Chapter Fourteen Adam
We’re led down a fluorescent-lit hall to a windowless room that seems straight out of the movies—the kind of place they hold people who cheat at cards while giant men like our security guard friend toss them around to send a message.
That kind of thing probably doesn’t happen in real life.
The guard gestures toward the metal table and four chairs. “Have a seat,” he says.
Eleanor sits first, tucking her hands under the table and glancing around the room.
I wonder if she finds it as vaguely threatening as I do.
I slide the second seat closer to hers before I sit, and have to consciously stop myself from draping my arm protectively across the back of her chair.
It’s possible I’m still stuck in fight-or-flight mode.
Doesn’t help that she looks a little worse for wear at this point.
Her hair’s a bit frizzy and tangled again, like it was first thing this morning, and her mascara has started to smudge under her eyes.
Though I have no room to talk. My clothes are rumpled, and the slippers have turned a disgusting shade of gray around the bottoms, and my feet have been sweating in them for hours.
I am very ready to get my hands on some new shoes.
The guard stays by the door while we get situated. “Would either of you like a bottle of water?”
“Yes, please,” Eleanor says. Her voice trembles a bit, and it has my hackles up. She’s scared, and it’s that Caruso guy’s fault.
She tips her head toward me. “One for him too.”
Then the guard is gone, shutting us alone in the room that may or may not be locked from the outside.
The room is small and exceedingly bright from the fluorescents overhead and four white walls that feel like they’re closing in on us.
Despite no evidence of a two-way mirror or anything of the sort, I’m fairly certain somewhere in this room is a microphone, and the casino can hear whatever we say to each other.
Which is why I probably shouldn’t say anything to Eleanor, at least until we figure out whether we’re in some kind of trouble.
Evidently, Eleanor has no such reservations.
“You okay?”
“Me? Yeah.” I grimace and touch my eye again. “I’ll live.”
“You fully got punched in the face back there.”
“I did,” I say with a slow nod.
The concern doesn’t leave her eyes. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
I suck my cheeks in, ignoring the way it sends another twinge of pain across one side of my face. It’s hard to feel anything other than pleased, at the moment. “Aw, you care.”
Eleanor immediately leans back and crosses her arms, all traces of distress vanishing. “About your face? I mean sure, it’s a nice face.”
I grin. “Is it?”
She scoffs, trying and failing to look irritated. “Oh, whatever. You know you have a pretty face.”
“Not as pretty as yours.”
Speaking of pretty, her cheeks are rosy now, eyes bright. She squirms in her chair and huffs again. Oh, she wants so badly to seem flippant. “Obviously.”
My grin gets wider—wide enough it kind of stings my bruised cheekbone. “Obviously,” I echo, soft and earnest.
We hold each other’s gaze for a long-drawn-out moment. It feels like an unspoken dare. Like we’re both waiting for the other one to look away first, or to say something cutting to balance out the compliments. Or maybe to lean in and close the remaining distance between us.
Once again I wonder if this room has a hidden camera. If somewhere else in the building, someone is eating popcorn and watching this all play out on a security feed like we’re their new favorite reality TV show, waiting for one of us to break the silence.
After a few beats, the drive to win fades to the background, and I duck my head with a small laugh. “I’ve never been hit like that before. It kind of sucks.”
“You were very brave.” Eleanor’s voice is teasing again. It might even be considered fond-adjacent.
“Granted, my ears were ringing a bit from that punch, but did I hear you accuse that guy of being a hit man?”
“Ha, no,” she says, too quickly. “That would be absurd.”
The door pops open, and the giant security officer from before lumbers in carrying a tablet in one bear paw of a hand, and two bottles of water in the other. He sets them down on the table and Eleanor thanks him before passing one to me.
While she unscrews the cap and sips hers, I lift my own and press the chilled plastic to my bruised face. It really does hurt like a bitch.
“No problem,” the man says without looking up from his tablet. I squint and read the name off his badge. Malcolm.
“I’m sure you know why I brought you two in here.”
Eleanor and I exchange a glance. She must’ve heard what the guy said about me ruining his daughter’s wedding. So yeah, I have a hunch.
“I assume it has something to do with that asshole coldcocking me,” I say.
“Well, yes. Mr. Caruso is being held down the hall. It’s up to you whether you’d like to press assault charges. He’s still pretty adamant you pay for the ice sculpture—”
“The what?” Eleanor interjects.
