Page 10 of Hitched to My Enemy
He hesitated for a moment, studying my face like he was looking for signs of a trap. Then his mouth curved in a smile that was pure sin and trouble. "To spectacularly irresponsible decisions."
We drank, and I felt the last of my professional armor dissolve under the combined assault of alcohol and his proximity. The room seemed to tilt slightly, or maybe that was just the effect he was having on me.
"So," I said, settling onto his couch with less grace than usual. "What do spectacularly irresponsible people do in Vegas at—" I checked my phone, squinting at the numbers. "Holy hell, is it really two in the morning?"
"Time flies when you're having an existential crisis," he said dryly, joining me on the couch but maintaining careful distance. "What do you want to do, Harlow? What would completely responsible, by-the-book Investigator Clarke never do?"
I considered this, my whiskey-soaked brain conjuring up images that ranged from mildly rebellious to career-ending. "Dance on tables? Get a tattoo? Steal a car?" I paused, struck by a sudden thought. "Go somewhere normal people actually hang out in Vegas instead of fancy penthouse parties?"
His eyebrows rose. "Normal people?"
"You know—tourists, gamblers, people who didn't spend more on their outfit tonight than I make in a month." I gestured to my champagne gold dress, which had somehow managed to stay pristine despite the evening's chaos. "People who go to the cheesy chapels and the tacky shows and all the places that make Vegas actually fun instead of just impressive."
Easton was quiet for a moment, and I worried I'd somehow insulted him. Then he started laughing—not the polished chuckle I'd heard him use with investors, but a real laugh that transformed his entire face.
"You want to see the real Vegas?" He stood, extending his hand with a grin that made my stomach flip. "Come on, Investigator. Let's go be spectacularly normal."
The night air hit us like a wall of heat and noise as we stepped out of the climate-controlled perfection of the Jade Petal. The Strip stretched out before us in all its neon glory—flashing signs advertising everything from buffets to magic shows, crowds of tourists stumbling between casinos, street performers and hawkers calling out their wares.
It was loud and bright and completely overwhelming, and I loved it.
"Where to first?" Easton asked, and I realized he'd loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves, looking more relaxed than I'd seen him all night.
"Surprise me," I said, feeling giddy and reckless and more alive than I had in years.
We wandered the Strip like ordinary tourists, stopping to watch a street magician make playing cards appear and disappear, sharing an enormous slice of pizza from a place that stayed open all night, taking silly photos with the costumed characters who posed with anyone willing to tip them.
Easton was different out here, away from the pressure and politics of his own world. He was funnier, more spontaneous, occasionally self-deprecating in a way that made him seem almost... approachable. When a particularly aggressive street performer tried to rope us into his act, Easton played along with such good humor that I found myself laughing until my sides hurt.
"You're not what I expected," I told him as we paused in front of the Bellagio fountains, watching the water dance to some soaring orchestral piece.
"What did you expect?"
"Someone who'd be horrified by this." I gestured to encompass the tourists around us, many of whom were clearly several drinks past sobriety. "Someone too sophisticated for the regular Vegas experience."
He was quiet for a moment, watching the fountains cycle through their choreographed routine. "I grew up coming here with my parents," he said finally. "Back when Vegas was more about the experience and less about the luxury. We'd stay at the places that gave away free shows with dinner, spend hours watching the magic acts and the lounge singers. It was..." He paused, searching for words. "It was magical. Corny and tacky and absolutely magical."
Something warm unfurled in my chest at the soft nostalgia in his voice. "What changed?"
"I did. Got older, made money, started thinking I was too good for the things that used to make me happy." He turned to me, and even in the flashing neon lights, I could see the sincerity in his eyes. "Tonight's the first time in years I've remembered why I fell in love with this city in the first place."
We started walking again, no particular destination in mind, just drifting through the crowds and the lights and the wonderful absurdity of Vegas at three in the morning. The alcohol had settled into a pleasant warmth in my veins, making everything seem slightly dreamlike and full of possibility.
That's when I saw it.
"Oh my God." I stopped so suddenly that Easton nearly ran into me. "Look at that."
I was pointing at a small chapel wedged between a gift shop and a 24-hour wedding photography studio. The sign read "Little Chapel of Love" in pink neon cursive, with smaller text promising "Quick Ceremonies - No Waiting - Elvis Available Upon Request."
"Vegas wedding chapel," Easton said, following my gaze. "Tourist trap extraordinaire. Why?"
But I was transfixed by the tackiness of it all—the plastic flowers in the window, the blinking heart-shaped lights, the sign advertising wedding packages starting at $99. It was everything I'd always associated with Vegas: cheap, quick, and completely divorced from reality.
"Have you ever been in one?" I asked, still staring at the chapel.
"Can't say I have. You?"
"Never." The word came out wistful, and I realized I was swaying slightly on my feet. "Always wondered what it was like. The whole spontaneous, impulsive, throw-caution-to-the-wind thing."
