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“Are you sure you want another drink, then?” the bartender asks.
I glance at the woman who just proposed to me over mustard shrimp at a bar in Vegas. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
And by the time the next drink is gone, the Benadryl has started to kick in, and my mouth is tingling for another reason entirely—well, two reasons.
One, because of the tequila.
And two, because I’m suddenly itching to kiss Gracie Newman.
Chapter 13: Grace Newman
Is Five the Afternoon or Evening
Two Hours Before the Wedding
My third paloma slides right down, and I attacked those nachos with gusto after the allergic reaction. I don’t know why I didn’t think to ask if the barbecue shrimp had a mustard-based sauce. I always ask, but I guess being here in Vegas around Spencer and offering my solution to the Amelia problem distracted me.
I’m fine now. The Benadryl did the trick, though you’re not supposed to mix Benadryl with alcohol. I have a feeling whatever happens tonight will be a hazy memory in the morning, so at some point, I’ll cut myself off from palomas.
But they’re so good. And the more you have, the better they taste.
Spencer hasn’t slowed down on the tequila, though he orders us some cheeseburger sliders next.
“Well, now what?” I ask once our burgers are gone and our drinks are empty.
He shrugs. “I want to get out of here. Go somewhere. Do something.” He’s slurring.
“Let’s go up to your room and change clothes and find a club or something.” Am I slurring, too? I think I might be slurring.
“It’s five in the afternoon. Clubs aren’t open yet.” He signals to the bartender to cash out our tab as I giggle.
“Is five the afternoon?” I ask. “Or is it technically evening?”
“I think evening starts at six.”
I laugh and plant my feet on the floor to stand, and the whole room feels like it’s moving around me. I shake my head to clear it, and I follow Spencer over toward the elevators.
“Oh, my luggage,” I say as we stand there waiting for the doors to open.
“Where is it?”
“I checked it at guest services. I don’t have a room.”
“It’s fine. Stay with me. I’ve got plenty of space.”
“’K,” I say.
“We can just call down there and ask them to bring up your bag.”
“Sounds good,” I say. We step onto the elevator, and he stares at the keypad. I can’t quite discern if he’s trying to focus or if he can’t recall his room number, but then he makes a decision and pushes a button.
We stumble down the hall together, the tequila hitting me harder than I realized, and he fumbles with a door for a full minute before it opens. I’m standing behind him, giggling the entire time, but once the door opens, I remember something important.
There’s only one bed in his room.
He invited me to stay here with him.
Are we going to share a bed?
