“It’s non-negotiable,” Prescott says as he sinks down in a leather club chair to join me. “A bet is a bet.”

We’re at the Ivy, tumblers of barrel-aged whiskey in hand, and Prescott just won’t drop the fucked up bet we made weeks ago.

“I’m not up for it. I’ve got commitments here that I don’t want to break.”

“You talking about your waitress? Come on, Charlotte is hot, but so are the hookers in Atlantic City.”

“She’s not a waitress anymore,” I say under my breath. For the last week, I know Charlie has grown more tense over the fact she hasn’t found another job. She doesn’t want any handouts, which I respect, but it kills me to know she is stressed. I need to figure out a way to help her out without her knowing.

And without my family knowing.

I may be twenty-three, but I’m not financially independent. Not yet. My parents control my trust fund until I finish grad school. And until then, they are aware of all my expenses. If they found out I was financially supporting a woman I’ve known for less than a month they wouldn’t exactly be pleased.

I need to find a way to help Charlie that isn’t tied to Beckett money.

“I’ve known you most of my life, Spence. You have never gone back on your word. You can’t start now.”

I finish my drink, thinking. “I’m not interested in sex with strangers, but I’d be up for a night at a roulette table.”

Prescott claps. “There’s my boy. I’ll call the limo, you ready to go?”

“Now?” I look at my phone, already knowing the answer It’s only seven. It takes less than two hours to get to the strip. “It’s a Wednesday night, Prescott.”

“Perfect. I’ll call the boys.” He squeezes my shoulders. “It’s time to get lucky, motherfucker.”

When we walk into the Borgata, I can’t help but grin. Prescott is pumped, and Connery and Yates are already drunk. It’s been a while since I let loose with my boys, and I admit to feeling their excitement. On the limo ride over they push me for details about Charlotte.

“So you guys together?” Yates pours us another round of bourbon on ice.

“Technically, no, but I can see it going there.” I stretch my legs out in front of me, unable to help the smile that tugs at my lips when I think of Charlie.

“That’s fucking nuts.” Connery shakes his head. “Princeton Charming falling for a commoner.”

“You can’t be like that,” I tell him, holding his gaze and making sure he knows I’m serious. “You have to be cool about her, have my back. God knows my mother is gonna lose her shit.”

Yates raises his glass, his words slurred when he says, “To your Princess.”

Prescott’s jaw twitches and he rolls his eyes, but he raises his glass anyway, playing along. No way is he going to risk ruining tonight by weighing in on anything.

I can’t figure out what his deal is with Charlie. He was the one who was trying to get her a job, even though it didn’t pan out.

“I tried to pull some strings,” Prescott says when I ask him about it.

I’ve tried not to be jealous that she accepted his help, but not mine. Prescott of all people. I love the man, but he’s either hot or cold with her. A nagging feeling in the back of my head thinks he’s still pissed that I refused his idea of sharing her.

But no way in hell am I letting her near him. Or near any other man for that matter.

Charlie Hayes is mine.

Prescott shrugs. “Turns out they were unpaid intern positions.”

“Unpaid internships reek of privilege. You shouldn’t have gotten her hopes up. I mean, who can afford to take that on?”

“Us,” he says, smirking.

“We’re not getting into a bougie debate on a night where we’re playing hundred dollar hands,” Yates says, looking between us, obviously feeling the tension.

And I know he’s right. There’s a time and place for everything.

But by the time we’re in the casino, the bottle of bourbon we finished off in the limo has erased the strain between us. I’m here for one reason and one reason only. To win a fuck ton of cash for Charlie.

We head to the roulette tables, and a cocktail waitress takes our orders as we begin laying down chips. I’m putting my money on odds, because yes, I am cheesy as fuck, and for me and Charlie to work out, it’s gonna be against all odds.

The dealer drops the ball on the track and spins the wheel. It lands on twenty-three. “Nice,” Prescott says, raising his bourbon. “That’s how we do it.”

We keep playing for an hour or so, but I see Prescott’s eyes constantly scanning the room as if he’s looking for something, or someone.

“What gives?” I ask as I place half my chips on black on the outside of the table for a side bet, hoping to double it all. Yates bets on red and I laugh. “You going against me? Man. Brutal!”

Prescott clears his throat. “Ah, nothing, just heard a group from campus might be coming.”

I frown. Who else would be here on a Wednesday night. “Who?”

