This Changes Everything

by Gretchen Galway

  It was one of the things she liked about him. Her ex-husband had always put on a show for her birthday, anniversaries, Valentine’s Day—candy and flowers, candlelit dinners, love letters (via email), and even, during graduate school, poems. Since the divorce, she hated all that phony sentiment, seeing it as flashy distraction from the lack of solid, steady respect and affection underneath. If Dylan could do all that phony romantic crap while he was sleeping with her best friend, what good was it? She wouldn’t mind if she never got flowers again for the rest of her life.

  But it was touching to see the surprised pleasure on Trixie’s face. Even if she was faking half of it.

  They continued on through the airport to the baggage and rental cars, and soon they were driving down the Strip in a massive Buick that had enough room just in the trunk for several dead bodies. Cleo craned her neck out the window to check out the shining black pyramid with its laser beam pointing to the sky, the glimmering fountains, the moat, the roller coaster tracks snaking between glass and steel, and the afternoon crowd of curious families pushing tiny children in strollers between the hollow-eyed adults who looked as if they’d been up for days, either working or playing, for profit or loss or every point between.

  When they pulled up in front of their hotel, Cleo and Sly got out of the car long before Trixie and Hugo, who were talking to each other in low, serious voices in the back seat.

  “What’s the problem?” Cleo asked Sly.

  “I think she’s trying to decide if she wants to room with you or Hugo,” he said. “You know, not sure which would be more likely to result in our happy ending.”

  “I wouldn’t mind sharing a room with her,” Cleo said. “You snore like a congested—”

  “Yes, yes, so you’ve said. Don’t rub it in.”

  “I’d be rubbing the pillow into your noisy gob if I had to sleep with you again,” she continued.

  He didn’t laugh. “We’re not here for our own comfort though, are we?”

  “You’re right. Hugo’s odds are better if he can get her alone and work his—”

  Trixie and Hugo finally joined them on the sidewalk. Putting an arm around Cleo’s shoulders, Trixie walked with her down a red carpet through two enormous fake oak gates into reception.

  “I wonder if I could ask you a favor,” Trixie whispered.

  “Is it about the room? Because I wouldn’t mind sharing.”

  “Actually, I was hoping we could be naughty.” Trixie gave her an exaggerated wink. “Hugo is so handsome, don’t you think? I don’t see why I should even try to resist him.”

  Cleo swerved to avoid a bellhop. “You’ve really got it bad, huh?”

  Trixie bit her lip and stared straight ahead. “Oh, yes. Very bad.”

  “Sure,” Cleo said, trying not to laugh. “I knew I might be stuck with Sly when I agreed to come.”

  “Is he that terrible?”

  “I’ll survive.”

  Trixie hugged her. “Thank you. I’ll make you a blackberry pie when we get home.”

  They checked in and went up to their rooms, which were on different floors, so they separated in the elevator with plans to meet in a few hours for dinner at a restaurant Trixie had read about in Sunset magazine. When Cleo and Sly reached the door of their room, a wave of discomfort washed over her as she relived the last time they’d traveled together. Unlike the trip to Carmel, he wasn’t trying to impress anyone, so he wore faded jeans, an old leather jacket, and sported two days’ worth of stubble.

  He’d never looked so appealing. She had to keep mentally slapping herself.

  They walked into their room, a luxurious suite decorated in shades of cream, crimson, and black. Everything was glossy or plush—marble, steel, glass, velvet. The bedroom was behind a separate door, and a sunken living room overlooked the mountains. There was enough space for a string quartet and a little dancing.

  While they were unpacking, Sly’s phone rang. He looked at it and put it to his ear. “Hi, Hugo, what’s up?” After a long pause, he looked at Cleo. “I’ll ask her, but she says I snore like an elephant seal.”

  “What is it?” Cleo asked.

  “Trixie’s getting cold feet,” Sly said. “They’ve only got one bed. Would you be willing to switch rooms?”

  “Both of us?”

  He nodded. “Should I tell them no?”

