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 thinkingabout 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 inLedgerwithhotelsandChicagoand47 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.