Prescott shrugs. “Doesn’t matter, but you need to loosen up. You look so tense every time you make a bet.”

I clench my jaw, not interested in sharing my personal motivation with my oldest friend. Something about him is just not sitting right with me.

Connery walks over to us, arms raised. “The party just arrived, fuckers!”

With him is a clan of five Ivy girls, Winslow at the helm.

“What the hell, Prescott?” I ask, turning toward him as the dealer announces red twelve. Fuck.

“Nice,” Yates slurs, getting more drunk by the minute, but he just won big.

It’s not looking good for me. In fact, this entire night just turned into a clusterfuck.

Winslow is sauntering over to me with a sly look on her face. Long gone is the drunk girl from the post-football victory party, and the pajama-clad Winslow from the grocery store parking lot is nowhere to be seen. Now she is poised to perfection and cold sober. I know because she has that icy look in her eyes she only gets when she hasn’t been drinking. Clarity. Decision. Intent.

And she is looking straight at me.

“Let’s go dancing,” Georgia Renshaw, Winslow’s best friend says to Connery, slinging an arm over his shoulder. “Come on, please!?”

Connery has a thing for Georgia and so the next thing I know, we’re all headed to the hotel’s dance club.

“It’s gonna be dead on a mid-week night,” I say, trailing behind the group. I drink my bourbon trying to think how I can ditch my friends for a few hands of blackjack.

“Hey, you’re here for a night of debauchery,” Prescott says. “If the club is dead, we can bring it to life.” He pulls out a plastic baggie of coke from his breast pocket.

“Not my thing, man,” I say, unease creeping into my chest. “You know, I’m really not up for dancing. I’ll meet up with you later.”

Prescott is pissed, but I don’t care. The last thing I want is Winslow grinding against me on a dance floor.

I’m just sitting down at a blackjack table when someone reaches around me, covering my eyes.

“Guess who,” Winslow laughs as I pull her hands away. She spins my stool around and plops down in my lap. Before I can peel her off of me, she’s pulled out her phone and taking photos of us. When a cocktail waitress walks by, Win drags her into the shot. “The more, the merrier,” she says playfully.

“Enough,” I say, giving the waitress a fifty dollar chip as an apology for Winslow’s obnoxious mood.

Winslow slides into the stool next to me. “You’re no fun tonight.”

“What are you even doing here?”

She frowns as I am dealt in. I look at my cards, not wanting to give her any more attention.

“I came because I was invited. Everyone thought you needed a fun night out with your real friends, to remember what really matters.”

I refuse to play along. She’s just trying to get under my skin, and I won’t let her.

“Listen, Spence, Georgie literally heard that Daphne girl, Charlotte Hayes’ roommate, in the dining hall telling people you guys slept together. We are here for damage control.”

I scoff, tapping the table for another card. Twenty-one on the money. I take my winnings and leave, not wanting to get into this in front of a dealer. For all her talk, Winslow sure could learn some table manners.

“Damage control? Is that what you call this? Because I call it quits. Seriously, Win, I’m done. You and I, we’re over. I told my mom that the other day, and I suggest you let your parents know the same. Go find another rising politician to claim.”

Winslow’s eyes gloss over, and I can see the tears building.

Shit.

“We’re practically family, Spencer. You know that.” Her chin trembles, and in her face I see a reel of memories. Our first kiss when we were thirteen. Our first prep school dance. Teaching her to drive on her father’s stick shift BMW. Losing our virginity at Nantucket the summer we both turned sixteen.

“You slept with Ethan.” I keep my voice cold, void of any emotion.

She swallows hard, and I see the guilt in her eyes, but also the accusal. “What was I supposed to do? You broke my heart, Spencer. After you broke up with me...”

“I never meant to hurt you.” And I hadn’t. But I knew we would never make each other happy. Still, it didn’t mean I still didn’t care about her. She was right, we are practically family.

Tears fall down her cheeks and I pull her into my arms. She may not be my last, but she was so many of my firsts.

“I love you, Spencer.” She sniffs.

I wipe the tears from her cheek and give her a sad smile. “You love the idea of me, Winnie.”

“Can’t that be enough?”

I shake my head. “No. Not anymore.”

Realizing I’m not backing down, she presses her lips into a firm line and steps away. “You’re going to regret this, Spencer.”

I let her walk away, knowing she’s wrong.

It’s time I closed that chapter. I want the fairy tale ending, and it won’t be with Winslow Harrington.