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ALLISON

I ’m never drinking again.

Let me rephrase that. I haven’t had a single drink yet, and I already know this is going to end in flames and felony-level regret.

The second we step into the posh Vegas hotel lobby, all hell breaks loose.

“There’s the pink Barbie car driving psychopath!” Jake’s voice booms through the crowd. “Or do you like the station wagon better?” He wiggles his brows, then crashes into Connor like a golden retriever on Red Bull.

Connor doesn’t budge. Jake bounces off him like a cartoon character.

They do some chaotic handshake that looks more like a TikTok fail compilation, then Jake slaps Connor’s shoulder. “Bro, we seriously thought you died. Don’t ever ghost us again.”

Connor shrugs, completely unbothered. “I’m alive. Though she wishes I weren’t.” He grins at me like he owns me.

I roll my eyes so hard I see my ancestors.

The chaos descends in waves.

Cole, Daltyn, and Ford, who hangs back just far enough to look like he’s evaluating whether to throw Connor into a fountain, descend seconds later.

I spy Gram at the bar, sipping something strong and pink like she’s royalty on vacation.

The second she spots us, she whistles like she’s summoning livestock. “’Bout damn time!”

She slides off her barstool with a glint in her eye that spells absolute fucking doom.

The guys begin piling on the questions.

“What the hell happened? Spill everything,” Jake demands.

“How the hell did you miss the flight? We all made it,” Cole says, looking between us like he’s cracking a murder case.

“Are you even the real Connor? Or did Allie clone you after she killed the original?” Daltyn squints, dramatic as hell.

“Are you guys married yet?” Gram asks like she’s placing a bet.

My jaw drops. “WHAT?”

Connor, ever the smug bastard, wraps an arm around my waist and says, “Not yet.” His voice is syrupy smug. His tone screams possession.

I shove away from him and turn to the guys. “Ask him how he liked driving the trauma wagon. Or the pink VW bug.”

Jake’s eyes light up. “You NAMED it?”

“Of course she did,” Cole says, cracking up.

“Petal the bug and Wanda the wagon shouldn’t be disrespected like that.” I fold my arms, a smug look on my face.

Cole howls. “Wanda the Wagon. That’s gonna haunt Connor forever.”

I sniff. “She smelled like trauma. She deserved a name.”

Gram cackles. “I had a car named Lou. He caught fire, but damn if he didn’t get me across three states and to two weddings I wasn’t even invited to. That car had soul.”

Jake blinks. “Did Lou catch fire before or after the second wedding?”

“During. But I still made the open bar.”

That does it. I abandon every resolution I’ve ever made and stalk toward the bar.

I slap my hand down like a woman possessed. “Tequila. Now.”

The bartender blinks, glances at my face, and silently starts pouring.

Good man.

* * *

I don’t know how it happened.

One minute, I’m sipping tequila and internally screaming.

The next, I’m on a stage under a spotlight, singing like I’m auditioning for a Broadway remake of Spiraling: The Allie Payne Story.

The crowd cheers. I curtsy.

I don’t remember walking offstage.

* * *

I’m drunk. Like, “signing my life away and thinking it’s funny” drunk.

“Here, baby,” Connor says, sliding a piece of paper in front of me.

I blink. The words blur, tango, and then waltz.

“What’s this?” I slur.

“Just a little Vegas agreement,” he murmurs, smooth as a devil in designer cologne.

I narrow my eyes. “It’s not a prenup, right?”

He laughs. “Of course not, baby.”

“Cool.” I grab a pen and sign it without reading it. Without questioning it further.

Why would I think? That’s for people who haven’t just done tequila shots with their enemies.

I slide the paper back. “Where’s Harp and the girlz?” I hiccup. “Shouldn’t drink alone. S’bad luck.”

Connor just laughs, arm sliding around my waist. He folds the paper and shoves it in his pocket. It swallows the contract like it’s the winning ticket to my soul.

He’s glowing. Positively beaming .

That should concern me.

I squint. “Wait… What’d I just sign?”

He kisses my forehead. “Nothing to worry about.”

“You sure?”

“Promise. I’ve got you, babe. I’ll take good care of you.”

I narrow my eyes. Something isn’t right.

But the tequila tells me it’s a tomorrow problem.

Right now?

Tonight’s about bad decisions, Vegas chaos, and a man who smells like cedarwood and orgasms.