Page 13 of Meesha & Connor (What Happens In Vegas #2)
As Dennis drinks in my words, completely captivated, Connor lunges forward, grabbing Dennis’s wrist and forcing it upward. The gun discharges into the ceiling, and plaster dust rains down like snow.
I stumble backward as Connor slams Dennis against the wall. The impact is violent. His fist connects with Dennis’s face several times before Dennis crumples to the floor unconscious.
Connor kicks the gun away, breathing heavily. “You okay?” he asks, eyes searching mine while his hands immediately check me for injuries.
I nod shakily, sinking to my knees as adrenaline drains from my body. “I’m sorry.”
“I’ve got you, ma belle,” Connor retrieves the gun and checks the safety. He pulls out his phone, dialing 911. Wrapping his free arm around me, he repeats, “I’ve got you.”
The police response is swift and overwhelming. Two patrol cars, an ambulance, and a detective arrive within minutes of Connor’s call. The paramedics secure Dennis to a stretcher, placing restraints on his wrists and ankles even while he remains unconscious.
The officers separate us for initial statements, a standard procedure that still feels wrong after everything we’ve been through. I watch as Connor explains the situation to a serious-faced officer across the room, his hands gesturing toward the ceiling where the bullet is embedded.
“Ms. Williams?” The detective—Detective Creel according to her badge—redirects my attention. “I know this is difficult, but I need you to walk me through what happened.”
I explain everything—the kiss in Vegas, the texts, Dennis’s appearance at Kamal’s party, the stalking, the confrontation.
“You showed remarkable presence of mind,” Detective Creel says. “That was a dangerous but effective strategy.”
When the initial statements are complete, the officers collect the gun, photograph the bullet holes, and dust for fingerprints. They bag Dennis’s phone as evidence after Detective Creel mentions they’ll need to check for stalking evidence—photos, location tracking apps, search histories.
“We’ll need both of you to come to the station tomorrow for formal statements,” she explains as the ambulance leaves with Dennis still unconscious. “We’ll be charging him with breaking and entering, aggravated assault, attempted murder, and stalking.”
We’re given case numbers, victim services contact information, and temporary restraining order paperwork.
Once they’re gone, Connor takes my hands in his. “?a va, ma belle?”
“I’m okay. Shaken, but okay.” I smile, though my hands still tremble.
He pulls me against his chest, arms wrapping tightly around me. I cling to him, breathing in his scent.
“Tabarnac, I don’t know what I would’ve done if—” He breaks off, his arms tightening around me so fiercely it almost hurts, but I welcome the pressure.
“We’re okay,” I whisper against his shirt, feeling the dampness of my tears soaking through the fabric.
He draws a long, shaky breath. “Je t’aime tellement, Meesha.” His voice breaks on my name.
I look up into his eyes. “I love you more. I would have done anything to keep you safe.”
His jaw tightens. “Non, jamais. Never put yourself at risk for me.”
“Then you don’t get to throw yourself at an armed man for me either,” I counter.
“What am I gonna do with you, là?” He shakes his head.
I take a chance, reaching up to touch his face. “Marry me?”
Connor pulls out his phone. “I’ll let everyone know the wedding’s back on.”
“Are you sure?” I ask carefully. “This has been a lot. If you need more time—”
“I’ve wasted enough time already,” he says firmly. “Unless you’ve changed your mind?”
“Nothing could stop me from marrying you,” I admit.
“Good, because I never got around to canceling the venue or caterer.”
Connor types an email while I watch over his shoulder.
Dear Friends and Family,
I apologize for the confusion. The wedding is back on as scheduled for May 17th. I will personally cover any expenses incurred due to my hasty previous email.
Meesha and I look forward to celebrating with you all.
Sincerely,
Connor Beauregard
“Sent,” he says, hitting the button.
His lips crash against mine, hungry and desperate, as though he’s been drowning and I’m his first breath of air. I respond with equal intensity, clutching his shirt to pull him closer while his hands frame my face, holding me as if I might disappear.
The moment is interrupted by his buzzing phone. Then mine. Then both simultaneously.
“Mon Dieu,” Connor mutters against my lips as we reluctantly separate.
I glance at my screen and laugh. My mother’s text is first.
“Lord, have mercy! You two trying to give me a heart attack in my old age? Come home right now so I can hug you both. Also, thank God.”
Connor shows me his phone with a text from Antonio.
Make up your damn minds, you two! My blood pressure can’t take this!
A message from Jasmine pops up.
FINALLY! Now please stay engaged this time!
Jessa’s text appears next.
You two are ridiculous and perfect for each other. So happy.
Connor pulls me back into his arms, both our phones still buzzing. “Should we answer them?”
I reach up to trace his lips with my fingertip. “Later.”
Through it all, we’ve found our way back to each other. Not because love is easy, but because what we’ve created together is worth every struggle, every heartache, every moment of growth that brought us here, to this unfinished house that already feels like home.