Page 22 of All Bets Are Off

“But there’s no way she’d be marrying the guy if she wasn’t happy,” Theo says, lightening his tone, “so yeah, I do think she’s happy.”

Good point. Addy’s a people-pleaser, but not to the extent of marrying someone. We’re all out here in Vegas right now because she and Liam are in love and excited to begin forever together, and we shouldn’t be doubting their relationship. We should be celebrating this special occasion with them, yet we’re standing up here in this replica Eiffel Tower instead.

I turn to Theo with a small smile. “Shall we get that writing session under way so we can join them in the club sooner?”

“Eiffel Tower, check,” Theo says as we turn back toward the elevator. “Is there anything specific you have in mind that you’d like us to see tomorrow? Maybe we could start at the south end of the strip and work our way up, touring each hotel on our way? I don’t think we’ll manage the entire strip in one day, though. It might have to roll over into Sunday—”

The laugh I let out silences his excited rambling, and he stares at me blankly. “It’s okay, Theo. We won’t still be handcuffed together tomorrow, remember? Melissa will unlock us later.” I shake our hands as though to remind him.

Now Theo understands. As he pulls me into the elevator, he smirks. “And how does that change anything, Hails?”

12

Evelyn

Oh my God, he’s here.

Jameson is fucking here.

Liam and Addy have disappeared to get cleaned up after she accidentally spilled a drink on him; Melissa has left to take a phone call; Hailey and Theo are still nowhere to be seen; Connor just stormed out of the booth. I’m left with only the remaining bachelor party—John and Tyler—who are attempting to flirt with women on the edge of the dance floor and failing pathetically.

In other words, I am alone in this booth, frozen, as Jameson emerges through the crowd toward me. It hasn’t been long since I escaped his hotel room, yet his facial expression is still just as fierce as when I left.

“Do not let that man come anywhere near me!” I hiss to the bouncer guarding our booth, and he body-blocks some poor guy innocently bouncing in sync with the beat drop. “No, not him. Him!” I point even more manically at Jameson while searching for an escape route in my peripheral vision, but there are none unless I dive over the back of the booth.

“This guy?” the bouncer checks with me as he stretches an arm out in front of Jameson.

“Yes, yes! He’s . . . harassing me,” I lie, and Jameson tilts his head to one side with an incredulous look as I shield myself behind the table of ice buckets. “Please keep him out of here.”

The bouncer hustles Jameson along. “The lady says no, so let’s keep it moving.”

“In that case,” Jameson yells over the music, “I guess I won’t be returning this.”

He holds up a hand, and I spot the thin, fragile chain of my broken bracelet pinched between his thumb and forefinger. I gasp, instinctively stepping forward to reach out for it, but he cruelly pulls it away.

“Funny, isn’t it? You try to steal my jewelry, but instead I end up having yours,” Jameson says with a smirk, pressed up against the outstretched arm of the bouncer. The strobe lights dance over the emerald of his eyes, making them seem even brighter than they did back in his hotel room. “Anyway, I just came here to taunt you. Enjoy the rest of your night, Evelyn.” He turns and promptly disappears into the thick of the crowd.

“Hey, hey! Hold up!” I yell after him, ignoring the confusion on the bouncer’s face as I scramble out of the booth and onto the dance floor.

I push through bodies, earn myself some justified cussing from strangers, and follow Jameson out of the club as he slips through the exit. The lines to get into the club are insane now, snaking down the corridor. I race after Jameson as he heads in the direction of the elevators back to the rooms.

“Jameson!” I bellow.

He glances back at me over his shoulder as he walks, then just shakes his head as he continues on. I speed up, but I’m developing hot spots in these heels after rocking them for too many hours, and I can feel the blisters forming as I trot after him. Stepping around his body to face him, I bring him to a halt.

First of all, I ask, “How did you know where to find me?”

Jameson flashes me a wicked smirk. He sticks a hand into the pocket of his pants and fishes out a crumpled ball of paper. As he opens it up and smooths out the creases, he reads aloud, “Midnight: check in for bottle service at Marquee,” and I gasp.

He’s holding my copy of the itinerary for the entire weekend—the itinerary that says exactly where I will be every single hour. It must have fallen out of my purse during our scuffle back in his room. Damn Hailey Clark and her fucking itineraries.

“I wasn’t sure if you were really here on a bachelorette party or if you were actually just some professional con artist, roaming the Las Vegas strip in search of your next unsuspecting victim,” Jameson says, tucking the itinerary back into his pocket. The top few buttons of his shirt are still undone, exposing a sprinkle of dark chest hair. “But I get it now, all of those double vodkas you insisted on ordering. It’s my fault, really, for believing we were having a good time together.”

“I’m not a con artist,” I say with an indignant scoff, much to his aggravation. I quickly rearrange my features into a very serious, very apologetic expression. “I’m not a con artist,” I repeat. “I just really, really, really need to make some money.”

“I gave you money,” Jameson reminds me. “Back in the casino. I threw a hundred bucks into your machine, and you turned it into a few hundred more.”

“And that was great! But it’s still not enough.”