I stare at the rotating blur of pictures in front of me. It stops again—a pair of cherries on the first reel; the number “7” on the second reel; and another pair of cherries on the last reel.

I’ve been sitting here for the past half hour, jealously defending my seat from little old ladies. The casino is pretty crowded today, and I need to sit somewhere.

Mom and Hannah are upstairs, talking to the wedding planner about stuff I can’t care about. My sister’s wedding reception is going to be held in the hotel that’s attached to this ginormous casino. (Let’s not pretend that these establishments are more about hospitality than gambling.)

I stayed with them in the meeting room for as long as I could stand. But honest to God, they were arguing about whether to curl the ribbons wrapped around the thank-you gifts. Arguing.

I couldn’t take it anymore, and I figured I wasn’t helping either because, honestly, both versions of the thank-you gifts looked exactly the same to me. But I couldn’t go home without them either since we came here together.

So here I am, stuck in a glitzy casino jam-packed full of gamblers and tourists.

Don't get me wrong. I love my sister, so I’m actually really happy she's happy. I’m just not into weddings in general.

Hannah and her fiancée are the perfect couple, though. They’re always touching each other and smiling at each other . . . and there’s nothing more envy-inducing than watching them gaze at each other. It seems like they communicate so much in just one look, saying secret things to each other even when they’re surrounded by people on all sides.

Hannah and I used to have our own secret language when we were little girls, but it was pretty easy to crack. In fact, even though you don’t know it yet, you’re already fluent in this language. Basically, we just added “idig” to every word. For example, “thidigis iidigs aidig secridiget langidiguage” means “this is a secret language.”

We learned to do that from a bunch of girls in school, so it wasn’t even original. Plenty of kids were doing it.

For years, Mom and Dad pretended not to understand what we were saying, and I bought it.

I was sure all the parents whose girls spoke the secret language had sinister meetings where they talked about us in the shadows, working tirelessly to translate our mysterious language. But it was not only secret; it was sacred. And so we kept our lips tightly zipped.

In reality, of course the parents understood our secret language perfectly. They were just pretending not to, in order to gain an advantage in the eternal parent-child battle.

So no, Hannah and I never really had a secret language.

The looks that lovers share—that’s the real secret language. The only one that will never be decoded by anyone else.

Oh, but what do I know?

I’ve never had what I’d call a “healthy relationship,” and I know what the problem is: the guys I’ve dated were way too clingy. Somehow, I have a knack for picking out these guys.

Here’s how a typical relationship goes for me: I go on a handful of dates with a great guy; he tells me he loves me and I say it back because it’s awkward not to, and he's a great guy anyway; he wants to move in together; I put it off; he nags me to set a deadline; I tell him to stop bothering me; he keeps bothering me anyway; I leave him; he eventually fades out of my life; single again, I go on a date with a great guy.

The order and intensity of these stages differ, but that’s basically how it would go. Whenever I’m seeing someone, in my head I track our progress through this cycle and wonder how much longer it will take this time around.

There was only one time my relationship didn’t follow that trajectory.

I was sixteen, and he was the first boy I ever loved. When he told me he loved me, I cried and told him I loved him too. I meant it then.

And then, suddenly, he left. Without a trace.

He didn’t even leave a note, or call me on the phone, or email me, or text me.

I thought about him obsessively, always looking for something from him. Anything.

But nothing ever came.

I don’t know how long I waited for him. Hell, maybe I can’t fall for anyone else because I’m still waiting for him, as pathetic as that sounds.

Or maybe my heartbreak was so traumatic that I haven't been able to allow myself to fall in love again.

I don’t know.

One thing’s for sure, though, he doesn’t care about me. It’s been ten years since he disappeared, and I’ve never heard from him again.

So I have no luck in love, and apparently no luck in gambling either.

Maybe I should try doing something different. Wasn’t it Einstein who said the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting different results?

I should try a different game, or at least a different slot machine. And with regard to love, maybe it’s time for me to move on, to take a risk with another guy, to let myself be vulnerable again.

“Excuse me,” someone says, close to my ear. He smells like whisky. “I just have one coin left. Do you mind if I put it in?”

I expect to see a dirty drunk, but the sight I see when I turn my head takes my breath away.

This man, he’s beautiful. I swear I don’t usually use that word for men, but the creature in front of me deserves it.

