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CONNOR

O ur last night in Vegas should be quiet. Romantic.

Instead, it’s chaos on steroids.

The madness starts with Ford and Jake challenging each other to a tequila showdown to see who can take the most shots without making a face.

Spoiler: neither of them wins.

Gram does.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter as she slams her empty shot glass down, grinning like she just claimed the Iron Throne.

Jake groans, head on the table. “She’s not human.”

Ford squints at her. “Are we sure she’s not some kind of ancient goddess?”

Harper snorts. “She did survive the Great Bar Fight of ‘72. Pretty sure that makes her immortal.”

I look at Ford. “Your best friend’s family is terrifying.”

He shrugs. “But entertaining.”

Harper nods solemnly. “Tragically accurate.”

Allie smirks, elbowing her. “You married into this, bestie.”

“I wouldn’t change a thing.” Harper grins.

That’s when Cole barrels onto the casino floor, arms thrown wide. “I just won five grand at blackjack, bitches!”

The group explodes.

Drinks are spilled. Chairs are knocked over.

Chloe jumps on his back like he’s a decorated war hero.

“You’re buying all our drinks!” Tara yells.

“Oh, hell yeah I am!” Cole shouts, dragging us toward the bar.

Somewhere between shot number four and the world’s most unhinged group toast, Gram decides we need karaoke.

And what Gram wants, Gram gets.

That’s how we end up in a private lounge where Harper and Chloe are scream-singing Like a Virgin.

Ford and Jake are dramatically holding hands while belting I Will Always Love You, and I’m trying not to die from secondhand embarrassment.

Then, Allie grabs the mic.

She turns to me, eyes glittering like a predator, and the opening chords of “You Belong With Me” by Taylor Swift fill the room.

“Oh, hell no,” I groan.

She points at me with all the dramatic flair of a drunken Broadway diva and starts singing like her life depends on it.

The room loses it .

People are filming.

Ford is howling.

Gram is sobbing into her drink.

By the end, I’m torn between throwing her over my shoulder and taking her straight to the suite, or bowing to my queen and accepting defeat.

She falls into my lap, breathless and smug.

“Wife,” I growl, arms locking around her waist.

She kisses my jaw, eyes alight. “You love it.”

“Hell yes, I do.”

The night and all its craziness should end there.

But we’re not that lucky.

Gram announces we need one final legendary moment before leaving Vegas. Which, of course, means breaking into the rooftop pool.

One minute, we’re sneaking up a stairwell.

The next, someone picks the lock—no one asks who—and we’re sprinting across the rooftop, stripping down, and diving into the water like complete lunatics.

Ford launches Jake into the deep end.

Chloe tackles Cole with a war cry.

Harper wraps her legs around Ford while he shouts, “Cannonball!”

It’s bedlam.

I grab Allie and lift her into my arms. She clings to me, laughing like she’s weightless.

“Best night ever,” she gasps against my lips.

I smirk, crowding her close. “And it’s not over yet, baby.”

She shivers—and it has nothing to do with the water.

Security storms the rooftop minutes later, shouting threats and radioing backup.

We bolt like heathens, clothes in hand, still soaked and cackling.

But I don’t stop there. I scoop Allie up, carry her straight to the suite, and slam the door behind us.

I pin her against the wall, water still dripping from our bodies. “You’re not getting any sleep tonight, wife.”

Her smile is pure sin. “I expect nothing less, husband.”

And then I make damn sure our last night in Vegas ends exactly the way it should.

With her screaming my name.