"Fitting or sadistic?"
"Can't it be both?"
She almost laughs at that, which I count as a win.
The car pulls up to the hotel entrance, and I see Harper's shoulders tense. The Bellagio fountains are performing—water dancing to some classical piece I don't recognize—and tourists are crowded around taking photos.
"Last time I was here," Harper says quietly, “My pores were seeping out tequila.”
"And this time?"
"This time I'm sober and terrified."
"Of what?"
She looks at me then, and there's something in her eyes I can't read. "Of making the same mistakes."
Before I can ask what that means, the valet is opening the door. I step out first, then offer Harper my hand. She takes it, and I pull her close as we walk through the entrance.
The lobby is exactly as I remember—opulent and excessive and somehow exactly right for Vegas. The Dale Chihuly glass sculpture on the ceiling catches the light, throwing colors across the marble floor.
Harper tilts her head back, looking up at it. "I forgot how beautiful that is."
"Come on," I say, guiding her toward the elevators. "Let's get checked in."
The front desk manager recognizes me immediately. "Mr. Kade! Welcome back. We have your suite ready."
"Thank you, Michael."
"The presidential suite, as requested. Top floor. I think you'll find it—" He pauses, glancing at Harper. "—very suitable for your needs."
Harper's eyebrows rise. "Presidential suite?"
I grin, and Michael hands over the keys with a cheeky smile. "Enjoy your stay. And congratulations on your marriage. We all saw the video."
"Of course you did," Harper mutters.
We take the elevator to the top floor, and I can feel Harper's nervous energy radiating off her in waves.
"Victor," she starts. "About the sleeping arrangements?—"
"We'll have separate rooms."
Her shoulders relax slightly. "Oh. Okay.”
"Connected by a door."
The shoulders tense again. "Connected."
"Yes."
"How connected?"
"Very."
The elevator doors open directly into the suite, and Harper stops dead.
“Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and the manger,” she breathes.
