"Come down for breakfast!" I yelled.
He rushed out immediately.
"Wow," he said, eyeing the table. "This looks promising… but you're forgetting one tiny detail."
"And that is?" I asked, already stuffing my face.
"You can't cook." He squinted suspiciously.
"It's nothing extravagant," I said defensively. "Just pancakes and coffee."
"Please." He crossed his arms. "I know you. You've never left the kitchen with a perfect dish without help. So?"
"So," I shrugged, teasing, "there's a first time for everything."
"Just spill it already!" he snapped.
"Okay, fine!" I sighed. "I used a YouTube video. Blueberry pancakes with butter are ridiculously difficult—and don't even get me started on the coffee."
"I knew it," he laughed, grinning wide. "Something was fishy. I could practically smell fish on my pancakes."
"Oh, come on," I said. "It's not my fault I prefer ordering food to making it. Cooking is a lot of work—and I already have enough on my plate. Writing, remember?"
"No excuses," he said firmly. "Plenty of writers cook perfectly fine meals. As a matter of fact I happen to be a writer and I can make pancakes and coffee so drop it."
"You always know how to ruin my happiness," I muttered. "Now eat before it gets cold."
We ate, still bantering—talking about Vegas, laughing, and planning a video call once I arrived.
After breakfast, I took a shower, singing and badly rapping along to Vegas by Doja Cat. I still couldn't believe it.
I was going to Vegas.
When I was done, I got dressed, and Raymond and I headed out.
He drove—of course. Raymond owned a Bentley. He'd spent years saving for it, always saying he didn't want to "end up paying for cabs," whatever that meant.
As soon as we got in, I made him play Vegas—yes, the same song I'd been singing in the shower. We danced in our seats, laughing as he sped up, then slowed down every time he spotted a cop.
And just like that, the day officially began. We arrived at the airport and booked my ticket to Vegas. The flight was delayed until 3 p.m.—it was only 10 a.m.—but I was far too excited to be annoyed. If anything, the funniest part was that I'd been forced into this vacation in the first place.
"Ugh," Raymond groaned, glancing around. "Airports are always like this. Why don't you just take the private jet?"
He wasn't joking. We'd saved for years and contributed together to get one and since our books always turned out to be a success, we had no trouble getting the money.
"Nooo," I protested immediately. "That would ruin the fun. And don't you have work this morning?"
"Speaking of ruination," he said, rolling his eyes, "fuck work. I'm not leaving until you're boarded, okay?"
I smiled. "You're such a sweetheart."
"Don't ever say that again," he warned—then we both burst out laughing.
There was no way we were going to sit around doing nothing, so we killed time the only way we knew how. We played games, sang loudly to Taylor Swift, argued about who missed the lyrics, and the moment I started talking about writing—
"No," Raymond cut in immediately. "Absolutely not."
Eventually, boarding was announced.
And just like that… it was time.
"So," he said, his voice softer now, "this is it, Aubrey."
"Sure is!" I squealed, then quickly forced myself to act normal.
He grinned. "Are you ready for Vegas?"
"No," I corrected him. "The real question is—is Vegas ready for me?"
He laughed. "I love this side of you. Now go in there and be a bitch. That's an order."
"I love you," I said, pulling him into a hug.
"I love you too," he replied. "And I'll miss you. Have lots of fun, take videos of everything, and send them to me."
"Okay, boss."
With that, I boarded the plane, found my seat, and settled in.
Moments later, the plane lifted off the runway—
And I knew vegas was officially ahead of me when the city started shrinking.