Page 7 of Reckless Chance

As we near the area with the Casino Stage, Lowri trips. Fortunately, she falls toward me, resting her palms against my chest to steady herself as she says, “Does all the clinking anddinging of the … whatchamacallits … make you happy? Does it remind you of the mooooneeeey you’re maaaaking?” She laughs.

“You mean slot machines.”

“Yeah, those.”

“I grew up here. It’s normal to me. Anything else would be boring.”

“Your noooormal is straaaange. Hey, look over there. They’re having fun,” she says, tilting her head toward the exuberant crowd standing in front of the Casino Stage. They’re dancing to the music blasting from nearby speakers.

“What’s thaaaat above them?” she asks, pointing to the sign hanging over the elevated stage, which reads,

Couples Needed

Pose for Wedding Photos and Set a New World Record

I needed more food today. My head’s spinning as I answer slowly, “I don’t remember the details. It’s something about setting a Guinness World Record. I think it’s for the most photos at the same place on the same night,” I say.

“There muuuust be two or three huuuundred couples. And look at their outfits. Feathers. Spandex, Weeeedding dresses. Tuxes. I loooove Vegas. You can beeee … ummm … any fantasy you waaaant. Noooo one … umm … will juuuudge you.” She hiccups.

“Right. Weeee better hurry. Weeee don’t … want to beeee … stuck in … this crowd.” Damn. I’m slurring my words now too.

“Waaaait. It looks fun. I’ve always waaaanted to … ummm … set a world record … for something,” she says as she tugs on my arm, pulling me toward the line of people near the registration table at the base of the stage.

“No way in hell am I waiting in that line for a photo.” That’s better. No slurring. I’m okay.

“Pleeeease. Do it for meeee.” She pouts as she bats her lengthy eyelashes.

“What the hell. Follow me,” I insist, leading her to the VIP area and bumping into a few obstacles along the way.

When the security guard recognizes me, he immediately escorts us to a registration desk with more privacy. It’s one of the perks of owning the place.

Lowri asks the woman in charge a bunch of questions. I’m not sure they make sense, but I’m not paying attention. I tune back in when I hear her ask, “Can we … ummm … have our photo … ummm … taaaaken?”

The woman says, “Of course.”

“Are the other couples married? They have flowers and … ummm … stuff. We’re missing … everything. Is that a problem?”

“No. We have what you need.”

Lowri turns to me practically jumping with excitement. I barely keep her from falling over in her deadly high heels as she begs, “Let’s do this. Pleeeease.”

The last thing I want to do is dress up with props for fake photos, but why not, if it makes her happy. “Okay, if it’s important to you.” I cover my mouth with my suit sleeve, suppressing yet another hiccup, and turn to the woman, asking, “What’s next?”

A server approaches, handing us flutes of champagne as the woman says, “Give me your IDs. Then you’ll sign extra forms for the world record.”

Handing over my driver’s license, I say, “Deliver the photos to my apartment.”

Recognition crosses her face as she looks at my ID. “Yes, of course, Mr. Cartwright. We’ll have everything sent to you in the morning.”

As we sip champagne, the woman takes care of the paperwork.

After that’s done, she asks, “Lowri, which color bouquet would you prefer? We have roses in yellow, red, white, and pink.”

Lowri stares at the flowers with a dreamy look in her mesmerizing eyes.

“Sean, wouldn’t the whiiiite roses … ummm … look great with my blue dress?” Lowri asks, pointing a shaky finger to a small bouquet.

“Of course.” I’m not sure why it matters, but Lowri being happy makes me happy.