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Chapter One

Cassie

T he Las Vegas sun blazes overhead as I adjust my oversized sunglasses and take another sip of my martini.

The rooftop pool stretches before me like a mirage, all shimmering blue against the desert skyline. I kick back in the splurge I definitely can't afford right now… my very own private cabana.

Despite the cost that will have my credit card screaming later, it offers the perfect vantage point for people-watching and career-mourning.

Because nothing says "I've hit rock bottom professionally" quite like sipping overpriced alcohol while judging strangers in bikinis from behind designer sunglasses I bought when I still had job security.

I glance at my phone again.

Rejection email number six stares back at me.

Thank you for your interest in producing our charity gala. While your portfolio shows promise, we're looking for someone with more established experience...

"More established experience," I mutter, flagging down the cocktail server as she drifts by. "I'd like another, please. Make this one extra dirty. Maybe extra olives, too."

She nods sympathetically, eyeing the three empty glasses already lined up on my table. "Rough day?"

"Oh no." I flash her my brightest fake smile. The one I perfected at hockey banquets standing next to my father as a child. "Just celebrating my ongoing success."

She leaves without saying anything and I slump back against the plush cabana cushions.

The Vegas Strip glitters below, a reminder of all the spectacular events happening in this city tonight.

None of which, by the way, bear my signature.

This is rejection number six this week. Six potential clients who took one look at my portfolio and decided to pass.

The truth is, one phone call to my father would fix everything. As CEO of one of the top ice hockey teams in the country, Michael ' Big Mike ' Hawthorne knows everyone.

One word from him and I'd have more work than I could handle. Corporate events for the Iron Ridge Icehawks. Player celebrations. Meet-and-greets with men who think a stick check is the height of sophistication.

But I'd rather eat glass than ask my father for help.

Doing so would mean admitting defeat, crawling back to the sports world… the hockey world to be exact. I'd be becoming exactly what I've spent my entire adult life running from: Daddy's little girl.

The server returns with my fourth martini. "This one's on the house, honey. Whatever it is, it'll get better."

I raise my glass in a silent toast to her optimism and my stubbornness. The olives swim in vodka like my last shreds of dignity.

My phone rings and Dad's face flashes on the screen. I let it go to voicemail, as I have for the past three weeks.

Another sip burns down my throat as I watch a bachelor party splash around in the pool, their carefree laughter a soundtrack to my professional free-fall.

"Screw it," I whisper to no one, pulling up my email.

I start typing a pitch for a sports-adjacent charity event. Not hockey. Fuck that. I'm not that desperate. Yet .

Maybe golf. Or tennis. Something with less ice and fewer memories.

But just as I start tapping at the screen, my phone buzzes again, this time with an incoming FaceTime call.

Mia's name flashes across the screen, along with her ridiculously cheerful contact photo of her grinning while holding some rescue puppy she was fostering back at her Veterinary Clinic in Iron Ridge last month.

I consider declining. I look like a million bucks, but I feel like clearance rack emotional baggage, and Mia has this annoying ability to see right through my perfectly applied concealer.

But she's also my best friend, and I haven't talked to another human being in two days who wasn't trying to sell me something or reject my business proposal.

I take a deep breath and swipe to answer, plastering on my best "Everything's Fabulous" smile.

"Hey, you!" My voice sounds artificially chipper even to my own ears.

"Oh my god, are you drunk at a pool?" Mia's face fills the screen, her hazel eyes narrowing as she takes in my surroundings. "At two in the afternoon. On a Tuesday?"

"It's Vegas, darling. Time is a social construct here."

The screen jostles as Mia flips her camera, revealing Sophia Hart sprawled on Mia's couch in flannel pajamas, hair piled in a messy bun, clutching a mug of Summit Cafe's famous coffee.

"Look who I found!" Mia chirps.

"Is that... are those martini glasses behind you?" Sophia leans closer to the screen. "Plural? As in multiple?"

"Business lunch," I lie smoothly. "Very successful. Huge client. You wouldn't believe the contract I just landed."

