From Claire.
The name he didn’t say filled my mind.
I bit my lip, considering the offer for a moment. Then I looked at the other side of the street, where every restaurant patio was packed with customers. Smiling weakly, I gestured toward the patios overlooking the fountains. “It will take us a while.”
“Leave that to me,” he said enthusiastically, pulling out his phone and texting something quickly. “Rose will take care of it.” His smile was infectious.
I let him guide me through the crowds to one of the restaurants across the street. He talked about us, lively, and about his miserable day spent missing me, worrying about me, and what tomorrow could bring, always holding my hand tightly as if he was afraid I’d slip away. Occasionally, people recognized him—probably locals, not tourists—and called him by name or just commented between themselves, saying things like, “Hey, did you see that guy? That’s Winston Donovan. For real!” But he just nodded at them and kept on talking with me, unbothered by all the attention.
It was a matter of very little time until Claire would find out about us.
Someone would see a picture taken by one of the many tourists swarming around us and posted online, and bring it upon themselves to let her know. Or perhaps she’d see it herself while scrolling through her socials, killing time while waiting for her husband to come home. She’d see his boyish smile, the way his fingers intertwined with mine, his exuberance. And she’d instantly know. She’d scream, or cry, or call her lawyer, but most of all, she’d think of how to get rid of me.
“I think they’re ready for us,” Winston said calmly, looking at Alexxa’s restaurant patio facing the fountains. Several staff were clearing out a section of the patio, pushing other tables away from a single one they’d set up beautifully, next to the railing.
The hostess recognized Winston and smiled, putting sweet little dimples in her perfect nineteen-year-old cheeks and checking him out head to toe. I instantly hated her. She seated us at the table just intime for the next fountain show. It played “Time to Say Goodbye” by Andrea Bocelli in soul-stirring duet with Sarah Brightman. I shivered while listening to the lyrics, fearing it was a bad omen of sorts, with my mind drifting into familiar darkness instead of enjoying the moment. Through the palm trees lining the Strip, I watched the water jets bursting toward the sky in sync with the beautiful music. There was no fountain mist to hide my tears; we were too far off.
“Olivia,” Winston said, pushing aside the wineglasses and reaching for my hand. His fingers were warm, his touch reassuring. “Tell me, what can I do?” There was an intensity in his eyes I hadn’t seen before. It went beyond simple desire, giving me a glimpse into his soul.
“Just ... take it slow with me, Winston. Please.” I squeezed his fingers gently. “I ... need to find my bearings.”
“Anything,” he whispered, and knew not to add anything else. We watched the fountains and listened to the song together. It seemed to resonate with us both.
After the show ended, the silence between us lingered until I brought my eyes to him. “Thank you.”
He pulled my hand to his lips. Then looked at me with a slight head tilt and a bit of mischief in his eyes. “Just so you know, the waiters won’t dare approach us until we call them.”
“Yeah, I know. Are you hungry?”
“With you? Always!” We both laughed. “That came out wrong,” he rushed to add, giving the menu a disinterested glance. “Before we order, let me ask you this: If you could go anywhere, and do anything whatsoever, what would that be?”
I hadn’t been expecting that. It swelled my heart. After a split moment’s hesitation, I smiled shyly.
“I’ve always wanted to check out one of those fancy dance clubs. Can you believe I’ve never been inside one? The music, the lights ... I’d love to dance with you.”
18
The Jewel
I didn’t know what I was thinking when I suggested we go dancing. He wasn’t going to be too comfortable in a club, with loud music and all sorts of obnoxious, drunk tourists and sweaty weirdos crammed so tightly together. But I’d never been to a club, and I’d always wanted to go.
Colton had taken me dancing a couple of times, at the county fair and other such venues, but I’d seen in movies that dancing could mean way more than what you found at a county fair. Going to a club sounded like a surreal experience. I was excited, and a little worried I wasn’t dressed for it.
Seated at our Strip-side table, we shared a delicious dessert called 25 Layers of Chocolate. It was as decadent as the name suggested. I hadn’t felt like eating, but Winston insisted we at least share something while we waited for Rose to work her magic with the club he had in mind. It was a safe bet to assume that, by the time the evening ended, his assistant would add her name to the growing list of people who wanted me gone, out of Vegas for good.
I thought perhaps there was another reason why Winston was stalling. “If you’re not comfortable with the idea, we could always—”
The spoon landed on the plate, rattling. His hand clasped mine over the table. “No,” he said. “Don’t think that. I’d go anywhere with you.I’d follow you to hell and back.” His eyes locked on mine, the intensity in them dizzying.
“Quite the comparison,” I laughed, feeling a bit uneasy. “A dance club with me versus hell. Huh ...” I reached to wipe a bit of chocolate sauce off his upper lip. “Now I know how you really feel about it!”
He captured my fingers and kissed them softly.
“Anywhere,” he repeated, still looking at me. “Only, this venue needs a bit of doing.” His phone chimed. He read the message and smiled. “We’re all set.”
We stood, not waiting for the check, and walked away. The matter must’ve been handled by Rose’s invisible and highly effective touch.
“I have my car here,” I said, heading toward the Paris hotel.
