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“Ma’am?”
I offer a tight smile. “I’m fine for now. Thank you.”
He dips his head and then turns to address the table behind me. I’m aware of the dining room filled with watchful eyes. The restaurant is packed, and no one gets as dolled up as I am to sit alone, sipping wine. I check my phone, assess that James is now over 30 minutes late, and finally decide to give him a ring. I was hesitant to bother him at first in case he’s busy at the conference, but he can’t expect me to sit here waiting on him all night.
There’s no answer. I hang up when his voicemail kicks on and go back to sipping my wine. Laughter and conversations filter toward me as I tap my fingers on the table like I’m strumming the keys on a piano. I swear my phone vibrates with an incoming call, but when I check it, the screen is blank. I’m growing desperate.
Even when I vow to stop checking my phone, the Bellagio fountains force me to acknowledge how long I’ve been waiting on James. The dancing fountains go off every 15 minutes, in sync with music I can’t hear inside the restaurant. So far, I’ve sat here long enough to see the show six times. My glass of wine has been filled twice, and there’s still no sign of James.
“Would you like another refill?”
The waiter feels bad for me. I can tell because both times, he’s given me generous pours. I shake my head, incapable of offering him anything more without losing the tight cap on my emotions. I’m done playing the waiting game. James is too busy to let me know he’s not coming to dinner, and I’ve decided I’m too busy to wait for him.
“I’ll take the check when you have a moment.” Then I think better of it. “Actually, can I just charge this to my room?”
“Of course. I’ll just need to see your keycard and ID.”
I hand him both and then hold up my finger, scanning the room before landing on a sickeningly adorable couple in their early 20s. They’re sharing one entree and sipping on water, likely trying to stretch their Vegas budget as far as possible. “Go ahead and charge me for the bottle and give the rest to that sweet couple over there. There should be enough left for them to each have a glass.”
It’s hardly a drop in the bucket for James, but it still feels good to jam an expensive bottle of wine into his bill. It’s the only form of revenge that’s accessible at the moment.
He glances behind him to see where I’m pointing. “Oh, of course. I can do that. Would you like to send them a message along with the drinks?”
“How about, Enjoy it while it lasts.”
By the time I walk out of the restaurant, I have regrets about skipping out on an appetizer in favor of wine. I’m feeling slightly lightheaded, and while it’s probably in my best interest to head up to the hotel room and order food, the thought is too depressing. I’ve been cooped up in there by myself all day.
I want company. I want James, but he’s apparently not available.
The hotel bar is as crowded as I assumed it would be, and every person in the room is wearing a blue lanyard and nametag from the conference. There’s no point in trying to find a table—they’re all taken—so I head straight for the bar and luck out when a couple stands and vacates their stools soon after I arrive. I steal one of them and wait for the bartender to find me. A few minutes later he heads over.
“What’ll you have?”
“Do you serve food here?”
He leans forward and turns his ear in my direction. “Sorry, what was that?”
“Do you serve food here!” I repeat, this time shouting.
“Not right now,” he says, indicating to the crowd. “There’s a cafe around the corner though.”
Just my luck.
“What’s your most food-like drink?” I ask. “Anything with, I dunno, a chicken wing sticking out of it?”
The impatient bartender gives me a blank stare.
“She’ll have a whiskey ginger.”
I turn in time to see a stranger take the barstool beside mine. He’s extremely good-looking, blond and tan, a California boy all grown up. He unbuttons his suit jacket and slides an easy smile in my direction. Clearly, he thinks he’s here to stay.
I quirk a brow. “I will?”
“Trust me.” He nods, turning back to the bartender. “Make it two.”
“I don’t like ginger ale,” I point out.
He chuckles. “See? We’re already learning things about each other. I don’t like ceviche.”
I sigh and turn away, back to staring at the liquor bottles behind the bar. The stranger leans closer to me and I feel him dragging his gaze down my dress and then lower, across my bare legs. Apparently, he enjoys the view.