His eyes are the color of glaciers, and they seem as cold, too. It suits him. In contrast, his hair is so dark it’s almost jet black. There’s a little bit of dark, chestnut brown in the sheen of his hair and the ends of the strands.

He tilts his head, and the warm light from the crystal chandelier above his head permeates his hair. Rough stubble the same mysterious color covers his strong jawline.

Like many other men here, he’s wearing something casual for the hot desert weather. But the way his jeans hug his ass, and the way his thin white shirt shows just a glimpse of the broad, hard chest underneath . . . If I stare at him any longer, I’ll have to start fanning myself, but I can’t look away.

There’s something about this beautiful man. Something familiar, although I’m pretty sure I’ve never met someone as captivatingly gorgeous before.

“So can I put it in?” the man asks again, his eyebrow cocked as he smirks.

He’s obviously noticed me staring at him. A man like him probably gets a lot of attention wherever he goes.

I blush as I realize the double entendre. Either way, for a man like him, my answer is “yes.”

“Thank you,” he says as he sidles up close to me, the rough denim of his jeans brushing against my bare arm.

I can vaguely feel the heat of his sturdy thigh underneath those jeans. I want to reach out to touch him with my hands, but I know I shouldn’t.

“Kiss it for me,” he says in a confident, self-assured voice.

I stop myself before I blurt out something stupid like, “You mean your thigh?” Think, Aubrey. He obviously means his coin, which he’s holding up.

“Sure,” I say as coolly as I can, under the circumstances.

His lips curl up and a chill runs down my arms. I return his smile, then I lean forward and kiss the coin, maintaining eye contact the whole time.

My lips meet the cold, hard coin but also graze against his warm fingers. Electricity courses through me at the contact, and I’d almost swear his eyes darken for a split second . . .

“Thanks,” he says with a panty-melting smirk before he turns his attention to the slot machine.

My gaze drops down to the bulge in his pants. It looks like a nice size. I wonder how he would feel against my palm, against my lips, or inside me . . .

I raise my gaze to look at his face. High cheekbones, thick eyebrows, and lips that are just so kissable. I lick my own lips as I imagine how he’d taste.

I should probably stop staring. Yes, I don’t see many people as beautiful as him, and maybe a part of me wants to prolong this moment as much as possible. But at the same time, I’m being weird and more importantly, I’m not using this opportunity as best as I can.

This is the first instance of good luck I’ve had all day.

This morning, before the plane finally took off from San Francisco, it sat on the tarmac for three hours—with all the passengers inside.

Then, my phone battery died, so I had to sit there doing nothing, while Mom and Hannah had a long discussion about whether to use bright-white or off-white cloth napkins for the reception—again, I love my sister, but I just can’t get myself interested in that stuff.

After that, when we finally landed in Vegas, I waited and waited by the conveyor belt, but my bag never came.

And now, I’ve wasted a lot of (Dad’s) money on this slot machine that just won’t let me win.

So maybe the Universe is finally giving me a break in the form of this man. After all, he appeared right after I thought about taking a risk in love, so maybe that was a sign.

Plus, you know, the way he said “put it in” . . .

I part my lips to start some small talk. Maybe I should ask him if he wants to get out of here and hang out at some coffee shop.

“Oh, shit!” the man exclaims before I can say anything.

The slot machine plays some extra-loud music while the screen flashes.

“Yeah!” he says as the sound of coins clanging against metal fill my ears.

My jaw drops as the coins continue pouring like water into the bottom of the machine and spilling out onto the carpeted floor.

People are gathering around behind us, watching with the same shocked expression as the one I’m wearing.

What the hell…?

He just won!

After I sat here and played for more than half an hour, this guy just came along, inserted a single coin, and won the jackpot.

Life's not fair, and casinos are even worse.

I mean, this guy is hot and all, but he’s probably just going to walk away now, after using my slot machine and winning a big bucket of coins that I should’ve won.

Sure, he has a pretty face. But all things considered, it would’ve been better for me had this handsome stranger not messed with my machine.

“Fuck, yeah!” he shouts with an elated grin. He cups my face with both hands and quickly pecks me on the lips. “You must be lady luck. Let me buy you a drink at the bar.”

I stare at him. Did he just . . . kiss me?

“Sure,” I say quickly before this gorgeous man changes his mind.

Okay, maybe life isn’t that bad.