I lean in and kiss Liberty on the cheek, then Mylene. “I love you both. I’ll be fine. My around-the-way girl instincts tell me he’s safe.”
Liberty rolls her eyes. “Your instincts also told you micro bangs were a good idea in college.”
“Okay, that was one time,” I say, pointing a finger at her. “And you promised never to bring it up again.”
Mylene smirks. “Mmm. Hmm. Just like that pregnancy test,” she says, laughing.
“We’re gonna hit that club near the Venetian,” Mylene continues, giving Luca one last slow glance. “But you, ma’am, don’t end up on a murder podcast, please?”
I laugh, backing away toward Luca. “I will be fine. Y’all try not to get arrested tonight.”
“We make no promises!” Liberty calls after me as they disappear into the crowd.
I turn back toward Luca, who stands there with an easy patience, as if there isn't a single place in the world he’d rather be than right here with me.
The absurdity of it all should be terrifying, yet I find I’m not ready for the neon to fade or for this night to end.
Ms. Lilly is never going to believe this.
Chapter Six
Mahogany, Masochism + Whac-A-Moles
Luca
Six months ago. Vegas.
We walk along the Strip, falling into a rhythm that feels deceptively familiar. The conversation flows with an ease that shouldn't exist between strangers, and I find myself wondering if she’ll catch me in the act between my many stolen glances where my gaze lingers a beat too long. Though, if I’m honest, they never feel long enough.
She’s radiant. The streetlights don’t just hit her, they seem to show off for her, catching the gold in her skin like they’re paying some kind of silent respect.
The women I usually end up with have a very specific, polished vibe. They’re usually from the same circles—the kind of girls who aren't surprised by private schools or trust funds. They’re usually more into my stats or my bank account than anything else. But Aspen doesn’t seem to give a damn about any of that. She’s only interested in who I actually am, which is wild considering she doesn’t even know my last name yet.
There’s time for that, I guess. Plenty of time for a lot of things.
And her laugh. Fuck, that laugh. You feel it in your chest before you even hear it. It’s loud, real, and completely addictive.
She suddenly stops, spotting a retro arcade squeezed between two brightly-lit souvenir shops. “Oh my god,” she gasps, her eyes lighting up. “You’re coming with me. Right now.”
She doesn’t let me respond. I don’t have a chance to argue. And before the safe word “Line” can fly out of my mouth, she’s dragging me inside like we’re sixteen year olds cutting class. And as the petite fireball leads me into what I can only assume is not an untimely death, I finally get a proper look at her.
Her outfit isn’t what I would have imagined for my bride, yet it fits her perfectly. A pearl-studded blazer is draped over her shoulders like a cape, layered over a white lace bodysuit that leans more toward the bedroom than the boardroom. Matching high-waisted shorts with tiny pearls, catch the light with every step. It’s a stunning ensemble. Sexy as hell. And entirely too absurd for a sweltering, vintage arcade.
I’ve stepped into a time machine.
I used to only see places like this in movies before I finally moved to the States. I remember my uncle taking my siblings and me to Kings Island for the first time. You couldn’t have told us we hadn't stumbled straight into heaven. It was a land of endless junk food with mountains of buttery popcorn, bags of candy, and those delicious monstrosities they call funnel cakes. We’d gorge ourselves until our faces were sticky and our stomachs protested, always ending the night with a glorious, sugar-induced bellyache.
As an adult, I never would have set foot in a place like this on my own. Being the eldest—the one everyone looks to as either the great success or the family fuck-up—tends to turn you into a clinical perfectionist. It makes you a little too responsible, a littletoo stiff. But one look at the woman beside me, and I realize I’d probably follow her anywhere.
She makes a beeline for the basketball shootout.
“Oh, you want some of this,” I tease, rolling up my sleeves.
“You’re going down, Chillmonger,” she says, grinning.
We start shooting. I’ve got a solid rhythm going—played a bit in school, never took it seriously. But she’s surprisingly good. Like…annoyinglygood.
“You’ve done this before,” I accuse mid-shot.