  Trixie must’ve overestimated how well she could manipulate this thing with Hugo. “No, I don’t mind. I’ll have to repack though. Tell them to come up in ten minutes.”

  Sly smiled at her, told Hugo what she’d said, and hung up. “Thanks, Cleo. That’s really nice of you.”

  “She’s a nice lady,” Cleo said. “In spite of the scheming.”

  “You’re the nice one. I’m here to help Hugo out, but you don’t owe them anything.”

  “Maybe Hugo has a chance,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to stand between him and his dream girl.”

  “Are you being sarcastic?

  “Not at all. I’m being romantic,” she said.

  He snorted. “You? Since when?”

  “Hey. I’m as romantic as anybody.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Don’t sound so skeptical,” she said.

  “You’re the least romantic woman I know.”

  “I’ve very romantic, actually. You don’t know everything about me.”

  “True enough.” Shooting her an unreadable glance, he rolled his suitcase out of the closet and began to pack again.

  Less than five minutes later, Trixie and Hugo arrived with their luggage.

  “This is so embarrassing,” Trixie said, hanging her head in the doorway.

  “It’s OK, no problem.” Cleo pulled her in, waving aside the stream of apologies and gratitude. “No problem at all.”

  Trixie tugged nervously at her cardigan’s buttons. “I’ll treat you both to dinner.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Cleo reached for her suitcase, but Sly already had it and hers and was moving into the hall.

  “You’ll change your mind when you see the other room,” Hugo said. “This place is much nicer than the one we’re sticking you with.”

  Three minutes later, as they dragged their suitcases into their new room, she saw that Hugo hadn’t been kidding.

  One bed. No lounge area, no dance floor, no wet bar. And their only view was of a neighboring hotel and a parking lot.

  Shooting her worried glances, Sly set his key card on the TV stand. “I can get us an upgrade if this doesn’t work for you. Looks like the auction package wasn’t much of a prize.”

  “Why was ours so much better? Wasn’t the prize for two rooms?”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “Well…”

  “Did you pay extra for the suite?”

  “It was comped. I travel a lot. I used some of my points.” He held up his phone. “I could do it again.”

  “If Trixie heard we did that, she’d feel bad. No, we’ll survive. I’ll wear earplugs. And take a horse sedative. No problemo.”

  He smiled. “Thanks, Cleo. You’re a champ.”

  Champ. Like a ten-year-old on the neighborhood Little League team. Or the family golden retriever. Hardly a femme fatale.

  She shoved her suitcase into the closet. Since when had she ever, ever, ever wanted to be a femme fatale? Vegas was already messing with her head.

  Sly bumped into her behind, then grabbed her shoulder to steady her before she toppled headfirst into the closet. “Sorry,” he said, holding her now with both hands.

  She pivoted in his grasp and looked up at him, her face only inches away from his. “No wonder Trixie felt uncomfortable.”

  His voice dropped. “Do you feel uncomfortable?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Of course not,” he repeated, dropping his gaze. “Well, should we go down to the casino?”

  “Throw some money away?”

  “Sometimes it’s worth taking a few risks,” he said.

  “You go ahead. I’ve got mor
e to risk than you do.”

  “I don’t know about that,” he said.

  ♢ ♡ ♤

  Instead of going down to the casino, Sly took the stairs up to the suite that had been his and Cleo’s less than an hour earlier.

  Hugo opened the door wearing the athletic-fit gray polo shirt and designer jeans that Sly had given him secretly on the plane. He must’ve just changed into it.

  “Hi, Uncle,” Sly said. “Don’t you look nice?”

  “Thank you.” Hugo’s dark look warned Sly not to say anything more in front of Trixie.

  As if Sly would be so clumsy. With a wink, he went inside and stepped down into the living room. Trixie was sitting on the couch, her bare feet propped on the coffee table, peeling a banana.

  “How’s the campaign going?” she asked.

  “Early days, early days.” Sly joined her on the couch. “She wants you to know you’re welcome to change rooms again at any time.”

  “She’s so nice.” She took a bite and smiled at him as she chewed.

  “She is,” Sly said. “But not too nice to realize you’re manipulating her.”

