“Oh, wow, isn’t this great?” I ask Pike, who’s granting me the most gorgeous smile I’ve ever seen.
“Fucking perfect,” he answers.
“You know, I think I’m good with poker. I think I can only go down from here. I would like to cash out, please.”
The dealer doesn’t ask questions. Instead, he counts my chips and offers me a cash-out slip. I glance down at it. “Two hundred dollars. Wow, Pike . . . what can we do with this?”
“Let’s find out,” he says as he takes my hand in his. “But first—shots.”
“Yes . . . shots.”
“This was a fantastic idea,” I say as we stand in line.
Pike is leaning against a rail and I’m leaning against him with his arms wrapped around my waist.
“The Fireball or the Ferris wheel?”
I glance back and smile. “Both.”
“Sure you’re not going to regret the Fireball tomorrow morning?”
I shake my head and pat my stomach. “No, that pretzel was my lifeline. I’m not drunk at all.”
He chuckles. “Says the girl who almost fell into a fountain.”
“Like I said before, there was a crack in the sidewalk, not my fault.”
“There was no crack. You’re just wearing your sea legs.”
“Okay, fine, maybe I’m drunk, but you are too.”
“Says who?” he asks in a cute tone.
“Says me. You told me in the Uber that your phone was ringing, but you answered your wallet.”
“Simple mistake.”
People move forward and so do we, putting us next in line.
While downing our second shot of Fireball, we heard a couple next to us talking about the Ferris wheel they just went on at the LINQ hotel. We listened intently about how they were able to have drinks and snacks while on board and that was an immediate sell for us.
Ferris wheel.
Las Vegas lights.
Booze.
Snacks.
We’re good to go.
But just in case there weren’t enough snacks, I dumped a bag of pretzels in my clutch. Who knows if they let counterfeit snacks on the Ferris wheel? We weren’t about to find out the hard way.
“We didn’t think about one thing,” Pike says as we hand our tickets to the ride attendant and step toward the pod dedicated for us.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“That we’re drunk and about to go on a spinning device.”
I pause for a second, thinking about it, but honestly, I’m too drunk to care. “Well, just don’t stick your head out the window.”
“The windows don’t open,” the attendant says. “For reasons like this.”
I tap my head. “Smart. Very smart.” I step up to the pod and glance in. “Um, we were told there were drinks and snacks on this thing?”
The attendant says, “That’s the happy-hour ride.”
“Is this not the happy-hour ride?”
He shakes his head.
“Gahhhh,” I groan as I stumble into the pod. “But what if we get off this thing and we’re no longer drunk?”
The attendant starts to close the door on us. “Then visit one of the million bars here in Vegas.”
The door clicks shut and the wheel starts to move, sending me straight into Pike, who’s sitting on the red leather bench off to the side. His hands grip my hips and hold me in place as I try to gain my bearings.
“God, that guy was rude, wasn’t he?” I move my hair out of my face with my whole hand. “So rude. Is it too much to ask for a drink around here?”
“I might have a drink,” Pike says, his voice like a warm blanket over my heated skin.
I smirk and lean against his chest. “Is this drink in your pants?”
“It is,” he answers.
“Not sure that qualifies as a drink, Mr. Greyson.”
“Not . . . that,” he says before moving me off his lap and onto the bench next to him. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out three small bottles of Fireball.
“And here I thought you were happy to have me on your lap. You were just storing booze in your britches.”
“If you don’t have booze in your britches then you’re not a proper Brit.”
“Really?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No, that’s not true at all, but we are made up of sixty percent tea.”
“Now that I believe.” He hands me a mini bottle of Fireball and I twist the top off. I take a sip and let the cinnamon flavor burn down my throat before I reach for my clutch and open it up to him. “When did you get these?”