Page 22 of Pucking One Night Stand

I pace toward my desk, sinking into the chair like my spine just gave up.

“Okay. If I agree to meet you, will you stop calling me?”

He breathes out like he’s already winning. “Cassy, as I said, I only want to talk.”

“Fine. When?” My voice is flat. Dry. Like the Sahara, but less inviting.

“Well… now.”

Of course. Now.

I stare at the floor. I suppose it’ll give me a proper chance to explain that we’re over. Like, really over-over. Not the way I left it before. Which, okay… was by text. Not my finest moment. “Where do you want to meet?”

“Nonna’s Hole in the Wall. Do you know it? It’s on 4021 Linq Lane?”

“No. But don’t worry. I’ll find it.” I glance at the clock. “Give me about twenty minutes.”

“Cass—”

I end the call mid-syllable, drop my phone into my bag, and head back out the door. Out through the main exit of The Silver State Arena, I pass the glowing signage and poster of the team and Blake Mitchell’s face ten feet tall, glaring down at me.

Oh, you can fuck off as well!

My heels echo across the lot as I fish out the fob, unlock my car, throw my bag onto the passenger seat, and start the engine.

This is going to be fun. NOT.

I know where Linq Lane is, it’s tucked behind the LINQ Hotel, somewhere between tourist chaos and street food heaven, but I’ve never heard ofNonna’s Hole in the Wall. I mean, the name alone screams mob movie dinner scene. But sure. Let’s do this.

I pull out of the lot and wave to the security guy at the barrier. He barely glances up. Same.

I head east toward Las Vegas Boulevard South. It’s just after six, which means the Strip is already pulsing with people who have no idea where they’re going. A sea of neon, overpriced drinks, and freshly married strangers taking selfies under fake Eiffel Towers.

Traffic crawls. Horns blare. Somewhere, a guy is actually yelling “Viva Las Vegas,” like it’s a commandment. And through all of it, through this sensory circus of my city, I cannot stop thinking about him.

Of all the people I’ve had the misfortune of going to bed with, Blake Mitchell had to go and be the one I can’t forget. Smug, silent, gorgeous, and completely uninterested in me.

Shit-fuck!

I turn left onto Las Vegas Boulevard South. The Strip glows in that specific shade of money, sin, and five-dollar water bottles.

North for about a mile and a half, past the fake skyline of New York, New York, the fountain, and the Roman cosplay drama that is Caesar’s Palace.

Then I take a right onto Linq Lane. Everything gets darker and tighter back here, away from the main glitz.

Right. Now, where is Nonna’s Hole in the Wall?

I almost miss it. No flashing lights. No valet parking. Just a squat little building with a faded red-and-white awning and a wooden sign that says, “Nonna’s Hole in the Wall – Since 1952.” It’s got old bricks, shutters on the windows, and this heavy nostalgic vibe like your grandma’s kitchen frozen in time.

I park in the tiny lot and kill the engine.

The evening air is warm, and it smells like fried garlic and tourist sweat. I walk toward the entrance, my heels clicking, and the weight of this whole weird evening settling over me. I pause outside.

It’s kind of cute, actually. Cozy. No neon. No gimmicks. Just a small Italian joint pretending the Strip doesn’t exist twenty feet away. The windows glow like warm bread. It’s... disarming.

Okay. Just go in. Eat something and tell him straight. AGAIN.

Fuck... wish it was Blake I was meeting instead.