“Mr. Darcy is a fictional character,” I explain to the bartender. “How can any man live up to the expectations of the greatest selling romance novel of all time?”
I slur that last part as I turn back to see Ginny glaring at her fiancé.
A former Darcy High star quarterback with shaggy blond hair, Dave always had Ginny wrapped around his finger. I roll my eyes as the peroxide blond chick on his other side flirts with him. Dave’s already had too much to drink. As soon as the bartender drifts away to wait on another customer, I elbow Ginny to take Dave’s shot away from him.
“Logan.” Ginny hands him Dave’s shot. “Honey, please drink this. I need to make sure Dave gets to the altar—with me.”
Logan narrows his eyes at Ginny. “What’s going on with you two? I thought you were on the same page.”
She doesn’t answer him, but she incessantly taps the wooden countertop in front of her with her manicured nails.
I look closely into her brown eyes that are wide with fear. “Nobody’s judging you.”
Ginny pulls a few strands of unruly waves of hair away from my head so she can whisper into my ear. “I don’t want people thinking I coerced Dave into marrying me by getting knocked up.”
But Logan’s leaning in, and he overhears. “Maybe you should back out.”
“Nope.” Ginny’s nearly black chin-length bob bounces as she nods her head. “I’m sure. Sure, sure, sure.”
“Really.” I raise my eyebrows. “Because your pale face gives you away. Maybe if you could drink, you’d be better at hiding how much you don’t want to be here.”
“Oh, come on.” Ginny sighs. “We all know the truth. Dave and I ain’t no Jane Austen love story, and a quickie marriage in Vegas isn’t gonna change that.”
“This isn’t the nineteenth century, and you have a lot more choices now,” I say. “If you want to change your mind and go back home, I fully support you.”
Ginny mouths me a “thank you,” and then says, “I’m okay. I came here to get married, and married I’m going to get. Logan, drink up.” She gestures to the full glass in his hand.
But he turns to me. “This one’s yours, Mace.” He hands me the shot as he says in a low voice, “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”
I trust him, but I laugh. “You’re as drunk as I am. I’m not sure I can count on you tonight.” I take the glass out of his hand. “But I’m kind of enjoying not worrying for an evening,” I say before I swallow down the shot. The whiskey burns less this time, and the tension in my shoulders nearly disappears.
Logan puts his hand on mine, and I smile at him.
The air thickens around us. But this is different than it is at home. I feel free. Here, in a strange city where I know no one, I don’t have any burdens, any pressure, or any problems to solve. It’s like the road’s wide open for a second, and I see all the possibilities and none of the pitfalls.
It hasn’t even been a year since our last hook-up. And yet the more I drink, the less I care.
Logan beckons me to follow him. I stumble off my stool and let him lead me to the private hallway where the restrooms are.
I lean back against the wall, and Logan braces his hands on either side of my head.
“A Vegas exemption,” he murmurs into my ear.
I shiver at his hot breath on my neck. “What’s a Vegas exemption?”
“No rules while we’re here. No once a year mandates. None of that. We do whatever we want.”
I loop my arms around his neck, and his hands go to my waist.
No rules.
No restrictions.
I love this idea. But…
“That sounds like a fantasy,” I mumble. “Not real life.”
“It’s not real life,” he says. “It’s Vegas, baby.”
