Page 11 of All Bets Are Off

“Well, this one doesn’t seem to have any luck for you,” he says as my latest spin wins me—drum roll!—nothing. “But I don’t want you to move away to try another, so let me put you back up so you can keep playing a little longer.”

Before I can register his words, he stretches forward and slips a one-hundred-dollar bill into the notes slot of my machine. Now I drop my feigned placidity and snap my head back to stare at him.

“What are you doing?”

“Just told you. Keeping you next to me. Am I allowed to know your name?”

“It’s Evelyn,” I force out, my throat so dry my own name nearly gets stuck, “but most people just call me Evie.”

“Well, Evie, I hope you win big.”

Yeah, me fucking too. I don’t know what I did to deserve this generous man sitting down at the machine next to mine, but I’m definitely not upset about it—finding someone with stacks of cash they aren’t precious about is exactly the kind of person I was secretly praying I’d meet in this casino. “Thank you, kind stranger,” I say. “Am I allowed to know your name? It’s only fair.”

Zeus says, “Jameson Park.” He holds out his hand for me to shake, and as I slip my hand into his, my gaze is instantly drawn to the Rolex on his wrist, its silver watch face glistening under the casino lights. It’s a subtle display of wealth, but I kind of already figured this man is loaded, given he’s throwing one-hundred-dollar bills around like nothing and wearing a luxury shirt without a single crease distorting its pristine surface.

I want to be friends with this man. No—I need to be friends with this man.

“Hi, Jameson,” I say, removing my hand from his as I take note of the lack of wedding ring on his finger. “What brings you to Vegas, then?”

“In town for a work conference this weekend,” he says, and that explains the attire. As his game wins one of its jackpots, he coolly rubs a hand over his stubble-lined jaw like it’s no big deal. Celebratory music jingles from the machine and cartoon coins fill the screen. “Nice.”

“What kind of work do you do?” I ask, eyeballing my own machine out of the corner of my eye, willing it to do anything. Even winning fifty dollars would have me springing from my chair and doing a happy dance in these heels.

“I’m in tech,” Jameson answers, glancing over with a closed smile. “Yeah, I know. Computer geek, essentially. How about you? You certainly look younger than me, so I’m going to guess you’re still in school.”

I don’t know why, but my face flushes with embarrassment. I suppose I want to be a bit more intriguing than I actually am. “Yeah. University of Florida. I graduate next year,” I confirm, and then give him another once-over, trying to put an age to him because he certainly is not twenty-one. I’m not even sure he’s twenty-anything.

“Florida native?”

“Boca Raton born and bred,” I say proudly. “You?”

“I live in Atlanta these days.”

There’s a lull in the conversation as he focuses on his machine, but I haven’t made any spins in a while, because I’m forming a new plan in my head that is much better than simply praying I win huge amounts of money on these slot machines.

Option one: I become so endearingly charming that I make this rich, successful man fall in love with me and have him pay off my debts in order to save the life of the woman he loves, but that’s not very achievable over one weekend, and all hinges entirely on my personality . . . Suffice to say, not a foolproof plan.

So then there’s option two: I get this man so loaded up on booze that he loses all inhibitions and I steal his wallet. And perhaps that watch, too.

With perfect timing, a cocktail waitress waltzes past and I raise my hand to flag her down.

“We should get some drinks,” I suggest, and when the waitress approaches, I cast Jameson a flirtatious smile as I say, “We’ll have two vodka sodas, please. And can you make those doubles?”

7

Adelaide

Connor was dared earlier to throw a hundred dollars all on red, so of course Connor throws a hundred dollars all on red. And he wins, doubling his money, which sets us all up for a night of good fortunes.

The five of us have a roulette table to ourselves—just the guys and me—and as much as I’d rather be playing the no-pressure slot machines with the girls, the roulette is actually kind of fun. Only because we’re all up on our money, of course. I’m sure I’d enjoy it a lot less if we were losing, but it’s been an hour, and the couple hundred dollars each of the men started with is still in play.

I’m saving my own gambling budget for the slots later, so Liam let me pick out his numbers to make sure I still felt involved. I picked number eighteen because our anniversary is December eighteenth, number twelve for my birthday, and number three for his. Liam picks out zero and thirty. We stick with these same five numbers each spin, playing with five-dollar chips. Number eighteen comes in again for the third time tonight, winning us one hundred and eighty bucks. I’m starting to think that if this luck continues all weekend, perhaps our winnings will go some way toward paying off the outstanding honeymoon costs.

“You picked well, babe,” Liam says, cupping his hands around the stack of chips the dealer has just awarded him and dragging them across the roulette table toward us.

I clap my hands excitedly, but mostly I’m just relieved, because if we weren’t on a lucky streak right now, then I’m pretty sure my poor choice of numbers would be to blame.

“We’re doing good, huh?” I say, tucking myself in close to him and resting my head on his shoulder as I watch the roulette wheel spin round and round. We’re around seven hundred dollars up at the moment, and my fingers are permanently crossed in my lap, willing our luck to continue. Between the mounting costs of the wedding, the luxury honeymoon we’ve splurged on, and the home renovations we’ve decided to start, it’s an expensive chapter in our lives, and we could use a little extra cash right now.