Chapter 3
TEQUILA SHOTS AND WEDDING KNOTS
HARPER
Six hours, four tequila shots, and one very enthusiastic male stripper later, I'm trying very hard not to think about Vic from the plane.
We're fresh out of the male revue—where a man named Thunder showed me more glutes than I've seen in my entire life—and my baby sister Amelia is covered in body glitter, wearing a sash that says "brIDE TO BE" in letters so sparkly they could be seen from space.
Petite and practically vibrating, her honey-blonde ponytail bouncing behind her, she flounces out the exit, my older sister Margot beside her looking terrifyingly put together in that way only she can manage.
Even now in “protective sister mode,” Margot’s dark hair is twisted into a low knot, but at least this mode is a helluva lot drunker than the one back at home in New York.
"Another round!" Amelia shouts, throwing her arms up like she's just won the lottery.
Margot catches my eye across the table and mouths, "Help me."
I mouth back, "Absolutely not."
Because if I'm being honest, the tequila is doing exactly what I need it to do: making me forget about silky dark hair and stormy-gray eyes and expensive shirts and a voice that sounded like whiskey poured over hand-crafted ice.
"To me marrying the greatest guy in the world!” Amelia announces, raising her shot glass. “Oh, and to Harper's new job! She starts on Monday. StreamEats' newest on-air talent! My sister, the STAR!"
I wince. "I'm not a star. I'm a cooking segment host, sweetie.”
"You're going to be on CAMERA," one of Amelia's friends—Jessica? Jennifer?—squeals. "That's basically famous!"
"It's basically terrifying," I correct, but I raise my shot glass anyway. "But thank you. To new beginnings."
"To leaving toxic men in the DUST!" Amelia adds.
"To never settling for less than we deserve!" Margot chimes in.
We throw back the shots in unison, and I try very hard not to think about the fact that my divorce was finalized exactly two weeks ago.
Two weeks since I officially stopped being Harper Sinclair and went back to being just Harper Beaumont.
Two weeks since I decided that starting over at thirty-seven meant taking the biggest professional risk of my life.
StreamEats.
The streaming platform that's been blowing up over the past few years with cooking content, restaurant reviews, culinary travel shows. And somehow—some way—they saw my YouTube channel where I've been posting recipe videos for the past year and decided I was worth hiring.
On-air talent.
Me.
The woman who got so nervous during her college presentation on molecular gastronomy that she projectile-vomited on the front row.
"You're freaking,” Margot says, pulling on my elbow. "I can see it on your face."
"I am not.”
“I can see the wheels turning in your head. You’re literally composing a recipe right now. What is it this time?"
I sigh. "Honey-glazed salmon with a tequila reduction."
"Jesus, Harper."
"It would be good!"
"You need to stop anxiety-cooking in your head and start enjoying your sister's bachelorette party." She squeezes my shoulder. "The StreamEats thing is going to be amazing. You're going to be amazing. Now drink your overpriced cocktail and pretend to have fun."
"I am having fun."
"You're thinking about the guy from the plane, aren't you?"
"What? No. Why would you—"
"You keep getting this look. Like you're trying to remember something important." She tilts her head. "What was his name again?"
"Vic," I say before I can stop myself. "And I'm not thinking about him. I'm thinking about work. And salmon. And how Amelia's fiancé Declan is going to handle her when she's this drunk."
"Declan is a saint. He'll be fine." Margot grins. "But nice try deflecting. Tell me more about Plane Guy."
"There's nothing to tell. We talked. He was nice. And kinda mean at the same time. We said goodbye. End of story."
"Was he hot?"
"Margot—"
"On a scale of one to ten, how hot was he?"
I take a long sip of my cocktail. "Fifteen."
"Fifteen?!”
"Maybe twenty. I don't know. He had this whole serious face business mogul thing going on. Very intense. Very—It doesn't matter. I didn't get his number. He didn't get mine. Ships passing in the night."
"Ships that shared first-class seats and eye-fucked each other.”
"Ships that are never going to see each other again in a city of two million people."
Before Margot can respond, Amelia stumbles over, phone in hand, eyes wide with excitement.
"GUYS. GUYS. I found the PERFECT club!"
"We're already at a club," I point out.
"No, a BETTER club. Look!" She shoves her phone in my face.
I squint at the screen—an Instagram post from some Vegas party planning company. It's advertising something called "The Ultimate Bachelorette Scavenger Hunt."
"A scavenger hunt?" Margot asks, reading over my shoulder.
"YES! Ten items, and whoever completes the most wins free champagne!" Amelia is nearly levitating. "And it has KARAOKE. Harper, you love karaoke!"
