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“Our number one fuckboy matchmaker,” Ariel added.

“Hey, now,” I protested. She always called me that, and I genuinely didn’t like it. “Not a fuckboy here.”

“My favorite fuckboy,” Ariel shot back. By her warm smile she meant no offense, but I didn’t want Nova to hear anything like that said about me.

It was harmless teasing, but I had no idea how Nova would see it.

I knew their preferences and poured them both a glass of the cab before they even asked. I also poured one for myself.

We were tapping glasses when Nova strutted back into the kitchen, looking good enough to eat.

She’d changed into a shirt that wasn’t missing its lower half but kept the cheer shorts. It wasn’t much of an improvement. The shirt was made of a thin, soft cotton that clung to every curve and the shorts showed off all of her legs and even a bit of her ass.

I didn’t say a word, trying to pretend I didn’t notice. There wasn’t much I could do about it now without drawing more attention to her and her delectable body.

I introduced her to Bella and Ariel. If they had thoughts on her presence they were polite enough not to voice them aloud.

I caught a glimpse of Rod checking out Nova’s ass and almost punched him. He saw me looking at him and pretended he hadn’t been ogling her like a creep.

He might have let himself go since college, but I sure as hell hadn’t and I knew I could still kick his ass.

The doorbell rang, distracting me from murdering him.

It was my friends Turner, Dair, Estella, and Heath. They’d carpooled together, their wives likely doing the same to their girls’ night.

Dair and Turner were fellow authors. Dair was a reserved man in his forties, the type you’d go to for sensible advice. Turner was the opposite. In his late thirties, he couldn’t have been less reserved if it was his goal in life. There was absolutely no filter between his brain and his mouth, and his thoughts were often irreverent and usually hilarious.

The three of us usually brainstormed together a few times a month, at least. We had writing patterns and extensive gym routines in common. It had been more than enough to form lasting friendships between us when I’d first moved to Vegas.

Heath was Dair’s brother-in-law. I honestly didn’t know what Heath did for a living. I’d never asked. He didn’t like to answer questions about himself, and he wasn’t the type of guy you riled on purpose. He might have been even bigger than me, and he had the scariest, stone-cold eyes I’d ever come across.

Estella was a friend I had met through the other authors, though she didn’t work in the industry. Her job, as far as I knew, was to co-star on a reality TV show that centered on her wife’s tattoo parlor.

She was pretty and petite with a mass of wild curly brown hair. She was from Brazil, had moved to the states years ago, but still maintained the sexy accent. She gave me a long, tight hug, kissing me on both cheeks.

Again, it was perfectly innocent, she was happily married to a very nice lady—a friend of mine—but I worried that Nova might take it the wrong way. I sincerely didn’t want to upset her.

I poured Heath, Estella, and Dair a glass of the cab, and made a neat glass of Scotch for Turner.

Turner took his drink straight to the poker table and started shuffling cards.

I decanted another two bottles of cab for later, put out more food, adding cheese to the charcuterie. I took Boursin stuffed, bacon wrapped jalapeños out of the oven and plated them. I laid out several types of chips and some from scratch dips I’d prepped earlier in the day.

I was hyper aware of Nova even as I put my efforts toward being a good host. She’d disappeared a while ago, and I was antsy to know what she was up to, exactly.

The last two to arrive were our friends Stephan and Javier. I poured them each a glass of wine. Everyone loaded up on snack plates and headed into my formal dining room turned temporary poker room.

“Where are dimples and pretty boy?” Turner asked the second he spotted Stephan and Javier as we walked into the room together. “What’s their excuse for skipping out on poker this month?”

Stephan answered, as he was the one Turner had been addressing, though he’d spoken to the room at large. “James is in New York. Last minute business trip he couldn’t avoid. Tristan is at an out of town football game for one of his sons.”

“I guess those are good enough excuses. By the way,” Turner was still talking. He rarely ever stopped. “Explain to me how this works. Is an all-male couple blocked out of fuck anonymous altogether? That’s fucked up, no?”

“Here he goes again,” Heath muttered darkly.

Javier laughed. “They’ve actually invited me. I just prefer poker.”

Turner only looked slightly mollified by that. He was forever antagonized by the injustice of their all girls’ night. He’d only gotten more vocal about it when he’d gotten married himself and his wife started attending it religiously.