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Axe’s ass. He doesn’t seem to be put off by it.
    “Bachelor party. For me,” normal guy says with a smile.
    There you go. My romantic instincts are never wrong.
    “Who’s the lucky lady? Or guy?” Shanna asks.
    “Lady. My fiancée, Stacy. She’s around here somewhere. Name’s Mike Rosenbaum.” He shakes with us. “That’s Tyler Berkley,” he says, pointing to Axe, “and Nate Wexler.”
    That would be Tightass McGee right here.
    “Julia Stevens,” I say, holding out my hand to him, my eyebrow arching. “We bumped into each other back at check in.”
    “I remember,” he says, giving my hand a quick, firm shake. “I remember that.” He eyes my suitcase with something like disgust.
    Wow. Not talking to this dick any longer. I smile over at Mike instead.
    “What are you gorgeous ladies doing all alone in Vegas?” Tyler asks, wiggling his eyebrows at Shanna.
    “We’re at the Romantic Style convention. It lasts the whole weekend,” Shanna says, sipping her drink.
    “You’re romance writers?” Mike asks with a smile. He seems genuinely interested. “That’s crazy. My fiancée is obsessed, maybe she’s heard of you.”
    “I write under A.M Leroy,” Shanna says. “It wouldn’t surprise me if she hasn’t heard of my books, though. They’re a little—er—out there. Kind of have a niche audience.”
    Shanna always sells herself short. “What she means is she writes sci-fi erotica with amazing world-building and really kinky sex,” I say. “Android bondage? Bisexual alien queens with a harem? That right there is your lady.”
    Shanna blushes a little. “Julia’s the bestseller,” she says, grinning. “And she actually writes under her own name. That’s kind of rare in our profession.”
    “So I can actually find Julia Stevens at the bookstore?” Mike says. “I like that.”
    “Just seemed like the honest thing to do,” I say with a laugh and a shrug.
    “Honest?” Nate says. And there he goes. Tightass McGee makes a harrumphing noise deep in his throat. If I were a little more polite, and hadn’t just had a glass or two of fabulous afternoon prosecco, I might let this one go. But I’m not, and I have, so I won’t.
    “Got a problem with your throat? Lozenge?” I ask, smiling sweetly. “Need some hot tea with honey?”
    I’m not letting it go gracefully. Nate sighs.
    “I don’t mean to be rude,” he says, his deep, rich voice going deeper and richer with condescension. Such condescension. Oh, do me now. “I just think the whole romance thing leads to unrealistic expectations. Expectations that do harm down the line.”
    He reclines slightly in his chair, gorgeously imperious. If Mr. Darcy was a modern man with a rolling suitcase, a stick shoved way up his ass, and no actual redeemable qualities, he might be this guy.
    Now everyone’s kind of stewing in awkwardness, and my blood is boiling. Mike clears his throat, obviously telling Nate to shut the hell up.
    “Well, what line of work are you in?” I say, crossing my arms.
    “Divorce attorney,” he replies, his tone effortless and cool. His gaze locks with mine, his eyes the deep blue of a perfect midnight sea filled with fucking nasty sharks. “Too many couples come into my office because they’re incompatible . Normally, you do a little digging and find it’s a lot of dissatisfaction on the wife’s part.” He adopts a slightly higher tone of voice. It’s a little whiny, too. “ ‘He’s not spontaneous. He’s not enthralling. He doesn’t go down on me enough.’ ”
    Nate raises his hand, and a waiter instantly appears. Doesn’t surprise me that he’s the kind of guy people instinctively know to serve right away. Nate orders three scotches on the rocks—imagine that, ordering for his friends—and the waiter’s off like a shot. Nate Tightass is clearly used to getting his own way. And he is pissing me right the fuck off.
    “So you blame marital issues on the romance industry?” I say, digging my nails