Page 6

I nodded, feeling barriers crumble that I'd spent years building.

"My father was a cop in a small town owned by one family.

They controlled the casino, the banks, half the businesses.

When he tried to investigate irregularities, they made his life hell.

Transferred him to night shifts, gave him the worst assignments, made sure he never got promoted.

" The words came easier with each sip. "He never said anything, but I saw what it did to him. Saw what it did to our family."

Easton was quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable. When he spoke, his voice was softer than I'd ever heard it. "I'm sorry."

"Don't." I held up a hand, not ready for his sympathy. "Your turn. Why hospitality? Why not stay in tech where you were already successful?"

He refilled both our glasses, the silence stretching until I thought he wouldn't answer.

"Because tech is about algorithms and code.

Predictable. Safe." He moved to the window, staring out at the neon chaos below.

"Hospitality is about people. About creating experiences, moments that matter. It's messier, riskier, but..."

"But?"

"But it's real. When someone walks into one of my properties, I want them to feel something they've never felt before.

I want to give them a story they'll tell for the rest of their lives.

" He turned back to me, and for a moment, his mask slipped completely.

"The first casino I built—the one you shut down—it wasn't much.

Small, local clientele mostly. But there was this regular, Mrs. Patterson.

Seventy-something widow who came in every Friday night to play the penny slots.

She told me once that it was the only time all week she felt alive. "

Something twisted in my chest at the pain in his voice. "Easton—"

"When you shut us down, she had nowhere to go. The other places on the Strip were too expensive, too overwhelming for her." His laugh was self-deprecating. "I used to tell myself I was building something meaningful. Turns out I was just another businessman cutting corners and calling it vision."

The admission hung between us, raw and honest in a way that made my chest ache. Without thinking, I moved closer, drawn by the vulnerability he was showing me.

"That's not true," I said quietly. "What you've built here—it's beautiful. Sophisticated. Nothing like..."

"Like the dive you shut down?" He smiled, but there was no humor in it. "That's the point, Harlow. This time, I did everything right. Every regulation, every guideline, every piece of paperwork filed in triplicate. Because I couldn't afford to give you another reason to destroy me."

The words hit like a physical blow. "You think I wanted to destroy you?"

"Didn't you?" He stepped closer, close enough that I could see the amber flecks in his gray eyes. "Young investigator looking to make her mark, taking down the cocky entrepreneur who thought he was untouchable?"

"No." The word came out fiercer than I'd intended. "God, no. Do you have any idea how much I questioned that decision? How many nights I lay awake wondering if I'd been too harsh, too rigid?"

His eyes widened slightly, as if my admission surprised him. "Then why?"

"Because the rules matter," I said, but the conviction in my voice was weaker than usual, blurred by whiskey and proximity and the way he was looking at me. "Because someone has to be willing to make the hard choices, even when..."

"Even when what?"

"Even when it hurts." The confession slipped out before I could stop it. "Even when the person you're investigating is..." I trailed off, realizing where that sentence was heading.

"Is what, Harlow?"

I stared up at him, lost in the intensity of his gaze, feeling like I was standing on the edge of a cliff with no idea how far the fall would be.

The whiskey had turned my thoughts fuzzy and my inhibitions paper-thin.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, my professional alarm bells were screaming warnings, but they seemed very far away.

"Is someone who makes you question everything you thought you knew about right and wrong," I whispered.

The air between us went electric. I could see the moment his control snapped, the way his pupils dilated and his breathing changed. But instead of moving closer, he stepped back, running a hand through his hair.

"Jesus, Harlow." His voice was rough, strained. "Do you have any idea what you're doing to me?"

The vulnerability in his tone undid something inside me. Here was this powerful, successful man looking at me like I had the ability to destroy him all over again. But not professionally this time—personally.

"The same thing you're doing to me," I admitted, the words tumbling out before I could censure them.

We stared at each other across the space of his living room, the air thick with want and confusion and three years of unresolved tension. The smart thing would be to leave. To call a cab, go back to my condo, and pretend this conversation never happened.

Instead, I found myself moving toward him. "I'm tired of being careful," I said, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. "I'm tired of always doing the right thing, always following the rules, always being the responsible one."

"Harlow." My name sounded like a warning on his lips.

"You want to see reckless?" I challenged, reaching for the whiskey bottle again. "You want to see what happens when the uptight regulator decides to cut loose?"

Before he could answer, I filled both our glasses and raised mine in a toast. "To being thoroughly, spectacularly irresponsible."

He hesitated for a moment, studying my face like he was looking for signs of a trap. Then his mouth curved in a smile that was pure sin and trouble. "To spectacularly irresponsible decisions."

We drank, and I felt the last of my professional armor dissolve under the combined assault of alcohol and his proximity. The room seemed to tilt slightly, or maybe that was just the effect he was having on me.

"So," I said, settling onto his couch with less grace than usual. "What do spectacularly irresponsible people do in Vegas at—" I checked my phone, squinting at the numbers. "Holy hell, is it really two in the morning?"

"Time flies when you're having an existential crisis," he said dryly, joining me on the couch but maintaining careful distance. "What do you want to do, Harlow? What would completely responsible, by-the-book Investigator Clarke never do?"

I considered this, my whiskey-soaked brain conjuring up images that ranged from mildly rebellious to career-ending. "Dance on tables? Get a tattoo? Steal a car?" I paused, struck by a sudden thought. "Go somewhere normal people actually hang out in Vegas instead of fancy penthouse parties?"

His eyebrows rose. "Normal people?"

"You know—tourists, gamblers, people who didn't spend more on their outfit tonight than I make in a month.

" I gestured to my champagne gold dress, which had somehow managed to stay pristine despite the evening's chaos.

