The Fortunate Ones

I smile. “I am too.”

…

After the concierge leaves me at the door of our suite, I spend a few minutes snooping around. I can’t guess at the square footage, but it’s completely ridiculous and has probably housed Beyoncé and Jay-Z at some point. There are two bedrooms off of a main living area. Down one hallway I find a small gym, sauna, and wine room. Down another hallway, there’s an office and kitchen. At one point, I GET LOST—that’s how big this place is.

I fulfill the promise I made to James by slipping into a fluffy robe and padding around in the hotel slippers. After I unpack my clothes and fall back onto the bed in a heap of comfy pillows and fluffy blankets, I force myself to work out in the gym so I don’t feel the least bit guilty about the salted caramel tart I tack on to the end of my room service order.

Later in the afternoon, I start to get ready for the evening, happy to take my time. James and I have plans to meet for dinner at the restaurant on the top floor. Their Asian-fusion cuisine has been touted as the best in Vegas, and I’m giddy to try it out.

I want to make up for my yoga pants and sweatshirt. The flirty dress I borrowed from Ellie is a little too short and a little too red. Back home I would have paired it with a leather jacket to try to tone it down, but this is Vegas—the city of sin. So, I don’t think twice when I swipe on an extra coat of mascara and paint my lips in a deep red lipstick appropriately named Candy Apple. With my long black hair and red lips, I look like Snow White’s evil twin.

I head to the elevators and check my reflection in the glass. The nude heels were a nice touch, and the dress is a definite head-turner. That’s further confirmed when I step on the elevator and two well-dressed men pause their conversation. I turn and face the front, concealing my smile from them. The elevator starts to carry us higher and as we pass floor after floor without stopping, I assume they’re also headed to the restaurant.

“Did you catch the panel?” one of them asks.

“Yeah, but I left early. What’d you think of Ashwood?” My ears perk up. “I’ve always heard he’s kind of a prick, but he seemed all right.”

“I thought he was pretty good. He was actually a few years ahead of me at Caltech. I didn’t think he’d remember me. We only had one class together, but I was able to catch up with him after the panel.”

The first guy groans. “Oh c’mon, don’t tell me you’re another Ashwood sycophant.”

I cover up a laugh with a semi-realistic cough. Neither of them notices.

“Name one person here who’s accomplished more in less time than he has,” the Ashwood sycophant says in his defense. “I don’t want to grovel at his feet, but if I get a chance to pick his brain, you better believe I’m going to try.”

He snorts. “Keep praying at the altar of BioWear. Meanwhile, Martin Stone is the real tech leader. You know their stock just split again?”

“What has Stone done lately? Come talk to me in five years when Apple is begging to buy out BioWear.”

The elevator arrives on the top floor and the doors swoop open. The hostess stand is down a thin hallway, and I make sure both men can hear me as I bend forward and announce that I’m here under a reservation for James Ashwood.

The hostess beams. “Of course. Right this way.”

And just because I can’t help it, I turn over my shoulder and soak in the shock on both of their faces. Their jaws are still on the floor when I offer up a sweet smile. “Enjoy your dinner, gentlemen.”

The hostess leads me to the back of the restaurant where a small table has been reserved against floor-to-ceiling windows. The Vegas strip spreads out for a mile on either side—twinkling lights, the Bellagio fountains, thousands of tourists snapping photos and strolling from one casino to the next.

A well-dressed waiter arrives and although I’m starving, I don’t want to order any food until James arrives. I’m five minutes late, which means James should be here already. I peer around the waiter’s shoulder, confirm he isn’t in the restaurant, and then settle with water.

15 minutes later, I’m still sitting at the table alone, and I decide to switch to white wine.

“How about something from the kitchen while you wait for your companion?”

I shift awkwardly on my seat, aware that the confidence I felt heading up to the restaurant wanes with each minute I’m forced to sit here and wait on my date. I’m suddenly a member of the Lonely Hearts Club, and I don’t like it.