  Trixie put the hand, the one holding the banana, over her heart. “Me? I don’t have that kind of power. I’m just setting the stage for her to do what she wants to do.”

  “That’s a good definition of manipulation, Trixie,” Hugo said, coming over. He used his telepathic powers—and a head jerk—to tell Sly to get off the couch.

  Sly indulged his favorite uncle by getting up, and Hugo quickly took his place. Although Trixie believed the budding romance with Hugo was a sham to get Cleo to Las Vegas, the lonely vet wasn’t going to waste any time to make it real.

  “How about we see that comedy show tonight?” Hugo asked. “Sly and Cleo can do something by themselves. Much more romantic.”

  “Too soon,” Trixie said. “If she’s alone with Sly, her defenses will be up. We need to be there so she doesn’t think too hard.”

  Sly met Hugo’s gaze. He was probably wondering if that would work with Trixie too.

  “Actually, Trixie,” Sly said, “I came by to ask you to give us some space.”

  “Oh, you don’t want that. Sharing that little room will force you to spend some intimate time together. After all these years, that’s just the push you need.” She popped the last bite of banana into her mouth. “The push she needs.”

  “I think he meant a different kind of space,” Hugo said.

  “I know you mean well—” Sly began.

  Trixie shook her head. “This suite looks romantic, but close quarters are much better. If you’d both been in here, she’d get the bedroom to herself and a door to lock you out of it.” She patted Hugo’s knee. “Like Hugo, you’d end up sleeping on the sofa out here.”

  Hugo looked up at Sly. We’ll see about that, his expression said.

  “I don’t mind the smaller room,” Sly said. “We’ll be fine. But I’d like you to please not try to help in any other ways.”

  “Me?”

  Sly smiled. “Yes, you. I appreciate that you’ve got my back—”

  “It’s a very nice back,” she said quickly. “Such broad shoulders.”

  “They run in the family,” Hugo said, stretching to expand his chest.

  This wasn’t going well. Sly pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’ll have dinner together, but I’ve got it from here, all right? I’ll take her to the Bellagio fountains later. And tomorrow I’ve got reservations at a romantic Italian place. I’ve let my beard grow out a little because I know she goes in for that.”

  “And you’ve dressed down a little bit,” Hugo said, nodding. “I noticed the old jeans.”

  “See?” Sly asked. “Hugo gets it. I know what I’m doing, Trixie. You can relax.”

  “Funny you said that about tickets.” Hugo turned to Trixie. “As I was saying, I can get tickets for some stand-up comedian from TV. I’ve never heard of him, but he’s supposed to be good.”

  “We should all go to that,” Trixie said. “Laughter is such an aphrodisiac for women. She’ll be laughing and feeling happy and relaxed and then look at you and all your sexy stubble and realize she has to get in bed with you as soon as possible. And once you sleep together I’m sure a lot of this fuss will melt away.”

  Hugo’s face lit up. “Comedy does that?”

  But for Sly, the thought of having Trixie as his wingman all night, whispering advice as she judged his seductive technique, drove him to harden his tone. “Thank you, Trixie, but no. We won’t be joining you for the show.” He moved to the door. “But we will see you for dinner very soon.”

  “Where is she, by the way?” Trixie asked.

  “She went to explore. She’s never been to Las Vegas before.”

  Hugo coughed. “And you let her go without you?”

  Sly knew his uncle was teasing him. “She wanted to be alone. I don’t think she would’ve appreciated me chaining her to my ankle.”

  “You never know,” Trixie said. “Maybe I should ask her if she goes in for that stuff. Like that book.”

  “Please,” Sly said, holding up his hands. “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Now that I’ve met her, I’m not so sure,” Trixie said. “She’s afraid of something bigger than you. Not that you’re a huge guy. In fact, I think you might even be smaller than her, volumewise, but you know what I mean, something emotional. Possibly sexual. I hope you’re prepared for that.”

