“His private jet, Emma.”Right. Jamie really is such a sweet, unassuming guy, that I often forget that he and his circle of friends are loaded. “So now he and his entire half of the wedding party are on their way,” Nikki continues. “He told his parents that he and Sybil have food poisoning, so they can’t make the welcome party.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m going to need a spreadsheet to keep track of which lies we’ve told which people.” Which reminds me… “Um, by the way, have you been online at all?” I ask as casually as possible, trying to ascertain if I’m still safe from her learning about the #burritogate video going viral.
“No. I’ve been playing nice with Jamie and his friends all day. Why?” Her voice turns suspicious.
“No reason,” I say. Finn suppresses a chuckle, and I elbow him in the ribs.
“The plane is scheduled to leave at nine thirty p.m.”
“What are we going to do, Nikki?” I hate the desperation in my voice.
“Find Sybil! Just follow that little blue dot and hog-tie her to a blackjack table when you find her. I’ve got to go change into something Vegas-y. I’ll text you when we land.”
I hang up with Nikki and start frantically looking up flight times and drive times, feeling like one of those headset-wearing tech-whiz characters in an action TV show, coaching the main character on how to defuse a bomb. “Okay, they leave at nine thirty p.m., an hour from now, it’s a thirty-minute flight, and Google says it’ll take less than twenty minutes for them to get to the casino from the airport. Which means we have less than two hours to locate Sybil before Jamie arrives and realizes anything is amiss. We need to find her. Now.”
Finn gives me a nod and leads me back toward the lobby. If I wasn’t so stressed about finding Sybil, I might be impressed with how smoothly Finn and I are able to transition from pressing against each other at the roulette table—seemingly moments away from crashing through the barrier of “just friends” yet again—to throwing ourselves headlong into problem-solving mode. How our chemistry extends beyond just the obvious physical attraction to the kind of mind-meld partnership that made us such a good debate team back in the day.
We make our way out of Caesars Palace, because Sybil’s blue dot, which had been relatively stable for a few hours, hasnow started bouncing around, ping-ponging back and forth between the various casinos. She seems to have covered every square inch of the Strip.
“What is she even doing?” I ask, but Finn just shrugs his shoulders.
“Maybe she’s trying to dodge us, or maybe she’s trying to wrangle a troupe of lost circus monkeys. I can’t pretend to understand what goes on in her mind.”
“This is such a nightmare,” I say. “We aren’t any closer to finding Sybil now than when we got here an hour ago.”
“Maybe we need to shift tactics. Why don’t we throw out a little bait and let Sybil come tous?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, post a photo of us having a good time. We’ll see if Sybil checks it. Maybe she’ll come out of the woodwork to join us.” My face must show how unconvinced I am, so Finn continues. “Look, the last time you freaked out about finding Sybil, which was only”—he looks down at his watch—“seven hours ago, you literally fainted and fell into the ocean.”
“I didn’t fall. You caught me.”
Finn smiles, and something flutters in my stomach. A pang of regret shoots through me that I was unconscious during Finn’s rescue. As I look up into his deep brown eyes, my hand seems to move of its own volition, resting right over his heart. He curls his fingers around mine, and his eyes drop to my mouth. My body sways toward him, and he snaps to attention. “You’re barely able to stay on your feet. The only thing you’ve had since lunch is coffee and tequila, so I’m making the executive decision that we’re going to get dinner. We’ll snap a selfie of us eating something amazing, and Sybil will join us beforedessert. It just might work—and even if it doesn’t, at least we get a meal.” I’m not sure lack of food is what has me swaying toward him, but I don’t correct Finn. He throws his arm around my shoulder and leads me toward the Bellagio. I try to ignore how perfectly I fit under his arm, how good he smells, and how safe I feel tucked up against him. I know this idea of luring Sybil to us via a fun selfie is ridiculous, but Finn’s right—we need to eat. I won’t be any good to Sybil—or Nikki and Jamie when they arrive—if I’m collapsed on the (questionably sticky) casino carpet. Plus, it’s nice to let someone else take the lead for once. When we reach the Bellagio, Finn maneuvers us toward a swanky sushi restaurant.
Reluctantly, I pull myself away from Finn and say, “We can just go to the food court. We don’t need to grab something fancy.”
“You think we’re going to lure Sybil out of hiding with Sbarro?” Finn asks with mock outrage. “No. This needs to be the meal of a lifetime.”
I roll my eyes at his commitment to the bit—this excuse that we’re concocting for ourselves about why taking a break for dinner is actually in service to our mission—but secretly I’m grateful. I’m not sure what it means that justifying things this way feels safer to me. Maybe it’s because it saves me from having to be vulnerable and actually express my own wants and needs. But that’s stupid. Why can’t I just say that I’m hungry, damn it, and I want to eat sitting down… with Finn? I think back to earlier this evening, at the fountain.Isn’t there something that you want just for you?Finn asked me. Yes, yes there is.
“And besides,” Finn starts to say. Then he pauses, looking me straight in the eye. I suddenly feel light-headed, but that’sprobably just because, like Finn said, I’ve been running on caffeine and alcohol since lunchtime. Not because Finn is looking at me like it’smehe wants to devour, and not some sashimi. “I’ve owed you a nice dinner since junior year.”
And with that, Finn presses past me toward the host stand.
“A table for two, please,” Finn says, beginning to look at the menu on the wall.
“Of course.” The host smiles. “Unfortunately, we do have a dress code.”
“Oh.” I look down at my (Finn’s) sweatshirt, shorts, and flip-flops. Not exactly fancy sushi restaurant attire.
To soften the blow, she adds, “We require that gentlemen wear jackets.”
“Ah, right. I’ve got a sport coat in my car,” Finn says, stepping away from the host’s. “I’m sure it’s wrinkled to hell, but it should do. Why don’t you go grab an outfit from one of the ten million shops around. I’m going to grab a room so I can shower. I’ll leave a key for you at the front desk so you can, too, and then we can meet under the Eiffel Tower in an hour? I’ll find us a place to grab dinner.”
I nod, realizing that my impromptu ocean dip during the kayaking fiasco has left my hair a crunchy, tangled disaster. A shower would be great. Though mostly I’m just fighting myself not to picture Finn taking his shower.
“See you soon,” Finn says with an easy grin.
