Chapter 5
LOGAN
The marriage license office is pretty bureaucratic, even an hour before midnight on New Year’s Eve.
There’s a decent line, although it’s moving quickly.
Apparently the application process has moved online, which only half the people in line know about, so everyone is passing the tip down the line that it’ll go faster if you fill that out on your phone before you get to the counter.
The form is in two parts, one for each applicant. It’s straightforward, asking for my name, my parents’ names, my social security number.
Then I hand Francesca my phone. “Your turn, Applicant Two.”
Her fingers fly over the screen, efficient and sure, and I’m reminded again that this girl is going to be a doctor. She’s smart in a way that makes me want to be smarter just to keep up.
When she hands it back, she’s advanced the screen to the final part, which is asking for where to send correspondence.
“It’s your birthday present,” she says. “You can put in your address.”
Since I’m rarely at home, I use my parents’ address in Minneapolis. I try not to think too hard about the fact that my mother is absolutely going to lose her mind if any correspondence about a Vegas marriage license shows up at her house. But that’s Future Logan’s problem.
And it’s a funny story.
When it’s our turn at the counter, the clerk is efficient. She finds our application in the system, processes our payment, and hands over an honest-to-God wedding license.
I manage to keep a straight face the entire time, even though I want to laugh at the absurdity of it all.
“Congratulations,” she says in a voice that suggests she’s said this about a thousand times tonight. “You have one year to use this. Have a happy New Year.”
I tuck the license away in my pocket. We both manage to keep it together until we’re outside, then we start laughing and don’t stop until we’re tangled in each others’ arms.
“This is definitely the kind of thing one celebrates with a kiss,” she breathes.
I tip her face up.
I’m only halfway through the agreed upon number. Fifteen. My pulse thuds heavy as I lower my mouth, keeping my gaze on her pretty face, her soft, open expression, until she turns blurry right up close.
And then I close my eyes and enjoy the first real press of our lips, the soft quiver of her mouth under mine, the flex of her smile and the hot little exhale as she parts her lips.
Just a little.
Enough of an invitation that I want to take it, I really fucking do, but I want to take my time with the next fifteen kisses. Make them at least last until midnight, when this bright light of a very good girl should get the best kiss of her entire life.
I know it will be mine, too.
I don’t feel cursed right now. Not at all. I feel like this might be the birthday I’ve been waiting for my entire life.
“A rose, sir?” A woman’s voice interrupts us. “A rose for your wife?”
We break apart and look sideways at the same time. There’s a vendor with a bucket full of long stem roses.
“Sure,” I say.
“No thanks,” Francesca says.
“My wife would love a rose,” I insist, digging out my wallet. When the vendor hands me the flower, I hand it over in an exaggerated way. “Because she’s a very good girl.”
That shuts Francesca up.
“Is she?” The woman waggles her eyebrows. “In that case, for seventy-five bucks, I’ve got a magic rose, if you know what I mean.”
Francesca laughs. “No, we’re all right, thank you.”
But I’m hooked by the sales pitch. “What’s a magic rose?”
“Don’t tell him,” Francesca says. “Come on, birthday boy. Time for us to find the next fun thing to do.”
But I’m too big for her to move. I pull out more cash. “One magic rose for my bride, please.”
“Oh my God.” She hides her face behind the rose I bought her, but not really. She’s peering over it at me, her gaze dancing as the woman hands me a black velvet pouch.
And then both women are laughing, the vendor peeling away, off to sell more flowers to the couples behind us.
“What did I just buy you?” I ask, realizing I’ve maybe been had a little. Not that I care.
Francesca gives me an innocent look. “I dunno, husband, maybe you should open it up and find out.”
Inside the pouch is a red silicone rose wrapped in plastic. No stem, just the flower head, the petals all curved around an opening at the top. And there’s a power button on the side.
Ah.
“Magic, indeed,” I murmur. If she thinks I’m going to be weird about a sex toy, she’s wrong. “I like it. It’s something for you to remember me by. I get the wedding license, and you get…” I turn it on, and it starts vibrating in my hand. “Orgasms.”
“Hardly seems fair,” she says, her cheeks very pink now.
“Why?” I pull her close.
She squirms. “Because it’s your birthday and I’m the one who gets the gift of endless orgasms.”
