Chapter 3 Savannah
SAVANNAH
I wake up to the sound of the seat belt sign dinging.
My neck is stiff, and there’s drool on my chin. Fantastic. I wipe it away and blink at the empty seat next to me.
Ledger is gone.
His laptop, his jacket, even the faint scent of his cologne has disappeared like he was never here at all. I sit up and look around the cabin. No sign of him.
The flight attendant’s voice comes over the speaker. “Welcome to Las Vegas. Local time is one thirty-two AM.”
I gather my things, disappointment sitting heavy in my chest. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.
The Flamingo Motel wasn’t my first choice, but it was cheap and available at 2:00 AM. The room is small, but it has a bed and a shower, and that’s all I need.
I stand under the hot water for twenty minutes, letting it wash away the plane smell and the tequila haze. When I get out, I catch my reflection in the mirror. My eyes are puffy from crying and sleeping weird. My hair is a disaster.
But I’m in Vegas. And I have a dress that deserves better than Mason.
I plug in the hotel hairdryer and get to work. Blow-dry, curl, hairspray. My makeup takes less time because my hands are steadier now, and I do a proper smoky eye. Mascara, lipstick, contour. I look like I’m trying, which is the whole point.
The dress slides on like butter. It’s black, tight, and hits mid-thigh. I pair it with the heels I packed and check the mirror one more time.
I look good.
Mason can rot.
Through the window, Vegas sprawls below me in a riot of lights. Neon signs, hotel towers, endless energy pulsing through the streets even at 3:00 AM. This city doesn’t sleep, and tonight, neither do I.
The club is called Luxe, and it’s attached to the Bellagio. The bass thumps through the walls before I even reach the entrance, and the line stretches down the block. But the bouncer takes one look at me and waves me past the velvet rope.
Perks of being a woman in a tight dress.
Inside, it’s all strobing lights and bodies moving to music that vibrates through my chest. The bar runs along one side, bottles glowing under purple LED lights. I order a vodka soda and down half of it before I even leave the bar.
The dance floor calls to me.
I push through the crowd until I find space to move, and then I let the music take over. Eyes closed, hips swaying, arms in the air. I dance like no one’s watching, even though plenty of people are.
I can’t stop thinking about Ledger.
Those blue eyes. That smile. The way he took care of me like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I dance harder, trying to forget him. Trying to forget Mason and everything except the music and the lights and the feeling of being alive.
A guy sidles up next to me. He’s decent-looking, maybe mid-thirties, but he’s wearing too much gel in his hair, and his cologne is overpowering.
“You’re a good dancer,” he shouts over the music.
“Thanks.” I keep dancing, not encouraging him.
He moves closer anyway. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“I’m good.”
He doesn’t take the hint. His hand lands on my waist, and I step away, shaking my head. “Not interested.”
He looks offended but backs off. I push through the crowd toward the bar. I need another drink to stop me from thinking about Ledger and those blue eyes and the way he just disappeared without even waking me up to say goodbye.
What kind of person does that?
I tried to Google him earlier in my hotel room.
Typed in Ledger with hotels and Chicago and 47 years old, but nothing useful came up.
Just a bunch of business articles and LinkedIn profiles that might not even be him.
And even if I found him, what would I do?
Show up at his office? “Hi, remember me? The girl you had a two-hour conversation with and then abandoned?”
Pathetic.
I’m almost to the bar when I collide hard with someone. Their drink spills, and I stumble backward in my heels.
Strong hands catch my arms, steadying me.
“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t—”
I look up.
Ledger.
He’s staring at me with those steel-blue eyes, and I can see he’s been drinking. There’s a looseness to him that wasn’t there on the plane.
All the hurt rushes back.
“You left.” The words burst out before I can stop them. “You just left without saying anything. I woke up and you were gone like you’d never been there at all.”
His jaw tightens. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“That’s it? You’re sorry?”
“I felt like a dick the second I did it.” He’s still holding my arms. “You looked exhausted. Completely worn out. I didn’t want to wake you. I thought it was better to let you sleep.”
“You could have left a note. Or your number. Something.”
“I should have.” His eyes travel down, taking in the dress, the heels, the makeup. When he looks back at my face, there’s heat in his gaze. “You look different. Beautiful. Sexy. Not that you weren’t beautiful on the plane, but right now…”
He trails off, and I’m still mad at him, but he looks so sincere, so genuinely sorry, that the anger starts to deflate.
