Page 21 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son
It’s beautiful.
Absolutely beautiful.
Tens of thousands of mosaic pieces shimmer in pastel waves across the floor. My suitcase rattles over the uneven surface.
The casino thunders around us. Bright lights flicker from machines. Violet shifts to yellow then green. Some machines rotate, flashing promises of wealth in crimson red as pixelated fireworks explode in the background. Cheerful fast-tempoed music plays in the background. I move my gaze away from the gaudy machines to the potted trees and celestial sky, the color the sort a Renaissance painter might spend hours blending to get perfect. Stained glass gleams in one corner, welcoming people to its French-themed restaurant.
“See, I took you to Europe for our wedding!” Dmitri exclaims happily.
“Uh-huh.” I force my gaze away, resisting the impulse to linger on the way his lips stretch upward and the sparkle of his dark eyes.
All those people raving about jeweled-colored eyes have it wrong. The most beautiful color in the world is brown.
“Is okay?” Dmitri asks, his voice less confident than normal, and I hate that my facial expression might have had anything to do with making him feel uncertain. “We can go somewhere else if you prefer. Is not most expensive place, but—”
“I don’t need the most expensive hotel in Vegas. I love Paris.”
“Is romantic,” Dmitri says. “Good for wedding.”
He takes my hand and leads me to the hotel reception. Crystal chandeliers cascade from the gilded ceiling, making the area feel more Paris Opera House than US hotel.
Women strut in short blue dresses with not-short slits, holding trays stacked with brightly colored cocktails: Aperol Spritzes and Camparis, the drinks that look good on Instagram, dazzling and eye-catching even on a luxury vacation grid.
All I can focus on is the feel of Dmitri’s hand around mine. He’s making a habit of it.
The desk clerk hands Dmitri our room keys. We navigate toward the elevators. The gold doors slide shut, and the soft whoosh of the elevator and its ornate decor does nothing to lessen the tension thickening between us.
Dmitri and I are going to be sharing a hotel room.
Dmitri and I are getting married.
The elevator pings, and Dmitri exits. I follow quickly after.
He taps the key card and pushes open our door.
My eyes lock onto the Eiffel Tower glowing outside our window. “Wow.”
“Is nice.”
“It’s super nice.” I drift toward the view, passing gleaming surfaces.
The room is larger than any hotel room I’ve stayed in before.
“Let’s get changed,” Dmitri says. “Wedding is in twenty minutes.”
I spin around. “Seriously?”
“I am always serious.” Dmitri removes his coat and flings it on the bed. He then pulls off his soft long-sleeved t-shirt. His chest is bare. Completely. Devastatingly.
I stare, transfixed, then wrench my gaze away.
There were muscles on his chest. So many muscles.
Each plane and ridge makes my fingers itch to touch.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Am not getting married in street clothes,” he says. “And neither should you.”
