vegas | H.S.

c h o r d s & n o t e s

a/n: hello, and welcome! this is the nineteenth chapter of vegas. thank you all for reading thus far, and i apologize for not updating on schedule. i was swamped this weekend, but here is it! the book has nearly twelve or so chapters left? so stay tuned. :) happy reading - dani xo

c h a p t e r n i n e t e e n

Ancient architecture embellished with gold paint, the masculine portraits of the predecessors of England. Cloth table covers, holding the crystal glassware and antique, embroiled silver forks and spoons only to be used for the finest soup in all of London and its defined fortunate investors, designers, and among the elite class. Waiters sprawling themselves to the different circular tables, infectiously grinning with a shimmering authentic glow of modern manners with a dash of classical techniques.

The exclusive restaurant, Grandfather, resides in the heart of Bexley. From my apartment, it would be an easy thirty minutes, however, this gentleman—no, moron—is destroying the lavish atmosphere, reprimanding me of that precious time.

Hopes were of high regard for this evening, specifically detailing the location and the amount of prestige that I thought he would hold, but oh, how I was wrong.

His perfectly, aligned teeth haven't failed to halt at chatting about his accomplishments, and when I assume his attention would shift to know more about my ticklish background, he jolted back to himself. A celebration of his immense success.

Charles, the notable engineer that was fascinated with money, leaned in his rather handsome figure to the rear of the chair. His digits wrap around the crystal champagne glass, tipping the rim to slither the gold liquor to his lips. This was in between a devoted conversation on his recent contractors and investments to American companies. How awesome.

"So, I said to him, 'of course you can't invest in the stocks.' It's surely murderous," His eyes gleamed at an irritable me, consciously picking at a revolting salad that he most graciously ordered for myself. What woman would even settle for such a cuisine? I barely have any lettuce!

"Are you listening, Vegas? I was just about to tell you about the Stanford Organization at the marketing meet-"

"No, I'm not listening."

"What?"

"I'm not listening to anymore of you yammering about your stupid job!" The cushion chair beneath was skidded across the marble, my upper half hovering over the pathetic dinner we dreadfully shared for the last hour. "Have you even bothered to ask me about my job? What I like to do? Who I am? I could be a serial killer!"

My nerves were on high alert, fidgeting at the amount of Charles I had to put up with.

"Vegas, please. I'll ask about yourself. Please sit already, you are drawing unnecessary attention," He hushed me, perching forward to settle.

"I don't care! I'm leaving," My fingers snatched at the sequined clutch Ashton picked out, stammering with the fleet of accessories I've brought in the chilling weather. "Have a good night talking to yourself, Charles."

With shivering limbs stuffing into the warming clothing pieces, my heels brought me to the outside. The blistering winds whipped against my cheeks, and exposed ankles, heightening the goosebumps that arose almost immediately.

"Another ruined date," I huffed, breathing the icy breath through the knitted ridges of my scarf. The fog that left my lips formed a trail behind the countering steps I've taken to land eyes on my vehicle.

Inside, the warmth of the heated seats and vents swallowed every bit of the December weather, and sealed off my body temperature to a safe measure of relaxation.