2. How Not to Meet Your Future Husband
2
HOW NOT TO MEET YOUR FUTURE HUSBAND
CONNOR
There should be a rule about being a grumpy drunk in Vegas. At forty-five, I’ve been every type of "Vegas drunk" there is.
Happy drunk. Celebratory drunk.
Going to puke in my shoes drunk.
But this? This is the type of drunk I can’t handle.
But I guess anything’s possible when the IPO at the company you’ve built with your bare hands might be going to shit.
And…
The woman you’d once called the love of your life is happily sharing pictures of hers, hitting milestones you’d never wanted. Never dreamed of.
Until now.
The first time Amanda got married, I wasn't invited.
The second time – to my former best friend – I was his best man.
Now Instagram's showing me their daughter's college move-in day, and I'm sitting in a Vegas hotel bar at 9 PM on a Thursday, wondering when exactly my life became a country song minus the truck.
"Another?" The bartender eyes my empty glass.
I nod, pushing it forward. "Keep them coming until Instagram stops showing me people's life milestones or I forget how to unlock my phone. Whichever comes first."
He snorts, already reaching for the top-shelf bourbon. Smart man. "Rough day?"
"Rough board meeting." I watch him pour, remembering the way my father's jaw tightened when the IPO numbers came in. "Rough... everything."
My phone buzzes. Another notification from the tech conference I'm supposed to be attending. The one where my best friends – and CEOs of their own companies – are probably wondering where I disappeared to after the "networking happy hour" that felt more like a slow death by PowerPoint.
ALEX: Dude where'd you go?
GRAYSON: He's probably hiding from that VC who kept talking about her "revolutionary" blockchain startup
I ignore them both, scrolling back to Amanda's latest post. Her daughter has her smile, but Matt's eyes. The same eyes I used to split black eyes with during backyard football games.
The same eyes that watched me while he said "I love her too, man" fifteen years ago.
The bartender – his name-tag reads "Miguel" – sets down my fresh drink. "You know what they say about social media, right?"
"That it's slowly destroying society's ability to form meaningful connections while simultaneously addicting us to virtual validation from strangers?"
"I was going to say it's where happiness goes to die, but yours works too."
I raise my glass in salute, then nearly drop it as someone crashes into the bar beside me .
"Water," the newcomer gasps. "Please. And maybe some dignity if you've got any behind the bar."
I turn to find a woman clutching the bar like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Her dark hair's escaping what was probably an elegant updo, and her dress looks like it was attacked by a disco ball. A hint of sweat glistens at her temple, but somehow, instead of looking disheveled, she looks... distracting. Like she just stepped out of some wild, decadent night, smelling like vanilla and sin.
I clear my throat. "Rough night?"
She lets out a sound that's half-laugh, half-groan. "Let's just say my sisters' idea of 'getting back out there' involved tequila shots and a dance floor that I'm pretty sure was actually a portal to hell."
"The Marquee?"
"How did you?—"
"The glitter." I gesture to her dress. "That place sheds sparkles like a unicorn with anxiety issues."
That startles a real laugh out of her, and damn if it isn’t a good one. Throaty. Warm. Like the kind you want to hear against your ear at two in the morning.
"Well, now I know what to put on the Yelp review." She accepts the water Miguel slides over. "Though to be fair, the panic attack probably wasn't the club's fault."
"Probably?"
"Okay, definitely." She takes a long drink, and I can’t help watching the way her lips part around the glass, the way her throat moves as she swallows. "Turns out watching your ex-fiancé's Instagram stories while having an emotional breakdown in a nightclub bathroom isn't the best recovery strategy."
I raise my phone. "Better or worse than stalking your high school sweetheart’s posts about sending her kid to college?"
Her eyebrows shoot up. "Ouch. That's... that's rough."
"Says the woman having a breakdown in a Vegas club. "
"Fair point." She shifts on her barstool, finally really looking at me. And it’s a look. Slow, assessing. Something about it feels like fingertips dragging down my chest. "So what’s your story? Besides the high school sweetheart thing."
"What makes you think there’s more?"
"The suit screams 'escaping a business function,' the bourbon says 'daddy issues,' and the fact that you're alone in a hotel bar on a Thursday night suggests either a recent divorce or a midlife crisis."
I blink. "That's... eerily accurate."
"PR executive." She extends a hand, her fingers warm, her grip firm. "Reading people is kind of my thing."
"Tech CEO." I hold onto her hand a beat too long, her skin softer than I expected. "Running away from people is kind of mine."
"Let me guess – you ditched some kind of networking event?"
"A 'revolutionary' blockchain discussion that was neither revolutionary nor a discussion."
She winces. "The tech conference at the Bellagio? My ex was supposed to be handling PR for that."
"Small world." I signal Miguel for another round. "Though I'm guessing that's not why you're having a panic attack in a club?"
"No, that would be because I found out he's been living a double life with my college roommate. Via Instagram. During what was supposed to be my bachelorette weekend."
I whistle low. "Okay, you win."
"Pretty sure relationship trauma isn’t a competition." But her lips twitch. "Though if it was, I’d definitely be medaling in the 'discovering your fiancé’s secret life through social media' event."
"While I settle for bronze in the 'watching your first love marry your best friend' pentathlon? "
"Exactly." She accepts the fresh drink Miguel sets down. "Though I have to say, you’re handling it better than I am. At least you’re not covered in glitter and hiding from your sisters."
"Night's still young." I find myself grinning. "And you haven’t seen my Instagram scroll history."
"Can't be worse than mine. I may have spent the last forty-eight hours analyzing every post for clues I missed. While eating my body weight in room service chocolate cake."
"Rookie mistake. Everyone knows hotel bourbon is superior to hotel cake."
She leans in, her scent curling around me like a slow burn. "Says the man drinking alone."
"Says the woman having a panic attack alone."
She tilts her head, considering. "You make an annoyingly valid point."
"I do that sometimes. Usually right before making terrible decisions."
“Like what?”
“Like suggesting we move this pity party to my hotel’s bar. One that isn’t currently playing…” I listen. “Is that the Macarena ?”
“Oh god.” She groans. “This is what I get for letting my sisters pick the venue.”
“I happen to know a much better bar. One that won’t require a hazmat suit to remove the glitter afterward.”
She hesitates, then checks her phone. Whatever she sees makes her expression shift.
“You know what?” She stands, wobbling slightly. “Why not? My sisters wanted me to be spontaneous. This is spontaneous, right?”
“Definitely spontaneous. Possibly ill-advised.”
“Perfect. We’ll be trauma twins, then.” She smooths down her dress, sending a fresh shower of glitter to the floor. “Lead the way, Tech CEO. But just so you know, I’m not drinking. ”
I raise an eyebrow at her empty glass.
“Starting now,” she amends.
“Of course not.” I offer my arm. “And I’m definitely not drinking until I forget how to refresh Instagram.”
“Absolutely not.” She takes my arm, laughing. And for the first time all night, I’m not thinking about Amanda’s posts, my father’s disappointment, or my sinking IPO.
I’m just thinking about how nice it is to make someone laugh.
Even if she’s covering my best suit in glitter.