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“Pardon, hi. I just checked out about an hour ago, but I think I left my watch in my room?”
The man at the counter looks at him disinterestedly. “So?”
Eames stares. “...So, someone might’ve picked it up or something. Is there a lost and found here?”
“It’s probably gone.” The man returns to his magazine.
“Excuse me?” Eames says, more incredulous than anything else.
“It’s probably gone,” the man repeats, slowly, and louder.
Eames is speechless.
“Look, pal. We’re not responsible for lost or stolen property. It was in the terms. Just get another watch.”
“This is ridiculous.” Eames braces his arms on the counter and leans over. “Couldn’t you just check the cameras--”
The man snatches his arms off the table, but not before Eames notices a familiar golden shine.
“...Is that my watch?” he asks in disbelief.
He watches the man slowly pink in front of him.
“So?” the man says, snapping open the magazine busily.
Eames glances at the man’s name tag. “Arthur.” He lets his voice linger on the word, and he smiles. “I’m impressed.”
Arthur focuses intently on the magazine.
Eames leans in. “I’m about to go con some snobs at the Bellagio. Would love some company. You in?”
The magazine lowers, revealing a pair of heartbreaking dimples. And in that moment, Eames knew he was fucking screwed.