  Sly wasn’t going to discuss the traumas of Cleo’s marriage. What little he knew wasn’t his to share—and if Cleo was willing to date unemployed losers, she had to give him a shot. He opened the door, hoping Hugo would keep Trixie too busy to interfere more than she already had. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

  12

  On her way to the hotel’s front door, where she’d planned on walking around the Strip, Cleo lost three hundred and fifty-two dollars. One minute she was walking past reception, the next she was downstairs in the casino watching other people play blackjack. Before she realized what she was doing, she was caressing the felt table and praying she didn’t go over twenty-one. Ten minutes later, after losing her first fifty, she was sipping a screwdriver to calm her nerves—forgetting she didn’t usually drink until nightfall. There wasn’t any natural lighting in the casino, giving her the impression of unending night, unending day.

  She didn’t lose it all at the blackjack table. That would’ve been stupid. No, she decided to scale back her risk by trying a few slots. Hit the button, lose. Hit the button, lose. Hit the button, win.

  The joy was crack. She poured her winnings into the machine to taste it again.

  God knows how long she would’ve sat there or how much of her nest egg she would’ve poured into the casino’s black heart if Sly hadn’t rescued her.

  His hand covered hers before she could hit the button again. “You haven’t been answering your phone.”

  She pushed his hand away to keep playing. “I will. Just a minute.”

  “You don’t need to answer it now,” he said. “I’m here.”

  “Great, great,” she said, not looking at him. She pressed the button. The reels spun. Lights flashed, music tinkled, suspense killed. Cherries, cherries, watermelon. Damn it.

  Through the din, she heard a man’s voice, faint and amused. “It’s time to meet Trixie and Hugo for dinner.”

  “I’m close. I can tell. I just need a minute.”

  “They’re waiting for us.”

  She patted the machine. “My ticket still has money on it.”

  “Good time to go then.” His arm came under hers and lifted her off the stool.

  “But—”

  “Have you been drinking?” He put his hand on her cheek and forced her to look at him. “Oh, you poor lamb. You’ve been on your own for less than two hours.”

  “The nice lady gives out free drinks.” His hand felt warm and strong. Flashing lights reflected in his dark brown eyes. “I won twenty-three dollars.”

  “How
much did you lose?”

  “More than that, but I won twenty-three. You should’ve heard it. It was the best moment of my life.” She laughed, knowing she’d lost her head but not caring.

  “Come on, Warren Buffett, you need a chaperone,” he said.

  Knees wobbly, she let him reclaim her ticket and drag her away from the slot machines—oh, there were more! even bigger ones!—to an escalator. He was holding her hand now, shooting her amused looks. A young couple on the steps above them was arguing about where they’d parked the car between bites of a shared burrito wrapped in aluminum foil. Black beans fell like high-fiber hail at their feet.

  The escalator brought them to the lobby, where Sly pulled her around a giant glittering fountain to another escalator. “One more floor.”

  His hand felt comforting, but she was in control now. The spell was broken. “I’m back,” she said, slipping her fingers free as the escalator climbed. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  He leaned close and sniffed. “Booze?”

  “I only had two. I wish I could blame the liquor, but I just went crazy.”

  “It happens.”

  “Does it happen to you?”

  “Me? Of course not,” he said. “I’ve built a career launching tech start-ups. I hate gambling.”

  “You’re being sarcastic, right?”

  He put his hand over hers. “Yes, Cleo, I’m being sarcastic.”

  The soft touch and playful look in his eye worried her. The next floor arrived more quickly than she’d expected, and she stumbled backward when the escalator steps disappeared. Sly sprang forward, caught her around the waist, and righted her on the floor.

  “The restaurant is on the top floor of a different wing,” he said. “We’ll need to walk a little, then take an elevator.”

  Cleo remembered how excited Trixie had been about the article she’d read about the place. It was decorated like an English manor house, with all the servers in authentic costume, manner, and speech. Several of the diners were also dressed for the period, pretending to be nineteenth-century aristocrats spending the weekend in Vegas. It was like character dining at Disneyland, except with a dowager duchess instead of a furry.

  She grabbed Sly’s arm. “Wait. Let’s call and say we can’t make it.”