“I Googled you,” I admit. “Couldn’t find anything useful.”
A smile tugs at his mouth. “I’m hard to find.”
“Apparently.”
We’re standing too close.
“I’m really sorry,” he says again, quieter this time.
The fight drains out of me completely. I step forward and wrap my arms around him, hugging him tight. He’s solid and warm, and he didn’t mean to hurt me.
“You’re forgiven,” I mumble into his chest. “But don’t do it again.”
His arms come around me, holding me close. “I won’t.”
When I pull back, he doesn’t let me go far. His hands slide down to my waist.
“Dance with me,” he says.
We move back onto the dance floor, and this time it’s different. His body is against mine, his hands on my hips, guiding me to the rhythm. The music is slower now, something with a heavy bass that pulses through my chest.
I loop my arms around his neck, and we’re so close I can feel his breath on my face. His eyes are darker in the strobing lights, pupils dilated from alcohol or desire or both.
“You’re trouble,” he murmurs.
“Says the man who abandoned me on a plane.”
“I told you I was sorry.”
“You’ll have to make it up to me.”
His thumb traces circles on my hip, and I’m burning up. “How should I do that?”
I shrug. “You know how—”
His mouth finds mine, cutting me off. His tongue traces my bottom lip, and I open for him. We’re making out in the middle of the dance floor like teenagers, and I don’t care who’s watching.
His hands roam up my back, into my hair, and I press closer. I can feel him hard against me, and it makes me bold. My hands slide under his jacket, feeling the solid muscle beneath his shirt.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard.
“Come on,” he says, voice rough. “Let’s get out of here.”
He takes me through a side door, past the VIP section, into a quieter part of the casino. The sudden shift from the club’s chaos to the casino’s controlled energy is disorienting.
“You haven’t been to Vegas if you don’t visit this place,” he says, gesturing to the rows of tables and slot machines.
I raise an eyebrow. “Are you a tour guide now?”
“I can be one for you, princess.”
He leads me to a blackjack table, and I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing. But he slides into the seat like he was born to it, and I stand behind him, hands on his shoulders.
“What are the rules?” I ask.
“Get as close to twenty-one without going over.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
The dealer starts, and I watch Ledger play. He’s calm, methodical, like he can see the cards before they’re dealt. Within twenty minutes, he’s doubled his money.
He doubles again. Then again. I’m cheering him on, completely oblivious to strategy but loving every second of it. Other players at the table smile at my enthusiasm.
A waitress brings us drinks. More whiskey for him, another vodka soda for me.
After an hour, I’m getting restless. The casino is beautiful, all marble and gold, but it’s not why I came to Vegas.
“I’m bored,” I admit.
He cashes out, pockets the chips, and stands. “Then let’s go.”
We stumble out of the casino, back onto the strip. The lights are blinding, and I’m clinging to his arm because my heels are impossible and the ground won’t stay flat. He’s carrying my purse, tucked under his arm, so I won’t lose it. Such a gentleman.
Vegas at 4:00 AM is surreal. Still busy, still bright, like the sun never has the audacity to rise here. We pass street performers and other drunk couples stumbling along.
“Where do you want to go next?” he asks.
“I don’t know. Anywhere. Everywhere.” I spin around, nearly falling, and he catches me. “Vegas is supposed to be fun, right? Wild? We should do something wild.”
“Like what?”
I see the signs everywhere.
Wedding chapels. Little neon hearts and white doves and promises of Weddings 24/7!
A couple stumbles out of one, laughing and kissing, and I stop walking.
We both stop walking at the same time. The silence stretches between us, and I can feel him looking at the same thing I’m looking at.
“Don’t tell me you’re thinking about it,” I say.
“Don’t tell me you’re thinking about it too,” he replies.
I turn to face him. “We should do it.”
“You think so?”
“Yes. What’s the worst that can happen?”
He’s quiet for a moment, studying my face. Then he says, “If we’re going to do it, I won’t let it happen in a club dress and without a ring.”
“What?”
He pulls out his phone and makes a call. “I need a car at my location in five minutes. And call Maurice at Valentino…”
I stare at him. “We’re really getting married right now?”
He grins at me. “We’re getting married, princess.”
End of preview. Continue reading Accidental Mile High Vows here.