Bullshit, I know, but I’m not sure I care. The rum we’ve been drinking—a new blend Wyatt is experimenting with—warms my stomach and swells my confidence in my abilities to enjoy Cat’s company without succumbing to the temptation.
Next to me, she tucks one bare foot under her knee and her toes peek out from under her supple thigh. My first instinct is to press my leg against hers, but I catch myself before it’s too late and manage not to move.
As though she senses my heavy stare, her vision is fixed on the pile of chips in the center of the table. There’s a current of electricity racing back and forth between us, and I’m so focused on her, I’m surprised when I look down at my cards to find I’m holding three aces.
I glance around the table. “Is it my bet?”
Jackson and Wyatt both nod, and Gwen gives me a little wink. “Sure thing, cowboy.”
I grin at her. “This isn’t Texas, honey.”
Gwen waves her hand over the pot. “Are you betting or what?”
I glance back down at my hand, studying it like I’m contemplating my next move, as though not betting might be the smart option.
I call, slow-playing my hand, letting the chips fall where they may.
Two hours later, we’re all a little drunk when we decide to call it a night and face the prospect of an early morning with hangovers. Not that I’ll have one, other than being a bit bleary. I have the constitution of an ox.
Cat and I have basically ignored each other, not speaking except as part of the collective group. And despite my impulses, I’ve managed to treat her exactly as I should. I didn’t engage in any incidental flirting, or hold her gaze too long. It helps that we’re sitting next to each other instead of across. I don’t have to look into her eyes. But I’ve been aware—of her and the chemistry between us—every second.
It’s like the constant buzz of live wire.
We’re cleaning up the mess we made, and our hands touch as we push our chips to the center and everyone starts stacking. She jerks away like I’ve burned her, and I ignore it.
The chair scrapes, and she’s out of her seat, stretching, her arms high in the air. That flowy top of hers shifts and slides across her body. I look out the window and grit my teeth.
She lets out a yawn. “I am not looking forward to tomorrow morning.”
Gwen sighs. “Why do we do this again? Why can’t we have normal jobs and normal lives?”
“’Cause we’re gluttons for punishment,” Jackson reminds her.
“We’d probably be bored,” Wyatt says.
“I guess that’s true.” Gwen picks up her glass and drains what remains in one gulp. “I’m going to pay tomorrow when Nat wakes up at the crack of dawn, but I don’t care. It was worth it to blow off a little steam.”
“I can’t disagree, but ask me again tomorrow morning.” Wyatt clicks the metal case that stores the poker chips closed with a snap. “I’m off to bed.”
Cat barely looks in my direction. “I’m going to grab water and head off myself.”
Everyone calls out their goodnights, and Wyatt and Cat wander out of the room. I’m still putting the cards away, more slowly than is reasonable, when I should be getting the hell out of here instead.
Gwen grabs a handful of Jackson’s T-shirt and beams up at him. “I’m ready to let my wild ways get the best of me.”
Jackson snakes a hand around her waist. “You’ve been holding back, darlin’?”
“Never.” Gwen looks over his shoulder and says to me, “Can you take care of the rest?”
It’s just the excuse I need. “Sure thing. ’Night.”
They say their goodbyes, and then it’s just me in the room, carefully putting the cards back into a pile and straining to hear the sounds of Cat. There are stairs in the kitchen that lead to the second floor, which means she has no reason to come back this way, but I’m stubbornly hopeful she’ll be unable to resist the lure of chance.
That hope is why I should get the hell out of here, but I cannot make myself leave the chair. A few more minutes pass, and no matter how slowly I go, there are only fifty-two cards, and they are all tucked neatly in their pack. I’m out of excuses, but still I listen, searching the air for a sound.
And just as I give up, I hear something: the tread of footsteps growing close. I jerk up from my seat, throw the deck in the center of the table, and stride out of the room, my mind already spinning with options from innocent to profane—
Only it’s not Cat.