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Roman

V egas:

Am I seeing a ghost?

A gorgeous female ghost, but a ghost, nonetheless.

If I am, it’s definitely the ghost of Christmas past. A girl I knew from a long time ago.

Which is a good thing, right?

Because the ghost of Christmas future, well…that’s the terrifying one. And let’s be real, I don’t need some hooded Grim Reaper showing me my future. Thanks to Mom and Dad, not to mention my grandmother and grandfather, I already know exactly where I’d end up if I followed in their footsteps.

Spoiler alert: It involves plastered-on smiles for the public, explosive arguments behind closed doors, and one very confused golden retriever caught in an emotional tug-of-war.

Oh, and let’s not forget the mountain of therapy bills.

Enough to single-handedly fund a shrink’s luxury retirement in the Bahamas.

Which is why I have a rock-solid plan: never get married. Ever.

But seriously, did anyone else see the white blur that just ran past me?

I glance over my shoulder. The posh Vegas resort is bustling with people, everyone minding their own business as they sip overpriced cocktails, and laugh at things that probably aren’t that funny.

Nobody else seems to be questioning their grip on reality.

So, either I’m the onlyone who saw it, or I’m officially losing my damn mind.

Then, from the corner of my eye—whoosh——there it is again.

… Oh, hell no.

I scrub my hands over my face and blink, staring down the long, empty hallway. My pulse kicks up a notch. If those creepy redheaded twins from The Shiningpop out, I am outof here. I don’t care if my old buddy Easton is getting married. He’ll have to survive without me because nope .

I glance over my shoulder again, making sure the guys aren’t watching me. Wouldn’t they love this. Ever since the spider incident with Jonesburger (which we donottalk about), they’ve been waiting for the perfect opportunity to roast me.

You are not afraid of ghosts, Roman.

I square my shoulders, putting on a brave face, but yeah… I kind of am.

Shit. Where’s a guy’s big-girl panties when he needs them?No, I don’t wear women’s underwear, it’s just a saying. But speaking of panties… wasn’t there a hot bridesmaid I was planning to hook up with later?

Maybe she’ll lend you hers, you chickenshit.

I am nota chickenshit.

Much.

Okay, maybe I amseeing things. But just to prove I’mnot(mostly to my annoying inner voice), I head toward the end of the hall. The white blur first darted left, then seemed to change its mind and bolted the other way. Straight toward the pool.

Just my luck.

One foot in front of the other, I make my way down the hall, hesitation creeping in as I reach the end.

I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and turn right.

The pool is closed, because apparently, people need rules, but I’ve never been great at following them.

I tap my key card against the lock, and when it pings green, I tug the door open.

A wave of thick, humid air smacks me in the face, and yes,that’sthe only reason I’m suddenly sweating.

I step inside, scanning the dimly lit space.

It’s empty. Completely still. That should be a relief, right?

Instead, my nerves kick up because now I’m officially waiting for this mystery woman to pop out at me like some haunted house jump scare.

Then, through the swirling mist rising from the hot tub, I catch a clearer look at her.

Wait a second.

Is that really…Gabby Evans?

It couldn’t be. Except...of course it could be.

But what the hell is she doing running around a Vegas resort in a wedding dress, black streaks down her facelike she’s fleeing a horror movie villain?

Ah. This is Vegas, dude.

Yeah. Fair point. Maybe she just had one of those Elvis weddings and is now questioning all of her life choices. Because as we all know,what happens in Vegas stays on social media .

I move toward the hot tub, pulling off my ball cap as the soothing hum of the jets draws me closer. Just as I near the bubbling water, I hear it: soft, shaky sniffing.

I slow my steps. The jets cut off with an eerie silence.

And then I see her.

The ghostly figure.

Thevery real Gabby Evans.

“Uh…hello?” I say.

The sniffing stops.

The fog clears.

My heart jumps into my throat.

“Gabby?” My eyes narrow as I focus on the woman in front of me, mascara streaked down her cheeks like she just escaped a particularly tragic rom-com .

She goes deathly still, clutching a fistful of her wedding dress like it’s some kind of emotional security blanket.

Shit, maybe it isn’t her. Maybe she has a doppelganger.

I quickly hold my hands up, palms out, like I’m trying to calm a spooked animal. “Whoa—hey, I wasn’t following you. I was just heading for a soak. Didn’t mean to bother you. I’ll, uh…get out of your way.”

Even as I say it, something about walking away feelswrong. This woman is clearly notokay, and while I’ve got a strict personal policy about not getting involved in other people’s romantic train wrecks— not my vows, not my regrets —I can’t seem to make my feet move.

