Page 62 of All Bets Are Off

“You don’t need to be,” he mouths back, and reaches for my hand again, pulling it onto his lap where he interlocks our fingers. His grip is secure, confident, as his eyes remain on mine.

The world momentarily stops spinning as my heart stills. Right now, it’s only us. Connor and me, high in the sky over Las Vegas, reality suspended below us. It feels like hope and potential. It feels . . . like a second chance. And I don’t want to pull away again. I want to feel the warmth of his hand wrapped in mine until this helicopter touches down and we have to forget this moment ever happened.

For the remaining few minutes of the flight, I leave my hand exactly where it is. The views below feel like a blur as I listen to the ramblings of others over the headsets. I’m too busy wondering how it’s even possible Connor still has the ability, after all these years, to send such a wave of electricity through my body. I’m not seventeen anymore. I’m not the young Addy I was when I loved Connor Lexington, but the way I feel . . . the way I feel now is the same way I felt then. And I hate it.

Hate it.

Because it proves Liam right—that I’m not perfect.

The helicopter lands safely back on the ground and I release a breath. Despite the guilt, I’m also filled with exhilaration and wonder. The entire experience barely lasted ten minutes, but it’ll be a memory I’ll hold on to forever. My bachelorette weekend, the lights of Las Vegas, Connor.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, I unravel my hand from his. He helps me out of my seat and I stretch my legs out to reach for the ground. When I finally stand up straight, I realize my knees feel weak, and I’m a little unsteady. These heels certainly don’t help.

“Better than sitting in a hotel room all night, right?” Connor says.

“That was the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen,” I say. “Thank you so much. I loved it! Did you enjoy it, too?”

Connor presses his lips together. Tucks both hands into the pockets of his jeans. “You know what I loved?” he says, and my heart skips a beat. “I loved seeing you—seeing the Addy I know.”

“You can’t . . .” I shake my head, turning away from him and walking back toward the terminal. In a quiet voice, I finish, “You can’t say things like that to me.”

Connor falls quickly into stride by my side. “It’s the truth, Addy. The way your eyes lit up . . . That’s the Adelaide I remember. Happy. Bright. Joyful.”

I turn sharply toward him, frustration bubbling beneath my skin. “We’ve had such a nice moment. Please don’t ruin it by saying things you shouldn’t.”

I don’t mean to snap at him the way I have been all weekend. When he first confronted me yesterday about the toxic reality of my relationship with Liam, I felt indignant. How dare he get involved? I felt justified in my anger toward him, because I convinced myself he was out of line, he was in the wrong. But now that frustration . . . Now that frustration is not because Connor is being a jerk. I’m angry because deep in my gut, I know every single word Connor says to me is the truth, and I don’t want the truth. It hurts too much.

Connor steps back from me, hands held up. “Okay,” he says in defeat. “Are you hungry? I can take you for something to eat or I can take you back to the hotel. Your choice.”

“Can we grab something to eat at the hotel so we’re nearby if Liam needs me?” I suggest, because that feels like a reasonable compromise, though I still see a flicker of dismay cross Connor’s face at the mere mention of Liam.

“Sure, I’ll get us an Uber,” he says, and pulls out his phone.

There’s tension in the air between us that wasn’t there fifteen minutes ago as we head inside the terminal. Emotions that are tangled and twisted and impossible to understand. It’s mean to even think it, but for a split second I wish Connor had never been granted the leave to make it out to Vegas this weekend—but then who would have been there to save me last night when Liam lost his temper after the whole spilled drink fiasco?

In the Uber back to the Cosmopolitan, we are lucky to have a driver who is exceptionally chatty, so his ramblings on how he moved to Vegas as a teenager and started a new life here fill in any awkward silences that may have risen in the back seat between Connor and me.

Inside the Cosmopolitan, the casino floor is even louder and more chaotic than it was last night, but it’s Saturday. Drinks are flowing and slot machines are jingling in between the buzz of voices and laughter as people from all walks of life enjoy their weekend. I wonder where Evie has ended up. And what about Hailey? Because with Hailey’s whereabouts, I imagine comes Theo’s, too. Just as long as everyone is on that plane home on Monday morning, I guess it doesn’t matter what exactly they all get up to between now and then. It’s not like I’m a great example of good decisions these days.

“Anything you fancy eating in particular?” Connor asks, warily glancing at me out of the corner of his eye as though he’s terrified of making too much eye contact with me.

“Something quick and easy,” I suggest, and I take the lead and head for the escalator up to the second floor, escaping from the hustle and bustle of the casino floor.

There are more shops and eateries up here, and my gaze immediately wanders over to a dessert shop. I see the cookies and the cakes and the milkshakes on the menu boards, and my stomach grumbles with approval. With the wedding fast approaching, I’ve been more strict than usual when it comes to the sweet treats lately. Liam’s mom encouraged me to pick a slim-fitting bridal gown, so I want to look my best when I walk down that aisle toward Liam six weeks from now wearing the dress, but fuck it! I want an unhealthy amount of sugar and a milkshake to wash it down.

“That!” I say, pointing eagerly toward the shop, and this gets Connor to crack a laugh.

“Dessert? For dinner?”

“It’s Vegas. We can absolutely eat dessert for dinner!” I say with a grin, then lower my voice and add, “If that’s okay with you, that is?”

Connor shakes his head, a smile stretching over his tanned face. “I’ll never turn down cake and you know it.”

We make our way over and browse our options—slices of cakes, a selection of different cookies, soft-serve ice cream, and even alcoholic milkshakes. I don’t know about Connor, but I’ve certainly never had an alcoholic milkshake before. When in Vegas . . .

“I’ll try that one,” I tell the woman behind the register, pointing to one of the milkshakes on the menu boards on the wall, a birthday-cake-inspired one with a spike of rum. “And three cookies, please. You can pick which kind.”

“Warmed up?” the woman asks, and I nod my head keenly, feeling my mouth salivating at the thought of warm, gooey cookies. She shifts her attention to Connor. “Anything for you?”