"I do not love karaoke."
"You sang 'Total Eclipse of the Heart' at my birthday party last year."
"I was drunk."
"You're drunk now! It's perfect!"
I look at Margot, hoping for backup.
She shrugs. "I mean, free champagne."
"You're supposed to be the responsible one!"
"I'm on vacation. Responsibility is for people who aren't in Vegas." She grabs her purse. "Let's go."
Twenty minutes later, we're standing outside a club called Remix, which is exactly what you'd expect from Vegas.
Too loud. Too bright. Too crowded, and somehow exactly the right amount of chaotic.
There's a DJ playing remixed versions of songs that were popular when I was in high school.
There's a bachelorette party in literally every corner—sashes and tiaras as far as the eye can see.
And there's a karaoke stage in the back where someone is currently murdering "Don't Stop Believin'" with impressive confidence and zero rhythm.
"This is amazing!" Amelia shouts over the music.
"This is a lawsuit waiting to happen!" I shout back.
Margot shoves a laminated card into my hand. "Scavenger hunt list. Let's divide and conquer."
I scan the list:
1. Take a shot with a stranger
2. Get someone to buy you a drink
3. Photobomb a selfie
4. Find someone with the same name as the bride
5. Collect business cards from three different people
6. Get a bartender to make you a custom drink
7. Get a photo with the hottest person in Vegas
8. Learn a TikTok dance from a stranger
9. Get a group to sing "Happy Birthday" to the bride (even if it's not her birthday)
10. Steal a decoration from another bachelorette party
"Item seven," Jessica-or-Jennifer says, reading over my shoulder. "That's the most important one."
"Why?"
"Because it's worth double points." She grins. "And because it's hilarious watching people try to approach hot strangers."
"I'm not approaching hot strangers."
“According to Margot, you literally shared a flight with a hot stranger today."
"That was different. That was—"
I stop mid-sentence.
Because across the club, standing near the bar in a section that's somehow quieter and less chaotic than the rest of the room, is Vic.
My Vic.
From the plane.
Still wearing another suit—minus the tomato juice stains—talking to a man who's probably in his late fifties, silver-haired, with the kind of face that’s never smiled without a lawyer present.
"Oh my God," I breathe.
"What?" Margot follows my gaze. "Holy shit. Is that—"
"Plane Guy," I confirm.
"THAT'S Plane Guy?" Amelia shrieks. "Harper, he's gorgeous! Like, legitimately gorgeous! You said he was hot, but you didn't say he was—" She stops, squinting. "Wait. Why is he here?"
"I don't know. Business meeting, probably. He said he was in town for an acquisition."
"At a club called Remix at eleven PM on a Saturday?"
Good point.
"Maybe he's—"
"You should go talk to him," Margot interrupts.
"Absolutely not."
"Why not?"
"Because I—Because it would be weird! We said goodbye! Ships passing in the night, remember?"
"Ships that just happened to dock at the same club in a city of two million people," Margot shrugs. "That's fate."
"That's coincidence."
"That's fate disguised as coincidence." Amelia grabs my shoulders. "Harper. Listen to me. You need to go over there."
"I really don't—"
"Item seven. Hottest person in Vegas." She shoves the scavenger hunt card at me. "You're literally looking at him. And you've already met! It's perfect!"
"It's insane."
"It's Vegas!" Jessica-or-Jennifer adds. "Everything is insane!"
I look back at Vic. He's still talking to Silver Hair Guy, looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense, and even from across the club I can see that same stoic intensity from the plane.
And then, as if he can feel me staring, he looks up.
Our eyes meet, and for a moment, time slows.
Then—and I swear I'm not imagining this—the corner of his full mouth curves.
"He smiled at you!" Amelia hisses. "Did you see that? He SMILED!"
"That wasn't a smile. That was a facial tic. Probably cerebral palsy or something.”
"Go. NOW." Margot gives me a shove. "Before you lose your nerve."
I open my mouth, but my sisters are already pushing me forward, and suddenly I'm walking across the club, weaving through dancing bachelorettes and groups of guys in matching shirts, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
This is insane.
I'm going to walk over there, and he's going to think I'm stalking him. He's going to think I'm one of those people who can't take a hint.
He's going to—
I reach the bar area where he's standing.
He turns fully toward me, and up close, he's even more devastating than I remembered, one lock of his perfectly tousled hair falling towards his dark brows.
"Harper," he says, and the sound of my name in that deep tenor of his makes my throat seize.
"Vic. Hi. I—" I pan the club. "Funny seeing you here."