Then she speaks.

“Roman?”

I freeze. My heart jumps into my throat. “Gabby?”

She sniffles, using the hem of her dress to scrub at the black streaks on her face. “Yeah.”

“It’s me,” I say quickly. “Roman Marinelli.” I step closer, and after she gets a proper look at me, I tug my ball cap back off for a second.

“I thought it was you, but you were moving so fast I wasn’t sure.

” Trying to lighten the mood, because what else can you do when you run into a runaway bride in a posh Vegas hotel, I add, “You really should have joined the track team in high school.”

She lets out another sniffle, followed by a tired laugh. “God, I must look like a mess.”

Is she seriously worried about her appearance right now?

“Are you okay?” Dumb question, dude. Of course she’s not okay.

She doesn’t answer, just flips the conversation on me. “What are you doing here?”

I nod toward the hot tub. “Was planning to take a soak.”

“No, I mean what are you doing inVegas? Don’t you live in Boston now?”

“Oh, right.” I smirk. “Hockey fan?”

She shrugs. “Not overly.”

I grin, unfazed. Not everyone loves hockey. “Do you remember Easton Hart?”

Gabby shakes her head. Right. Easton, as well as my teammate Elias, who is also from our hometown, are older than us. She wouldn’t have known them from high school. “What about Rip Hart?”

She nods, and I chuckle. Of courseshe knows Rip Hart. Everyoneknows Rip Hart. He’s a total lunatic on the ice, and if the latest rumors are true, he’s about to be traded to the Bucks. “Easton is his older brother,” I explain. “He’s getting married. I’m here for the wedding.”

The second the word wedding leaves my mouth, her face falls, and dammit, that pain cutsme.

“I’m sorry, Gabby,” I say, meaning it.

She shakes her head. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.” Then, with a forced smile, she stands, tilting her chin up just slightly, like she’s trying to prove something to herself. “It was good seeing you, Roman. I’ll get out of here so you can enjoy the hot tub.”

And just like that, she’s slipping away.

I should let her go. I should.

But I can’t.

If she really had somewhere to be, or someone to be with, she wouldn’t have been hiding out here in the first place. And whatever happened tonight, whatever has her looking like she’s barely holding it together, she shouldn’t have to deal with it alone.

“Where are you going?” I ask. She hesitates. Just for a second. But it’s enough. A stricken look flashes across her face, and Iget it. She hasnowhere to go. Something bad— really bad—went down tonight.

“Gabby—”

“It’s okay, Roman,” she interrupts. “None of this is your problem.”

She’s right. It’s not . But that’s not going to stop me from helping an old friend who clearly needssomeone.

“Gabby—” I try again.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But.” Before she can cut me off again, I rush out with, “Why don’t you come back to my room? No questions, no talking. It’s a suite. One bed, but it’s yours. I was planning on gambling all night anyway.” A little lie, but she doesn’t need to know that.

She looks like she’s about to argue, but then she shakes her head, starting with, “Roman?—”

I cut her off, my voice firm but gentle, “Gabby.”

I stretch my hand out to her, and her shoulders sag with exhaustion. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“What about, you know? The bridesmaids?”

Okay, so she might not follow hockey, but she sure as hell knows about my reputation. I flash her a wink. “Rip has it covered.”

Her face tightens as she glances toward the hot tub. “You were planning on having a soak.”

I wipe my brow in mock exasperation. “It’s too hot. Maybe I’ll take a cold shower instead.”

She nods, but when I place my hand gently on the small of her back to guide her toward the door, she suddenly halts, her eyes wide with discomfort. “I can’t go out there like this. It’s too embarrassing.”

My gaze drops to her designer dress. Damn, she looks incredible in it. But I shrug, trying to keep things light. “Trade with me.”

When I glance up, I catch the flicker of surprise on her face before she bursts into a soft laugh, curling around us like a wave. “You’re not seriously suggesting we switch clothes.”

“Why not?” I reply with a grin, leaning back as though it’s no big deal.

She laughs harder, swatting me playfully. And then, without thinking, I grab her hand. The first thing I notice is the softness of her skin. Damn it, don’t go there, Roman. She just got ‘unhappily’ married in Vegas. Focus.

“But I’d probably get arrested for indecent exposure or something,” I add with a smirk, “Because it’s not going to fit me.”

She frowns and glances down, and suddenly, I wonder what I’ve said to make her feel so...off.

“I don’t want to rip your dress, Gabby,” I murmur, trying to smooth things over.