“I bet,” she says softly, “you’ve never done anything truly stupid.”
I laugh, offended. “And that’s a bad thing? People rely on me. I have responsibilities. I don’t have the luxury of doing something stupid. It wouldn’t just affect me.”
She studies me this time, no mockery in her gaze. Just curiosity.
“Ah,” she says quietly. “So you’re noble.”
“I’m realistic.”
“You’re twenty-something and built like a Greek god, standing in the middle of Vegas at two in the morning,” she counters. “You’re allowed one bad decision.”
And because I must be more drunk than I thought, I follow the flash of yellow out of the club and into the night.
The shift from air-conditioned bass-thumping chaos to thick, dry Vegas heat hits like a wall, but Sunshine doesn’t slow down.
A streetlight flickers overhead, casting gold over her hair and that sinful yellow dress that should honestly be illegal in at least twelve states. It hugs her curves like it was stitched with bad intentions.
She weaves through tourists on the sidewalk, occasionally catching my hand to pull me along.
We hit a dive bar, then another, the night blurring together as the tequila and the scotch hold a summit in my brain.
By the time we’re stumbling out of the third bar, my laughter is louder than I’ve ever heard it.
She’s currently doing a terrible, exaggerated version of a dance she saw a guy doing inside, and I’m leaning against a lamppost, watching her with a grin that feels permanent.
"You are a terrible dancer," I shout, the sound echoing off the buildings.
"I am anexpressivedancer!" she yells back, stumbling toward me and grabbing my lapels. "You, on the other hand, are standing there like a statue. A very handsome, very grumpy statue."
We turn a corner, leaving the main strip behind for a street lined with flickering pink and blue signs.
Somehow, I don’t feel like myself tonight.
It has to be the mix of alcohol, recklessness, and her laughter, which is its own kind of intoxication.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt this alive.
We keep walking, and I slide an arm around her, pulling her into my side. She fits there too easily.
She smells incredible. Warm. Sweet. Dangerous.
We’re giggling like teenagers, flirting without restraint, and I know I want to take this woman home tonight. I want to make her forget everything but my name. I want to drag every breathless sound out of her that I can.
And then I see something that derails every single one of those thoughts.
We’re standing directly in front of a small whitewashed building with a neon-lit heart glowing over the door.
L’Amour & Luck 24-Hour Wedding Chapel.
I stop walking.
“Oh, look,” I say, staring at it like it just personally challenged me. “A classic Vegas landmark.”
She follows my gaze, then looks up at me with a grin that’s already forming.
“Do you think they have a ‘Grumpy Groom’ special?” She says it like she’s teasing, like this whole neon chapel thing is just a joke.
But something in my tequila-soaked brain latches onto it like it’s the greatest idea ever conceived by mankind.
