By the time we reach Vegas, the sun is setting, casting gold across the Strip. Lights flicker on, as if someone flipped a switch, illuminating the skyline in pinks, blues, and a neon glow.
Grant parks the truck in the hotel garage and helps me out, keeping his hand on my lower back as we walk inside. The hotel is huge—glass and metal and marble floors reflecting thousands of tiny lights. The air smells like perfume and espresso and that fresh, cold scent every big hotel seems to have.
He checks in at the desk while I try not to stare at how stupidly handsome he looks with his dog tags glinting under the lights.
Our room is on one of the upper floors, and when he opens the door and steps aside to let me in, I freeze.
The room is beautiful. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the strip. A huge king bed with crisp white linens. Soft carpet under my shoes. The city stretching out in glittering lights beneath us.
“Oh,” I whisper.
He watches me take it in, and I swear he looks… proud. Like giving me nice things is something he wants to do. Needs to do.
He wheels in my small suitcase and his duffel and sets them by the bed.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
I nod. “It’s just… a lot.”
“Too much?” he asks immediately, stepping toward me as if he’ll turn around and drive me home this second if I say yes.
“No,” I say quickly. “Not too much. Just… big.”
He relaxes instantly. His hand brushes mine. Warm. Steady. Everything about him is steady.
We change for the ceremony, me in the tiny bathroom, him in the main room, and when I step out in my old thrift-store tea-length white dress, I instantly regret it.
It shows too much of my arms. Too much of my hips. Too much of everything. It’s outdated. Cheap.
I smooth my hands over the skirt, heart pounding.
“What do you think?” I start, then realize he’s staring at me.
No, not staring.
Devouring.
Slowly, he crosses the room. His large hands slide around my waist, tugging me close.
“Rowan,” he says, voice low. Rough. Almost reverent. “You look gorgeous.”
My eyes burn. “Really?”
“Yes.” His fingers brush my jaw, gentle but firm. “You’re perfect.”
He takes my hand—and doesn’t let go.
Not as he leads me to the elevator. Not as we walk out onto the street. Not as we head toward the small white chapel tucked between two giant hotels.
I’m trembling so much that he pulls me against his side, letting his warmth settle around me.
“Suri’s going to kill me for not being here,” I mumble, thinking about my best friend. She begged her supervisor toswitch shifts, but they were short-staffed. She’s texted me ten times since we left, sending excited emojis and telling me to take photos.
“She’ll meet me soon,” Grant says easily. “We’ll go out to dinner when she has time.”
We.
Not me.