"People who go to the cheesy chapels and the tacky shows and all the places that make Vegas actually fun instead of just impressive. "

Easton was quiet for a moment, and I worried I'd somehow insulted him. Then he started laughing—not the polished chuckle I'd heard him use with investors, but a real laugh that transformed his entire face.

"You want to see the real Vegas?" He stood, extending his hand with a grin that made my stomach flip. "Come on, Investigator. Let's go be spectacularly normal."

The night air hit us like a wall of heat and noise as we stepped out of the climate-controlled perfection of the Jade Petal.

The Strip stretched out before us in all its neon glory —flashing signs advertising everything from buffets to magic shows, crowds of tourists stumbling between casinos, street performers and hawkers calling out their wares.

It was loud and bright and completely overwhelming, and I loved it.

"Where to first?" Easton asked, and I realized he'd loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves, looking more relaxed than I'd seen him all night.

"Surprise me," I said, feeling giddy and reckless and more alive than I had in years.

We wandered the Strip like ordinary tourists, stopping to watch a street magician make playing cards appear and disappear, sharing an enormous slice of pizza from a place that stayed open all night, taking silly photos with the costumed characters who posed with anyone willing to tip them.

Easton was different out here, away from the pressure and politics of his own world.

He was funnier, more spontaneous, occasionally self-deprecating in a way that made him seem almost..

. approachable. When a particularly aggressive street performer tried to rope us into his act, Easton played along with such good humor that I found myself laughing until my sides hurt.

"You're not what I expected," I told him as we paused in front of the Bellagio fountains, watching the water dance to some soaring orchestral piece.

"What did you expect?"

"Someone who'd be horrified by this." I gestured to encompass the tourists around us, many of whom were clearly several drinks past sobriety. "Someone too sophisticated for the regular Vegas experience."

He was quiet for a moment, watching the fountains cycle through their choreographed routine.

"I grew up coming here with my parents," he said finally.

"Back when Vegas was more about the experience and less about the luxury.

We'd stay at the places that gave away free shows with dinner, spend hours watching the magic acts and the lounge singers.

It was..." He paused, searching for words.

"It was magical. Corny and tacky and absolutely magical. "

Something warm unfurled in my chest at the soft nostalgia in his voice. "What changed?"

"I did. Got older, made money, started thinking I was too good for the things that used to make me happy.

" He turned to me, and even in the flashing neon lights, I could see the sincerity in his eyes.

"Tonight's the first time in years I've remembered why I fell in love with this city in the first place. "

We started walking again, no particular destination in mind, just drifting through the crowds and the lights and the wonderful absurdity of Vegas at three in the morning. The alcohol had settled into a pleasant warmth in my veins, making everything seem slightly dreamlike and full of possibility.

That's when I saw it.

"Oh my God." I stopped so suddenly that Easton nearly ran into me. "Look at that."

I was pointing at a small chapel wedged between a gift shop and a 24-hour wedding photography studio. The sign read "Little Chapel of Love" in pink neon cursive, with smaller text promising "Quick Ceremonies - No Waiting - Elvis Available Upon Request."

"Vegas wedding chapel," Easton said, following my gaze. "Tourist trap extraordinaire. Why?"

But I was transfixed by the tackiness of it all—the plastic flowers in the window, the blinking heart-shaped lights, the sign advertising wedding packages starting at $99. It was everything I'd always associated with Vegas: cheap, quick, and completely divorced from reality.

"Have you ever been in one?" I asked, still staring at the chapel.

"Can't say I have. You?"

"Never." The word came out wistful, and I realized I was swaying slightly on my feet. "Always wondered what it was like. The whole spontaneous, impulsive, throw-caution-to-the-wind thing."

Easton moved closer, and I could feel the warmth of his body against my back. "Curious about getting married by Elvis?"

"Curious about being the kind of person who would," I said, then hiccupped slightly. "God, I'm drunk."

"Very drunk," he agreed, but his voice was gentle. "We should probably get you back."

"No." The word came out sharper than I'd intended.

"I don't want to go back. I don't want to be responsible Harlow who makes sensible decisions and follows all the rules.

" I turned to face him, and the movement made the world spin pleasantly.

"I want to be the kind of person who does crazy things. Just once."

Something shifted in his expression, his eyes darkening with an intensity that made my breath catch. "What kind of crazy things?"

I stared up at him, this man who had been my professional nemesis and was rapidly becoming something much more complicated. The neon lights painted his face in shades of pink and blue, making him look like something out of a fever dream.

"Dare me," I said suddenly, the words spilling out before I could think them through.

"Harlow—"

"Dare me," I repeated, pointing at the chapel with its flashing "Open 24 Hours" sign. "Dare me to be somebody different for once in my life."

He stared at me for a long moment, and I could see the war playing out behind his eyes—caution battling with desire, responsibility fighting against the same reckless impulse that was driving me.

Finally, his mouth curved in a smile that was part challenge, part invitation, and entirely dangerous.

"I dare you, Investigator Clarke."

The words hung in the air between us, loaded with implications neither of us was sober enough to fully consider. All I knew was that I was tired of being careful, tired of always making the smart choice, tired of being the woman who let life happen to her instead of grabbing it with both hands.

Without giving myself time to think, I grabbed his hand and started walking toward the chapel doors.

"Harlow," he said, but he didn't resist as I pulled him along. "Are you sure about this?"

I paused at the threshold, looking back at him. His tie was crooked, his hair mussed from the night air, and he was looking at me like I was either the best or worst decision he'd ever made.

"No," I said honestly. "I'm not sure about anything right now except that I'm tired of playing it safe."

And with that, I pushed open the door to Little Chapel of Love, pulling Easton Hardwick—my former enemy, my current obsession, and quite possibly my future husband—into the most spectacularly irresponsible decision of my entire carefully planned life.