They both stare silently, waiting for the facade to crack.

"It's got that bad, huh?" Sophia finally says.

I deflate like a week-old birthday balloon. "Six rejections this week. I'm thinking about producing children's birthday parties. Or funerals. Both involve crying and cake, right?"

"Cass..." Mia's voice softens. "You know you could always—"

"Don't say it." I take a generous sip of my martini. "I'm not calling my father."

"Or," Sophia offers tentatively, "you could come home for a bit? Regroup in Iron Ridge until—"

"I'd rather perform my own appendectomy with a rusty spoon.

" I gesture wildly toward the bachelor party that's now engaged in some kind of splash competition.

"See those guys? Loud, obnoxious, thinking they're God's gift to humanity?

That's every hockey player I grew up around.

That's Iron Ridge's entire town culture in a nutshell. "

The guys let out a particularly piercing whoop, as if on cue.

One of the guys climbs out of the pool and I can't help but notice how water cascades down his body in rivulets, like little rivers that trace every ridge of his abs.

And holy shit… there are many ridges to trace.

His dark hair is slicked back, droplets clinging to impossibly long eyelashes framing green eyes that catch the sunlight like sea glass.

The guy stretches his arms overhead, muscles flexing beneath golden skin, and my mouth goes embarrassingly dry.

He's younger than me, probably. Definitely one of those frat boy types I despise on principle.

"Cass? Hello? Are you even listening?" Mia's voice sounds distant.

"Hmm? Yeah, absolutely."

I tilt my phone slightly so they can't see what, or who, I'm looking at.

I firmly redirect my gaze to my friends on screen. This is exactly why I avoid places like this. Every bar in Vegas is full of pretty distractions with nothing behind their eyes except their own reflection.

No thank you.

"Look, I spent years drowning in hockey. The smell of sweaty gear in my dad's car. The constant talk of power plays and penalty kills at our dinner table. The puck bunnies throwing themselves at players… at my dad, for fucks sake . "

I drain my martini for emphasis.

"I built my career specifically to escape all that. I'm not going back to that world. I don't care if I have to start planning sweet sixteens for spoiled rich kids."

Mia and Sophia exchange a look that screams "intervention."

"We're worried about you," Sophia says gently. "How long can you keep this up?"

"As long as it takes."

I set my empty glass on the table and wave at the waitress for another round.

The movement draws attention from the bachelor party. Specifically from Mr. Sea Glass Eyes, who catches me looking and flashes a slow, dimpled grin that screams trouble.

I immediately avert my gaze, suddenly fascinated by the nonexistent lint on my swimsuit cover-up.

Nope. Not today, Satan.

Not even if he does have shoulders like a Greek statue.

"I'm serious, Cass," Mia leans closer to her camera, her voice dropping to that tone she uses when she's about to say something I don't want to hear. "When's the last time you did something completely reckless? Something just for you?"

I roll my eyes. "I moved to Vegas without a job, does that count?"

"You called that calculated career advancement," Sophia corrects. "We're talking about the kind of reckless that makes your heart race. The kind that gives you a story worth telling."

"Sophia's right, you should do something reckless. You need to live a little, babe," Mia adds. "You're in Vegas, surrounded by hot men. Your career will still be there tomorrow."

My gaze involuntarily drifts back to Mr. Sea Glass Eyes.

As if sensing my attention, he turns, catching me mid-stare. This time, instead of just smiling, he holds my gaze, one eyebrow arching in a silent question.

Heat floods my body, pooling low in my stomach. My nipples tighten beneath my bikini top, and I cross my legs as a delicious tension builds between them.

Damn it.

"Cassie? Your face just went all flushed." Sophia's voice sounds far away. "What are you looking at?"

"Nothing," I mutter, but my body betrays me as the guy lifts his drink in a subtle toast, those damn dimples making a reappearance.

The waitress arrives with my fresh martini, and I take it gratefully, downing half in one ambitious gulp.

