What Happens in Vegas…. Kimberly Lang

I was working at this sleazy joint when I was in high school—”

      Evie’s eyes went wide. “High school? Isn’t that a little bit illegal?”

      “Maybe. But I needed a job and Henry—the owner—needed a bar back and someone to help break up fights.”

      “The fights were a regular occurrence?”

      “I told you, testosterone and alcohol are a dangerous mix.”

      She grinned. “What about the pretty girl?”

      “Not always necessary—especially in sleazy joints.”

      “Were you this big in high school?” She ran her hands over his shoulders as she asked, and the openly appreciative look on her face caused his body to harden again.

      “About.”

      Evie’s hands were now on his arms, tracing his biceps. “Linebacker for the football team?”

      He could have been, had he not had to work. “Nope.”

      “Let me guess, between your size and your scowl, you’re good at breaking up bar fights.”

      To the best of his knowledge, he hadn’t scowled since Evie landed in his arms last night. That had to be a world record—but Evie didn’t know that. “What makes you think I scowl?”

      She ran a finger across his forehead. “This crease here. Definitely caused by scowling.” Evie trailed her finger down over his cheek and to his lips. “Who do you scowl at now?”

      “Drunks in bars. Such is the hospitality industry in Las Vegas.” He captured her finger between his lips and sucked gently. Under his chin, he felt her heartbeat accelerate.

      “So that’s how you know the owner of this place—and everyone else.” She smirked. “Well, you certainly are hospitable.”

      He nipped at her finger, causing her to jump. He pushed himself up, wedging his hips firmly between hers, and caught her gasp in his mouth.

      Evie’s hands slid up his back as her tongue slipped inside his mouth to torment him. She echoed his groan as his hands tangled in her hair, and her legs wrapped around his waist.

      Faintly, he heard her phone ring again.

      Chapter Four

      EVIE PACED WHILE THE TIMER counted down the last few seconds. The cool blues and greens of her apartment decor were supposed to create a soothing and relaxing environment. They were failing miserably.

      When the timer dinged, she jumped. “Please, please, please,” she mumbled as she walked through to her bathroom—also done in soothing colors and also falling down on the job.

      She looked carefully at the array of tests lined up on the vanity. Six different brands, purchased at four different stores in the next county this morning after she’d called in sick to the office.

      Every last one of the damn things said “positive.”

      Oh, she really felt sick now. She sat on the edge of the tub while the horrid reality settled on her shoulders.

      Last night, she’d turned the calendar over to June and realized she hadn’t had a period in May. That thought lead her to her day planner, where she realized she last had her period the week before she went to Las Vegas.

      Sleep was impossible after that.

      But she’d kept calm—sort of—telling herself there was no need to panic until she had a reason to. She looked at the line of tests. Oh, she had reason to panic now. Good reason.

      She was pregnant.

      She was going to be a mother, and, dear God, she wasn’t ready to be someone’s mother. She wanted children—several, in fact—but motherhood had always seemed like a distant prospect. Motherhood would come after she’d built some kind of career for herself, when she could have a house in the suburbs and do the whole nuclear-family thing with a white picket fence and a dog. And, most importantly, a husband.