a lot. “Don’t you think it’ll look shady that we didn’t have any family and friends with us?”
His eyes remained directed on the screen of his MacBook Air when he drawled in as dry a delivery as I’d ever heard, “No. I don’t. We’re so hot for each other we couldn’t wait.”
Small talk had never been my thing. I’d never excelled at idle chitchat. Generally, men loved talking about themselves and I encouraged it. In business, I stuck to my repertoire: asking about the wife, the children, and the latest vacation. I even dabbled in sports talk but not because I liked it, purely as a negotiating ploy. Problem was, I couldn’t do any of that with Scott. We weren’t friends, or acquaintances. We weren’t even business partners. In his mind, we were adversaries and he treated me as such, with barely contained hostility.
Sighing, I stared out the small oval window over his shoulder. “Who’s taking care of the dogs?”
“Drake,” he’d said without further explanation.
Shut down once again, I didn’t utter another word and went back to checking out the specs on a building in Kuala Lumpur Frank was considering purchasing. I could do silence. I could do silence better than anyone.
* * *
“Scott Blackstone. I have a reservation,” he said to the receptionist, a pretty brunette with a coy smile. Glancing up from her screen, her doe eyes widened. So did the smile, and it was directed at Scott with the intensity of a thousand suns.
He’d turned more than a few heads the moment we’d walked into the Wynn. Dressed in a perfectly tailored navy blue suit that hugged the contours of his new muscles and expensive shades on his face, I could see why. He looked like the millionaire he was, and women dug that. It just wasn’t my thing. I had no doubt that Scott had shot out of his mother’s womb stunning the doctors and nurses with his Instagram-model-level masculine beauty. But to me, he was ten times more appealing with his rugged tan and scruffy face and body like a back road than when he’d been getting his nails buffed.
“Yes, the ambassador’s suite. Welcome back, Mr. Blackstone,” the receptionist replied.
Of course they knew him here. I kept my disapproval to myself, however. It was none of my business what Scott did with his time––whether we were married or not.
The receptionist slid the keycards across the marble counter, and in the process not-so-accidentally bumped fingers with him. The harsh look he gave the woman didn’t escape me. It did, however, seem disproportionate for such an insignificant lapse in professionalism. Then again, I’d given up trying to make sense of him. He was just as unpredictable as his father. Which was why when he handed me one of the keys and took off without a word across the casino, I simply followed. His demeanor screamed get away from me. So I did, falling back.
“Scott,” I called out, slowing to a full stop while he marched ahead without any regard. I actually thought he’d forgotten about me. “Scott,” I reiterated louder, and a few men playing at a black jack table turned to watch us. Stopping, he turned and stared blankly. His animosity was a palpable thing.
“I’ll see you later…” When he didn’t speak and didn’t break eye contact, I continued. “I have some stuff to do.”
Like buy a dress. Getting married hadn’t been at the top of my to-do list this weekend. I hadn’t packed a dress suitable for a wedding.
“We meet at the Graceland Wedding Chapel at nine. Don’t be late.” With that, he turned and headed for the elevators, leaving behind a bunch of unanswered questions and one soon-to-be wife who stood there contemplating whether I would live to regret this decision as early as tomorrow.
Where the fuck is he?
The screen on my phone read 9:30. No texts. No missed calls. Standing at the altar, I smiled nervously at Elvis, the man who was supposed to be officiating my wedding. Supposed to be being the operative words––meaning if Scott hadn’t already fled the country, subsequently jilting me.
This was not how I saw my wedding day going. I’d stopped overindulging in fantasies of happily ever after when I came to terms with the fact that I was never going to find Josh. After thousands of dollars spent, I was no closer to knowing where he’d gone than I was six years ago when I’d hired an ex-NYPD detective to look for him. But I’d done it.