7. Chapter Seven #3
Thankfully, he stopped. He saw the flicker of fear behind my flirtation and pulled us back from the ledge before I could lose my footing completely.
There is a side to him I’ve never encountered in a man before.
A raw, primal intensity that has me simultaneously on fire and terrifyingly curious.
I want to go there with him, but I can’t.
Not yet. I’m actually enjoying the slow, agonizing burn of getting to know him.
Even if that “getting to know him” currently involves a detour to report our entire lives stolen.
There is a pop-up police station near the Paris Hotel, so we duck inside to report the theft. As the officers ask us to retrace our steps, even I have to shake my head at how ridiculous it all sounds.
They take the report with the kind of indifference you’d expect in situations like this, but are ultimately no help. They suggest that our best bet is to find my friends and have them track my phone.
“Great. Thanks a lot, officers,” I say, my voice heavy with defeat.
We exit the police tent and step back out into the crowded, buzzing atmosphere to continue the search for Mylene and Liberty.
Searching for a specific group of people in Vegas without a phone is like trying to find a needle in a haystack—if the haystack was made of glitter, house music, and ten thousand drunken tourists.
We stumble into three different clubs, weaving through sweaty bodies and dodging cocktail waitresses. Each time, the bass rattles my teeth and the strobe lights make my head spin. Luca stays glued to my side, and I love how secure he makes me feel.
By the time we hit the Strip again, the adrenaline has faded into pure exhaustion because it’s 3 A.M., and I am over this entire weekend.
“Plan B,” I say, shouting to be heard over the rhythmic thrum of street performers. “We head to the hotel lobby and pray the producers have our paperwork on hand. Liberty is listed as my emergency contact, so they have to have her number.”
“Good thinking,” Luca agrees.
As we walk, I look up at him. “I wonder how many contestants actually end up in this kind of mess.”
He let out a nervous, dry laugh. “Probably plenty. Though, at least they have the excuse of being drunk.”
“Wait, you sobered up already?” I ask, surprised.
“I don’t really drink,” he says simply.
“Wow. Are you in a program or—?”
He laughs again, more naturally this time. “No, nothing like that. I just don't believe in putting anything in my body that might mess with my performance as an athlete.”
“Wow,” is all I can manage. I’m genuinely impressed. In a city where decisions are made on liquid courage every day, he’s been navigating this entire whirlwind with total clarity.
It only makes me want to ask more questions. This man married me, sight unseen, and he did it completely sober—like he knew he wanted me before he even met me. And the terrifying part? I think I did, too.
As we navigate the sidewalk back toward the hotel, a familiar, high-pitched scream pierces through the noise.
“Aspen! Lucas!” Mylene slurs, stumbling toward us.
“It’s Luca,” he corrects gently, reaching out just in time to catch Mylene as she nearly collapses into his arms.
“We have been looking everywhere for you!” Liberty screams, appearing behind her.
She looks frazzled, her hair a bit wilder than when the night started.
“We bolted from the club when your phone pinged that you were on the way to Mexico! We were convinced you’d been kidnapped and were on our way to file a police report and call your cousin Jamal! ”
“Uggh. Julie the grifter,” I explain the night’s events quickly, trying to calm them down. “She took everything. But thank God we found you. Do you have the room key?”
“I have everything!” Liberty shouts over a sudden burst of music.
The sidewalk, already packed, suddenly begins to swell. A localized parade—a vibrant, deafening explosion of feathers, sequins, and towering drag queens—erupts from a nearby plaza, spilling directly onto the Strip.
“We have to move!” Luca yells, his hand finding the small of my back.
The crowd turns into a riptide. A troupe of performers on stilts wedges between my friends and us, and the spectators surge forward to catch a glimpse. I’m shoved to the right. Luca is pushed to the left by a group of tourists wearing matching “Bride Squad” shirts.
“Luca!” I scream, reaching back for him.
“Aspen!”
I see his hand for a split second before a wall of pink tulle and a glitter cannon blast obscures my vision.
The music is so loud I can’t hear my own thoughts, let alone his voice.
I’m swept toward the entrance of a nearby casino by the sheer force of the mob, while Mylene and Liberty pull me by my arms in the opposite direction, thinking they’re saving me.
“Wait! He’s back there!” I yell, but my voice is swallowed by a chorus of “It’s Raining Men.”
By the time the parade passes and the crowd thins enough to breathe, I’m standing two blocks away from where we were. I scan the street, my heart sinking into my stomach.
The tall, broad-shouldered man with the protective gaze and the top-tier kisses is nowhere to be found.
I realize, with a sickening jolt of clarity, that I don’t know his last name. I don’t know which hotel the production crew moved him to for the night. And he doesn't know anything else about me.
In a single night, I fell in love with a man who called me Ms. Mysterious. And now, I have no way to call him back.