Malcolm hesitates, taking in my confused look. “Last night, you two were uninvited guests at the Caruso-Vitale wedding and knocked over their ice sculpture. Mr. Caruso is seeking compensation in the amount of seven hundred dollars.”
“For an ice sculpture?” I burst out.
“This is normal ice we’re talking about, right?” Eleanor asks. “The kind that melts after a couple hours anyway?”
“Are we sure it was actually broken?” Like I told Eleanor, I vaguely remember a swan carved from ice, but I definitely do not remember causing a whole fucking scene.
Malcolm heaves a sigh like he is not paid enough to deal with this kind of drama. He taps away at the tablet, then spins it around so we can watch the security footage he’s cued up.
As the video starts playing, I lean forward, desperate for any scraps that will help fill in the remaining gaps of last night.
It becomes immediately apparent that it’s really us on the tape, and that we did in fact sneak into a private event being held here last night.
From the time stamp of 3:20 a.m., it was likely an hour or so after we left the karaoke bar and right before we called it a night and headed back to Eleanor’s hotel.
Eleanor’s leg jiggles under the table as the video continues, and for a moment I lose track of the events I’m supposed to be paying attention to—the room that’s elaborately decorated with florals and, yes, an ice sculpture of a swan—and my focus fixates on Eleanor and myself on-screen.
I watch as past-Eleanor rubs her arms as if she’s cold. Past-me takes note of this, and immediately shifts closer, pulling Eleanor’s back to my front. Then my arms wind around her and my chin hooks over her shoulder.
Mae called us “relationship goals” earlier. I was dying to ask what she meant by that. What she saw and heard last night, when she met us. Apparently, whatever interaction we had with her was enough to convince her we were not only a real couple, but head over heels in love with each other.
I’ve always been cool with PDA in relationships. And I get extra tactile when I’m drunk. So it’s not altogether surprising to see myself on this screen, reaching for Eleanor like I have permission to do so.
What is surprising is that she reaches back. Even from this limited camera angle, I can see Eleanor put her arms over mine, see her melt into the embrace. As though my touch was something she craved.
I can’t look away from the screen. I want to pause it and rewind. It feels like I’m watching some other couple, one who has been together for ages. One who is effortlessly comfortable with each other.
Past-Eleanor tips her head back onto my shoulder, and past-me straightens enough to graze my lips across the top of her head, my arm still wrapped around her and my thumb rubbing a small pattern against her bare arm.
And then we shift a little closer to the ice statue looming behind us, and I see myself pull out my phone, hold it out for a selfie, only to fumble it a moment later.
In my effort to catch the phone, I lose my balance and knock into the sculpture, and the next moment it’s shattered on the ground. Everything in the video goes eerily still for a moment, and then past-Eleanor grabs my hand and runs.
Malcolm pauses the video. “This jog your memory at all?”
I finally tear my gaze away from the tablet to glance sidelong at Eleanor. Her head is tipped toward mine, but she won’t meet my eye. The space between us feels charged. Magnetic. Like I could reach out and she’d mirror my movement.
I’ve spent a significant portion of the day wishing last night never happened. Right now I’d give almost anything to go back—not to change what happened, but to relive it and actually remember this time.
Eleanor clears her throat and the tension between us snaps. Her poker face is back. “That was clearly an accident.”
Malcolm lifts one hand in a concession, and then there’s a knock on the door.
He gets up slowly—seems like everything Malcolm does is at half speed, which makes sense.
It probably takes a lot of effort to move all those muscles around.
He steps into the hall to speak with another security guard, leaving the door cracked open behind him.
A moment later, Malcolm steps back into the room, trailed by the younger woman I saw out on the casino floor. The bride. She offers us a nervous wave.
“Hey, guys,” she says, twisting the diamond rings on her finger around and around, like she’s not used to wearing them yet. “Um. I’m Andrea. We didn’t really get a chance to meet last night.”
I palm my face and immediately drop my hand, because ow.
“Are you hurt?”
This is directed toward me, and it’s not like she decked me, so I smile tightly. “I’m all right.”
“Listen, I talked to my dad. You totally don’t have to worry about the ice sculpture.”
Eleanor and I exchange another quick glance. “Oh… that’s great. Thank you,” she says.