There was a beat of collective squealing and clapping. Pete leapt up from the couch to hug her, Danica already moving in for her own.
Gwen straightened automatically, forcing her mouth into a polite smile as Lillian made her way around the room,greeting each person in turn. Her handshake was firm and warm, and she held Gwen’s eyes just a beat too long before moving on. Exactly Gwen’s type, damn it.
And Maggie saw it. Gwen caught the flicker in her wife’s — ex-wife’s? — eyes from across the room. Not quite jealousy, not quite curiosity, but something sharp enough to register before Maggie smoothed it over with another laugh and turned back to Pete.
“She’s only here for two nights,” Izzy was saying, “but she’s in her own room, so she’s not part of the Great Bed Shortage of 2025.”
“Bless you for that,” Gwen said, earning a laugh from Kiera.
The chaos picked right back up, but Gwen kept stealing glances at Maggie, wondering what exactly she’d seen in that look — and why she wanted to see it again.
The group spilled out of the suite in a noisy, glittering wave, heels clicking against the carpet, Gwen trailing near the back with Lillian as the others chattered about drink menus and which clubs had the “least gross” bathrooms. The elevator ride was a crush of perfume and laughter, Pete making an exaggerated show of fanning herself when Danica whispered something in her ear.
The hotel’s cocktail bar was tucked behind a set of brass-trimmed glass doors, the kind of place that seemed designed to make you forget the casino was just down the hall. Low lighting, soft jazz drifting under the hum of conversation, and curved velvet couches arranged in little pockets of intimacy. Everything gleamed — marble tabletops, cut crystal glasses, the gold-flecked mural behind the bar. Even the cocktail list read like a novella: smoked rosemary, elderflower foam, artisanal bitters you could never find outside a zip code with a trust fund.
Maggie was immediately claimed by Pete and Izzy, who had spread themselves across one of the deep couches likethey’d been saving the space for her. Gwen hesitated only a moment before sliding onto the couch opposite — next to Lillian.
“Thought we lost you there,” Lillian said with a grin, leaning back like she owned the space. Her arm brushed Gwen’s as she picked up the menu. “What’s your poison?”
Gwen glanced across the low table at Maggie, who was laughing at something Pete said, her head tipped back just enough to make Gwen remember exactly how her throat felt under her mouth. She forced her gaze back to the menu. “Depends what you recommend.”
Lillian’s smile widened, slow and sure. “Dangerous answer.”
Across the table, Maggie’s laugh faltered, just barely, before she reached for her own menu. Gwen caught the flicker again — that quick, contained reaction that made her wonder if maybe she wasn’t the only one feeling off-balance tonight.
The server arrived to take orders, and the table filled with talk about garnishes and glassware. But under it all, Gwen felt the hum of awareness — of Lillian beside her, of Maggie watching.
The first roundof drinks had barely hit the table before Pete was waving down a server with a conspiratorial grin. “Special occasion,” she stage-whispered, jerking a thumb toward herself and Danica. “We want bottle service.”
Gwen raised a brow, but in Vegas, the words didn’t sound quite as absurd as they would in Austin.
Ten minutes later, the bottle girl arrived in a glittering corset top, heels that defied physics, and a grin brighter than the sparkler blazing from the top of a frosted champagne bucket. She held up a bottle of vodka and a bottle of champagne like she was presenting crown jewels, the sparklerspitting silver light over the table while the group whooped and clapped. Maggie joined in, laughing as the bottle girl popped the champagne with a messy flourish that made Danica shriek.
Somewhere between pouring the first round and mixing the second, the bar’s low hum shifted into a pulsing bass. The crowd thickened, the lights dimmed, and conversation became something you had to lean into. Gwen felt Lillian’s shoulder brush hers as they ducked their heads together, a mutual concession to the noise.
“So,” Lillian said, voice warm in Gwen’s ear. “How did they rope you into this circus?”
Gwen could feel Maggie’s gaze before she even glanced up — sure enough, across the table, Maggie’s eyes were fixed on them, her fingers idly circling the rim of her glass. Gwen kept her own expression neutral, even easy, but she let her shoulder rest a beat longer against Lillian’s before leaning back.
“Same way they get everyone else,” Gwen replied. “A mix of emotional blackmail and alcohol.”
Lillian laughed, tipping her glass toward Gwen’s. “And here I thought you were just here for the champagne.”
Gwen clinked her glass lightly against Lillian’s, then let her eyes slide back to Maggie — just for a moment. Not enough to say anything. Just enough to let her notice.
No flirting. Nothing she could be called out on. Just a quiet reminder that Gwen could still get someone’s attention… and maybe, just maybe, still wanted Maggie to care.
Lillian shifted, angling herself toward Gwen so they could hear each other without shouting. “You here for all three nights?” she asked.
“Apparently,” Gwen said, sipping her champagne. “I’ve been informed it’s a marathon, not a sprint.”
Lillian’s mouth curved in a way that made it hard to tell if she was amused or sympathetic. “I live here, so I’m more of aday-trip sprinter myself. Two nights on the Strip would probably kill me.”
Gwen blinked. “Wait, you live here? In Vegas?”
“Technically,” Lillian said, rolling her wrist. “Henderson. Suburbs. I avoid this part of town unless I’m dragged out for a birthday or some sort of family obligation.” She glanced toward Pete, who was now arm in arm with Danica on the couch. “This counts as both.”
“What do you do?” Gwen asked, curiosity outweighing her usual guardedness.