The alcohol hits my bloodstream, spreading warmth through my limbs. My shoulders relax. The weight of six rejections and my father's legacy suddenly feels... manageable. Distant in the haze of my tipsiness.

"You know what?" I hear myself say. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I need a night of bad decisions."

"Yes!" Mia pumps her fist. "That's my girl!"

"Find someone hot," Sophia adds. "Someone completely inappropriate."

"Someone who makes your toes curl," Mia wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

I laugh, the sound lighter than I've felt in weeks. "You two are terrible influences."

"That's why you love us," they say in unison.

I finish my drink, a pleasant buzz humming through my veins as I set the empty glass down with perhaps more force than necessary.

"Excuse me."

A deep voice cuts through my conversation. I look up to find Mr. Sea Glass Eyes standing beside my cabana, close enough that I can see droplets of water clinging to his collarbone.

I nearly choke on my martini olive.

Up close, he's not just attractive. He's devastating .

Water still clings to his bronzed skin, like it's afraid to let go. Each muscle looks sculpted, intentional, like someone spent extra time perfecting the proportions on this man's body.

My gaze trails lower, catching on that sinful V-cut of muscle disappearing beneath navy blue swim trunks that sit low on his hips. The indentation points downward like nature's most tempting arrow, drawing my eyes to the substantial bulge pressing against the wet fabric.

Heat floods my core as my imagination fills in what lies beneath.

No, Cassie. No.

I cross my legs tighter, feeling a telltale throb between my thighs. My nipples harden against my bikini top, and I resist the urge to adjust it.

"Earth to Cassie," Sophia's tinny voice calls from my forgotten phone.

I blink, realizing I've been staring—no, devouring—this stranger with my eyes for far too long. My mouth has gone dry despite the alcohol, and there's a heaviness in my limbs that has nothing to do with martinis.

God, it's been too long since I've been touched if I'm this worked up over a stranger's abs.

Or maybe it's just the martinis doing their job.

Should I let myself imagine more? The way those strong hands might feel gripping my thighs? How that perfectly sculpted mouth might taste against mine?

"I think these belong to you."

He holds out my sunglasses—my favorite Chanel pair with the gold accents that must have tumbled off my head during my wild hand-waving session earlier. They dangle from his fingertips, water droplets sliding down the designer frames like they're as reluctant to leave his touch as I would be.

I stare at the sunglasses, then at his hand, noticing the way his fingers are long and strong, with calluses that speak of hard work.

A real man's work.

Those hands. They're not soft like the corporate types I usually date. They're rough around the edges… weathered .

What does he do? Construction maybe? The thought of him shirtless on a job site, muscles flexing under the sun as he lifts heavy materials, sends a fresh wave of heat through me.

Or perhaps he's a gardener, those strong fingers coaxing life from the earth, patient and nurturing.

Whatever he does, it's refreshing. He's refreshing.

The men in my orbit are usually smooth-talking executives. Or trust fund babies. All of them with soft palms and even softer ambitions.

This guy looks like he could build something solid. Fix things. Break things.

He's definitely not a hockey player, thank god.

I've spent my whole life around those overgrown boys with their superstitions and egos to know one when I see one. The last thing I need is another entitled athlete who thinks the world revolves around him.

No, this man is different.

"I'll call you back," I tell my friends, not waiting for their response before ending the FaceTime call without warning.

"Thanks," I say, fingers brushing his as I take the sunglasses. They’re warm from his touch, and suddenly I am, too.

His eyes crinkle as he offers his hand.

"I'm Jax," he says, that deep voice deep and low.

There's something careful in the way he says it. So simply. Confidently. Like he already knows tonight doesn't need last names, and he's just holding the rest back.

The moment curls through my chest, low and lazy, like the vodka making everything surrounding us soft around the edges.

Mia’s voice echoes in my head. Do something reckless. Live a little, babe.

God help me, I just might.

I’m tipsy. I’m overdue. And he smells like chlorine, summer, and very bad decisions.

So I do the only thing that makes sense.

I smile, and don’t let go of his hand.

"Nice to meet you, Jax. "