We watch the little ball spin around and around, slowing and then finally dropping into a slot.
"Sixteen," the dealer announces, no emotion to be found in his voice. Makes sense, I guess. It's not like he can cheer for the winners. He gets to work paying out those who won and taking the chips of those who lost. He matches Mom's two chips with two more, and she lifts her hand to high-five Owen.
They play and play, until I remind them both it's time to go or we’ll miss the show. Owen is down to his last few chips, and Mom only has six left. He glances at his watch and pushes his three chips to my mom.
"Here," he nods, urging her to add them to her tiny stack. "Last bet. Whatever you want, and then we'll leave."
Mom looks up at me, winks, then turns back to the table. She slides all the chips to the number nine.My birthday. 9/9.
I hold my breath when the dealer releases the ball, hoping against all reason that the universe will make the ball slide into the nine slot. My mom deserves a big win.
It slows, until it loses momentum and drops, bumping along. I strain my neck to see where it stopped.
"Twenty-eight," the dealer declares.
Damn. The number right next to nine.
Mom and Owen stand up and she shrugs and sips from that ridiculous drink.
We leave for the show, and on the way, Mom tosses the yard cup in the trash.
Owen chose the show well;my mom absolutely loves it. I watch her more than I watch the entertainment taking place in front of me. Her eyes widen when the acrobatics shock her; she places a palm over her heart when she thinks they are dangerous, and claps heartily when they perform tricks that appear to defy possibility.
After it's over, she grabs Owen's arm and hugs him. "Thank you," she gushes. "It was amazing. Everything I wanted a show in Vegas to be. Why did I wait so long to come here?"
We leave the area and agree to get one more drink and late-night food. I've heard it said that nothing good happens after ten p.m., but I don't think that counts in this zip code.
By the time our bellies are full, Mom is exhausted. We walk her back to her room and say goodnight, making sure she gets in safely. When Owen told us he'd booked two rooms, I'd offered to stay with my mom, but she said no. To say she's supportive of my reunion with Owen would be the understatement of the century. I’ve never seen her so happy.
As soon as her door is closed, Owen's hand wraps around my waist and pulls me in so my back is pressed to his front. "Are you ready to turn into a pumpkin, Cinderella?" his husky voice tickles my ear. "Or can I interest you in more Vegas-style debauchery?"
I rest the back of my head on his shoulder. "How debaucherous are we talking? And yes, I know that's probably not a word."
His chuckle rolls through me. "Not small-cards-thrust-into-hands type of debauchery."
I laugh as I picture my mom carrying that blond girl around in her hand.
"More drinks. More gambling. Some gratuitous public displays of affection." He pushes against me as he says it, pressing his length against my ass.
My breath catches in my throat. "I think I could handle a little more of all three of those things."
We're stepping onto the elevator when I pull my phone from my purse. I haven't looked at it once since we left the hotel room hours and hours ago.
I'm taken aback when I see my previous boss’ name listed as a missed call. Owen notices my surprise.
"Who's that?" he asks, fingertip bumping against my phone screen.
Jeanne Chapman."My boss in New York. Old boss, I mean." A weird feeling is sneaking out from behind hidden places inside me. The feeling of waking in the morning and getting ready, of doing my hair and donning professional clothes. The energetic air of the city in the morning, the scent of coffee, the smells of food and gas and a million different perfumes. The six-figure salary I once garnered. I miss being a part of something. I can't deny that.
Owen takes my free hand, lifting it in the air between us and running a feather-light touch across the top. "Penny for your thoughts?"
The elevator descends and my stomach drops. It stops a few floors below and three people get on. Two guys, one girl. They have accents, something European that I can't place accurately.
"I have no idea why she'd be calling me," I murmur, turning into him.
"She left a voicemail. Listen to it."
The elevator deposits us on the ground floor, right into the casino. I step to the side, trying to find a quieter space, which is as futile as it should be considering my current location. Throngs of people excitedly talk over one another, slot machines whistle and ring their bells. I stick a finger in one ear to drown out the din and click on Jeanne's voicemail. Owen stands beside me, surveying the happenings of the casino, hands tucked in the pockets of his navy-blue dress pants. These slacks are not like the ones he wears for work. These are tighter, more modern, and they make him look sexy as sin.
