13. Liam
13
LIAM
W e land in Vegas in the early afternoon and go straight to the hotel. Whitney passes out in the cab ride over, unsurprising as she didn’t sleep at all on the flight. She was too busy freaking out.
I had no idea how to handle something like that. Luke was always the supportive guy, the guy you’d want around in a bad situation. I, on the other hand, am a fucking mess when it comes to emotions. So, when Whitney started having what I can only assume was a panic attack, I just made stuff up based on films I’ve seen. People always say to breathe, and the counting thing made sense in the moment. It seemed to help her, and God knows why, but I really, really wanted to help her in that moment. Maybe it was the look in her eyes, or maybe it was the threat of tears, but I couldn’t just sit there and do nothing.
We pull up to Caesars Palace, and I nudge her awake. “Did you have to book us at the biggest place?”
She shrugs. “Go big or go home, baby. It’s Vegas.”
I blink heavily. This girl surprises me more and more every time she opens her mouth.
The hotel is huge, and the lobby is a whirlwind of activity. Whitney makes us stop on the way to take a picture with a Roman warrior before we check in, and I have to urge her multiple times to stay on task, pulling her away from distraction after distraction.
When we get to the desk, the girl behind the desk pulls up our reservation, which I discover is for only one room.
I turn to Whitney. “Seriously? You only got one room?”
She smiles brightly at the girl checking us in before grabbing my arm and pulling me to the side. “How suspicious would it be for a married couple to have separate rooms? What if the cops come after us and start asking questions?” she whisper-yells at me.
“Don’t you think you’re being a bit intense about all this?”
She looks me dead in the eye. “I’m being thorough, Liam. Be glad I got us two beds, and let’s hope the feds don’t come sniffing.”
Shaking my head, I follow her as she turns back to the desk. She finishes checking us in, and I grab our bags. On the lift, I lean down and breathe against the back of her neck. “Any other precautions I should know about? Think the feds will find us if we don’t consummate the marriage?”
She shoves me, and I stumble to the side with laughter.
“Not funny,” she mutters.
We walk down the hallway until we find our room. I tap my key and open the door, stepping back and gesturing for her to go ahead. I follow her into the room, and I don’t know why I’m surprised when I see that there is in fact only one bed.
One king-sized bed in the center of the room.
“What the hell?” I say, but I doubt Whitney can hear it over her own laughter. I turn to her, and she’s bent over, slapping her knee like a crazy person.
“Of course. Of course it’s one bed.”
“What’s so funny?” I ask her.
“It’s just so… cliche,” she says through her laughs. “So classic .”
With a groan, I turn on my heels and slam the door shut. “Come on. Let’s go downstairs. They obviously made a mistake. You did book double beds, right?”
“I told you. I would’ve booked two rooms, but this is our wedding weekend, sweetheart .”
“Cut it out,” I growl. “We’re getting a second room.”
“Obviously.”
We’re silent on the ride down, and I can tell she hates every moment of it.
There’s a line downstairs now, and it takes us a few minutes before we can talk to someone, who tells us that the hotel is completely sold out — because of course it is. I argue for a few minutes, and they offer to bring up a cot as soon as any come available, so we head upstairs, both more frustrated than ever.
When we get back to the room, Whitney drops her bag and crosses towards the bathroom.
“I’m gonna shower.”
“Cool.”
She closes the bathroom door, leaving me alone in the silent room. I fall back against the bed with a sigh. This trip is not going well so far. What’s next? An Elvis impersonator as our officiant?
How the hell am I supposed to share a bed with Whitney? As much as the girl drives me crazy, I’d be an idiot not to notice how sexy she is. She better wear a full PJ set. I usually sleep shirtless, but the idea of my bare chest pressing against her…
Fuck.
Pillow wall. That’s the only solution. We’ll have to cling to our sides like our life depends on it. There can be absolutely no touching, not after how my body reacted to our handholding on the plane. My pants were tightening just from rubbing circles on her bloody hand. What the hell is that about? One minute she’s Chore Wheel Girl with an orange juice obsession, the next she’s making my body react for the first time in months.
It’s not like there haven’t been opportunities to have sex. Women at the bar have propositioned me once or twice, but I just haven’t felt like it was worth it. Like I was worth it. So, I haven’t thought about it. But now…
I hear the shower turn off and sit up in bed. Shaking my head, I open my bag, pretending to unpack. There’s barely anything in there since we’re only here for the weekend, but I have nothing else to do, so I might as well pick a drawer. I hear the bathroom door open behind me and make the terrible mistake of turning at the sound.
Whitney is standing in front of me in nothing but a towel.
Holy shit.
Our gazes meet, and her eyes flare with something dangerous before she looks down.
“Forgot my stuff,” she mumbles and crosses over to her own bag before scurrying back into the bathroom.
There is no way I am going to survive this weekend.