Rebound Night In The Casino Suite

The penthouse suite at the Bellagio glowed like something stolen from a fever dream—floor-to-ceiling windows framing the Strip’s neon pulse, white marble floors cool under bare feet, a sunken living room drowning in cream leather and crystal. Camila dropped her overnight bag just inside the door and spun slowly, the short hem of her travel dress flipping up her thighs. At twenty-two she still moved like the college girl Barrett had watched grow into a woman, all long dark hair and reckless curves, freshly divorced and vibrating with the need to burn something down.

Barrett tipped the bellman and shut the door. Forty-eight, silver just starting at his temples, the tailored charcoal suit still sharp after the flight from LA. He had paid for everything—first-class tickets, the suite, the weekend—because her mother had called him crying about the humiliating end of Camila’s eight-month marriage, the cheating bastard, the public scene at the country club. Barrett had offered the trip before he could stop himself. Anything to wipe that bruised look off her face. Anything to be alone with her for forty-eight hours without the ghost of his ex-wife between them.

“Jesus, Barrett,” Camila breathed, kicking off her heels. “You went full sugar-daddy on this one.”

“Watch your mouth.” The words came out rougher than he intended. He loosened his tie, watching the way the city lights painted gold across the tops of her breasts where the dress dipped low. Ten years he had been married to her mother. Ten years of Christmas mornings and poolside barbecues and pretending the heat that crackled whenever Camila walked into a room was just paternal pride. It had never been. She had always looked at him too long, laughed too low, worn bikinis that left nothing to the imagination while he forced himself to keep his eyes on the newspaper.

Now the divorce papers were signed, her mother was three thousand miles away with a new boyfriend, and Camila was standing in a Vegas suite that cost more per night than most people’s rent, looking at him like she already knew how this ended.

They hit the floor by nine. Blackjack, then craps, champagne arriving in endless flutes. Camila pressed against his side every time the dice rolled, her hip brushing his, perfume—something dark and expensive—rising off her skin. She won three grand on a single hard eight and shrieked, throwing her arms around his neck, mouth hot against his ear.