pretty girl.

“I know how that sounds, but I’m not trying to get him back or anything. He just got to me more than I like to admit, and um…” She stops blinking like she’s trying to focus on something. Trying not to cry again. Once she’s composed, she adds, “Sometimes if you pretend like something isn’t a big deal, it eventually just stops feeling like a big deal. It’s the only coping mechanism that’s ever worked for me.”

“So he just gets away with it?” I ask.

“Well, I mean, he doesn’t get to have me.” She lifts her shoulders then drops them like their too heavy to hold. “That’s all that’s in my control.”

I pat her hand, still resting on my arm. “Yeah, that seems like punishment enough.”

She glances over her shoulder, then back to me. “Is your shower being repaired?”

“No. Why?”

“There’s no door. How do you keep the water in?”

He smiles. “It’s designed like that, doorless. It’s floor-to-ceiling tile, so you don’t need to keep the water in. It’s supposed to feel like a spa.”

“Fancy,” she mutters. “You know, my cousin Finn just moved in next door. That’s how I found out about this party to begin with. He told me the same builder made all the houses in this neighborhood, but his shower is nowhere near this nice.”

“It was one of the liberties I took when I bought the house. I had them rip out the old shower and make this instead.” I rub the back of my neck, feeling uncomfortable. I’ve done a pretty damn good job keeping my wealth under the radar since I moved here. I never know which of my eccentricities are going to tip me off.

Finn, Lennox’s cousin, actually stopped by a few days ago to introduce himself. He’s a good guy. Someone I could see myself being friends with. When I poured my new neighbor a friendly drink, he happened to notice my collection of bourbon and whiskey was worth well over ten grand. Which is why I put those bottles away before tonight. I’m not trying to lie to anyone. I just don’t want to attract the wrong kind of attention.

“Then if it’s working, may I use your shower? I’ll be really quick. I don’t know what Charlie was drinking, but I smell awful.”

Now that she mentions it, the smell of her sweet citrus perfume has been doused out.

“Sure. You want me to throw your clothes in the washer?”

She twists her lips. “Won’t that take a while?”

“I think my machine has a rapid wash setting. Why? Am I keeping you from something?”

“It’s your party. Don’t you need to get back down there?” She glances over my shoulder.

I find her eyes again. “You brought me beer.” I wink at her. “Stay. Hang out. We can turn on the TV.”

She tries to hold in her laugh, but it breaks through her lips. “Are you inviting me to Netflix and chill?”

“What is that?”

“You don’t know what a pitch jar is or what ‘Netflix and chill’ means? Are you a million years old?”

I lift my shoulders. “I had a…let’s call it sheltered childhood.”

Lennox’s teenage years were probably filled with public school and house parties. I went to private school and graduated early. And when I drank as a teenager, it wasn’t because I was sneaking around. It was because I was spending a lot of time in Germany, where it was legal to do so. I didn’t have the urge to rebel. I liked school. I liked traveling. Grandma and Grandpa filled my life with all the extravagant adventures money could buy. Looking back, they were probably trying to keep me distracted. Between never knowing my dad and losing my mom at seven, I could’ve turned into a troubled, brooding teenager. They just wanted me to have some semblance of a happy childhood.

I did. Childhood wasn’t the problem. Adulthood has been the real bitch.

“Netflix and chill means sex. Or at least third base. It’s when people literally make plans to do nothing except…you know. I mean, sometimes you bring snacks.”

“Snacks? Really?” I lift my brows.

“Popcorn and such.”

“Oh. See, I thought⁠—”

She interrupts me with a cute chuckle. “Yeah, I know what you were thinking. Whipped cream, chocolate sauce, warm honey, maraschino cherries?”

I show her a sexy smirk. Now I can’t stop picturing her drenched from head to toe in something tasty. “Warm honey? Never tried that one.”

She pinches her thumb and pointer finger together, making a sprinkling motion. “With a little cinnamon.”

I tuck a few loose hairs behind her ear. “I’m intrigued.”

“It’s a little sticky.”

Completely transfixed on her thick, pouty lips, I say, “Not by the honey.”

Her lips part slightly, just enough room to slide mine between them. “Right,” she says, her voice cracking. She clears her throat. “Anyway, I wasn’t sure if that’s what you meant by hanging out.”

“Not what I was implying. But if the invitation’s open…”

She nods. “Then what? If the invitation was open?”

“If the invitation was open…” My eyes drop to her stained bra top. “Then I’d tell you to take that off. Your shorts, too. Then get in my shower while I watch.”

Her top teeth drag against her bottom lip. “You sure you’re a nice guy? That was kind of forward.”

“I’m nice… I’m not a saint. You’re standing here in your bra. Kind of hard not to notice.”

“It’s not a bra. It’s a bralette,” she mutters. “Like a crop top.”

I flash her a devilish smile. “All the same once it’s on the floor.”