Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
I grumble as I walk. Damn them. They’re right. I fucking love proving people wrong. Not sure what that says about me. But it is what it is.
Asher: Just you wait then.
Carlos: Holding my breath. Well, figuratively. I’ve seen you try blackjack.
John: Bating mine. BTW, what is bated breath? It sounds like bad breath with a fishy aftertaste.
Carlos: It’s breath you hold when you’re waiting, babe.
John: Ah, good to know. And here I thought I needed mints.
I laugh at the way they rib each other, the way they always have, even when times were hard when John was sick for a while back when I was thirteen and fourteen. But we made it through.
We banter like that as I make my way to the casino floor. Once I’m there I put the phone away, buy some chips, then beeline for a table. I’m eager to play a round before dinner and the show and try to clear my head with some straightforward decisions that I am damn fucking good at, no matter what they say, before I begin my official mission.
Fun. Only fun.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m nursing a glass of scotch, contemplating my cards, deciding if I want to stay in or hit. The dealer is waiting, the other players at the table glancing my way as I weigh my chances. I’ve got a sixteen, and the dealer’s showing a seven. Risk it or play it safe? The usual tension of blackjack—knowing the odds, yet still gambling against them—tightens in my chest.
But before I can make a call, a charge slides down my spine. It’s like my body feels her before my eyes see her. When I look up from my cards a second later, my mouth goes dry.
Maeve’s weaving through the blackjack tables, a jean skirt brushing mid-thigh, short pink cowboy boots padding softly on the carpet, and…my vest snug on her body.
That’s it. Just the vest. She’s all bare arms and cleavage, and I can hardly handle how good my friend looks.
In. My. Clothes.
My fingers tighten on the edges of the cards, my brain fogging as I try to focus on the decision in front of me. Sixteen against a seven. My gut screams to hit, but with Maeve in my line of sight coming, I can’t think.
With her easy smile, she’s oblivious to the effect her girl sorcery is having as she walks closer. That’s good. I really don’t want to let on that she’s cast a spell on me, and that I’ve got a bad case of lust for my best friend.
She’s your best friend’s sister too.
The dealer clears his throat. “What’s it gonna be?” His expression is neutral, but there’s a hint of impatience in his eyes. I can’t find it in me to care, though, since all I see is Maeve and the way the vest dips in all the right places. She must have taken it in since she last wore it, because it’s so goddamn snug right now it should be illegal.
Still, I manage to tear my gaze back to the cards. Normally, I’d play this hand safe, maybe even fold, like I’d do if I were playing on the team jet with the guys. But here tonight, I want to win. No, I’m compelled to win.
Possibly because there’s a reckless edge to my thoughts right now, spurred on by the mission of the evening. Or maybe it’s driven by the sight of her in that vest.
Yes, Maeve can definitely make vests a thing.
“Hit me,” I say, my voice rougher than intended.
The dealer nods, sliding a card my way. I flip it over and want to pump a fist. A five. I’ve got twenty-one.
Yep, luck is on our side tonight.
Maeve sidles up to me, her bare arm brushing mine as she leans in, just close enough that her scent—like a fruit I want to bite into—invades my senses. “Nice hand,” she murmurs.
Electricity shoots through me, from her voice, her words, her scent. “Nice vest,” I reply, my voice equally low, matching her tone.
“Oh, this thing? It’s a hand-me-down,” she says, fingering the top of it, drawing my attention to the pale, freckled flesh of her chest, covered in layers of silver chains, to the column of her throat, to her face. Heart-shaped with a spray of freckles across her nose and mischievous hazel eyes, with wild curls framing her face.
And I know I got lucky that round. I want to keep that luck for the rest of the night, so it’s time to walk away from the table. “Let’s get some food, and then see the show.”
“Let’s do it,” she says as I take my chips and follow her, snapping a pic as I go. Feeling a little smug, I send it to my dads.
Asher: Oh, ye of little faith.
Carlos: Yes! I always believed in you.