Fucking hell, I’m getting hard outside the marriage license office. “The thought of you having endless orgasms because of a rose I bought you is the only birthday gift any red-blooded man would need.”
“Then happy birthday,” she whispers against my lips. Then she sucks in a sobering breath. “It’s almost midnight.”
“Where are your friends? We can go find them.” I’d like to meet them, but I keep that thought to myself. I’ll leave it in her court.
She thinks about it for a second, then texts them, only to shake her head. “They’re on the rooftop of the hotel we’re staying at.” She names it, but it’s at the other end of the Strip. “We won’t get there in time.”
“A rooftop is a great idea, though.”
She makes a wistful sound. “Probably can’t get into one now.”
“Of course we can.” I run through the catalog in my mind of all the hotels I’ve stayed at up and down the Strip. “I know exactly where we can watch the fireworks.”
“Welcome back, Mr. Granger,” the concierge says. “You aren’t staying with us tonight?”
“Wish I was,” I promise.
Francesca’s phone vibrates in her hand. She’s texting her friends another location update.
“We understand, of course. Good luck tomorrow.”
Okay, that’s enough talking about me. “Is there any way we could get a card to go up to the pool anyway?”
I’m hoping that the poolside lounge at my favorite spot will be the perfect balance of feels special but also not jam packed, because it’s not a public access space. It’s for hotel guests only, and it’s steeped in luxury.
When I visit in the off-season, this is where I stay, where I play at the exclusive poker tables.
“Yes, definitely.”
“Thank you.” I take the card and turn Francesca with my free arm, knowing where I’m going.
“What’s tomorrow?” she asks once we’re in the elevator.
Ah, she heard that.
She twirls her rose at me. “Are you a professional gambler?”
“No.”
“But you are a high roller.”
I hold out my hand, and she hooks her fingers over mine. I tug her close. “How much does the real world matter to how the rest of the night goes?”
She rolls her head, her blond waves tumbling down her back. “It doesn’t.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you. I’m curious about you, too.”
“I just said it doesn’t matter!” She laughs, her eyes sparkling. “You’re curious about me?”
“Very.”
“Oh.” She catches her lower lip between her teeth, and surges up to kiss me. “Sixteen.”
The elevator slides open, revealing music, people, and the excited hum of an imminent countdown.
“Come on.” She surges into the party, bright and glittering.
She clocked me as wealthy, but there’s something about this girl, too. She fits into this world just as easily as I do.
At the bar, I order a nice bottle of Armand de Brignac champagne, since she’s figured out that I have money. If she recognizes the brand name, she doesn’t let on.
Interesting.
“I no longer think my birthday sucks,” I tell her as I pour her a glass of champagne.
Her eyes dance. “I should hope not. We got you the most legendary present ever.”
“And cake.”
“And cake.” She clinks her glass against mine. “Cake. Imminent fireworks. A souvenir wedding license. What more could a man want?”
I don’t hesitate. “Fourteen more kisses.”
“Fifteen minutes until midnight, we better get on that.” She winks and twirls away from me, her skirt flaring high enough to show the top of her solid thighs.
They’re such nice thighs, too.
I’d like at least one birthday kiss right there, at the top of her legs. But that’s probably not going to happen before midnight.
The bottle in one hand, my flute in the other, I follow her through the party.
String lights crisscross overhead, and heat lamps create pockets of cozy warmth where people cluster, but Francesca keeps moving, drawing attention as she searches for the right place to watch the countdown from.
Even here, even in this refuge of privilege, people notice how pretty she is, how bright and glittering.
I’m used to people looking at me. I’m not familiar with this feeling of wanting to be possessive, to protest strangers looking at someone else.
Mine, I want to say.
I have a piece of paper in my jacket pocket that says she could be, too.
And I have a vibrator that I’m going to send her home with at the end of the night so in a small way, I will be hers, too, even after we part.
I like the thought of that a lot.
Francesca finds us a spot near the railing, away from the loudest clusters of people, where there’s a ledge for the wine. She sets both her rose and champagne flute down, then leans against the glass barrier, looking out at the city.
Closing the gap between us, I put the bottle and my glass next to hers, then slide my arm around her waist.
“Do you have anyone you’ll want to call at midnight?” she asks.
“Like my family?”
“Or a girlfriend…?” She glances sideways, her eyelashes brushing her cheeks before she looks up at me directly. “Before our kisses cross a line?”