Page 48 of Win Big

“I guess that’s true.”

“Hakuna matata.”

I burst out laughing. “You’re crazy.”

“Maybe so.” He leans in closer and nuzzles my ear. His breath has shivers cascading down my skin. “But I’m having a good time.”

“Life’s not all about fun.”

“Right now it is.”

I shake my head, but he’s irresistible and I smile.

We dance more. He runs into someone he knows—-a football player? And we hang out with them for a little while, laughing alot. I can’t believe it’s two in the morning the next time I check my phone.

I lay my hand on his forearm and go on my toes to speak into his ear. “I really have to go home! It’s late.”

This time he nods. “Okay. Beam us up, Scottie.”

“I wish. Are you okay to drive?”

“Sure. I’ve only had one beer.”

“Really?” How the hell did that happen? Then I realize I’ve only had two tiny glasses of champagne the whole time we’ve been here. Every time I mentioned another drink, Wyatt made me dance again.

We say goodbye to our new friends and I dance my way out of the club. The street is a lot quieter now and we start down the sidewalk arm in arm. I’m singing the words of a song the DJ played. “Chop up the beats, chop up the beats.”

Wyatt laughs and spins me around. I can’t believe I don’t fall over, but I guess I’m not that drunk.

“I haven’t laughed that much in a long time. My face hurts.”

“That’s good. Laughter is important.”

“I’m notthatmuch of an old fuddy-duddy.”

“Fuddy-duddy? That must be a term your dad uses.”

I giggle. “Yeah, that probably is where I got it.”

We arrive at the church parking lot where Wyatt left his SUV and we both stop short at the now locked gate in front of us. A big, black wrought-iron fence with spikes on top surrounds the lot, including his Land Rover.

“Oh my God.” I gaze at the locked gate.

“Fuck.”

We both stand there staring at it.

“What are we going to do?” I ask.

Wyatt walks back and forth along the fence, as if assessing his ability to climb it. That won’t help, though; we still need to drive out.

He blows out a breath and shoves a hand into his hair. “Maybe I can pick the lock.”

“What?”

He moves closer to the gate to inspect it and I hover near him as he pulls a Swiss Army knife out of his pocket. “Damn, I can’t see,” he mutters.

“Here.” I pull out my phone and turn on the flashlight, shining it on the lock.

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