Page 17 of Grift

Then she gives me an even bigger smile. “Your mom let me see the dress you picked. I hope you don’t mind, but I was just so excited to see it. And wow. It’s absolutely stunning. Did you cry when you put it on? Every time I see that Say Yes to the Dress show, I love it when they cry.”

I have no idea how to break it to this young woman that I haven’t even seen the dress. In fact, as she’s speaking it is the first time I’ve envisioned myself in a wedding dress. A fresh wave of shock leaves my vision blurry. It’s a distinct possibility that I’ll be standing in front of hundreds of people in that dress in just a few very short days.

The elevator stops at the casino’s top floor and when we step into the hallway, I look around in sudden panic. I shouldn’t be here. What am I even thinking?

“I’m actually here to see my father,” Bridget says cheerfully. “Do you know how to find Patrick’s office?”

As if she summoned him, Patrick rounds the corner of a nearby office. He’s much more casual today, wearing dark jeans that mold to his muscular legs and a white button down with the sleeves rolled up. The colorful details of his tattoos catch my eye, as do the corded muscles beneath them. His dark hair is short, and he’s got a five o’clock shadow that reinforces the hard, square line of his jaw.

“Hey Birdie,” he calls, a grin breaking the cloudy look on his face. But when he sees me, his face immediately goes to neutral.

“Look who I found. I was going to take her to your office, but I guess you knew we were coming,” Bridget beams. “I can’t believe you didn’t introduce us before. She’s amazing.”

She gives an apologetic wave as she heads in the opposite direction. “I’m late to meet Dad.”

My eyes stay locked on her retreating back until I’m forced to turn around and face the imposing man standing, just watching me. He’s wearing the same heady cologne, and he seems even bigger now that I’m not wearing four-inch heels. In fact, he towers over me in a way that’s strangely both intoxicating and intimidating.

“Jessica,” he says, very evenly. His eyes scan the hallway. Immediately, I find myself wishing again that I’d dressed up and taken any care with my appearance.

“Can we go somewhere and talk?” I’m practically shaking.

He regards me for a moment and then nods. But instead of leading, he gestures toward the door he came out of and puts a hand on the small of my back to guide me in that direction. I stiffen as his hand touches my back, a tingle of anticipation arcing up my spine from where his fingers graze the fabric of my coat and sweater. There’s nothing forceful though, and I move into the office.

It's a large space, all leather furniture and dark wood. White walls and plenty of natural light. It’s all masculine, but in a way that isn’t overly personalized. It’s comfortable and not trying too hard. Not unlike the man who quietly closes the door behind me, and then goes to lean in the edge of his desk.

He’s huge, I think again. Patrick’s bright blue eyes are on my face. Everything about him is so intense. What would it be like to have that intensity unleashed on you in other ways? And then I remember the file, and heat flares in my cheeks.

He’s waiting, seemingly patiently, when it is clear that this is not a patient man. What I blurt out next is the last thing that I intended to ask.

“Is it true that you hurt my brother? That night, the night of the gala?”

He nods. “I told you as much.”

“Why? You said he was running a scam of some sort?”

His mouth moves into a hard line and his jaw flexes. Patrick clearly doesn’t like answering to other people, and I’m smart enough to know that barging in here, unannounced, is not a smart play to win his good will.

And leading with this?

But even as I start to apologize, to back up and smooth his ruffled feathers, he answers.

“He was counting cards. Stealing. I didn’t know who he was, or I might have handled it differently.” There’s enough emphasis on the word might that strongly suggests that’s bullshit.

Counting cards. I remember reading about a class they used to teach at MIT in the 1980s to help all the math geniuses count cards. Basically, if you could remember what cards had already been dealt in a game, you could predict what is coming and bet accordingly. If you are successful, it’s a hell of an advantage over the house. And while I don’t technically think it’s a crime, I understand why a casino owner would not be happy that it was happening in their business.

Frankly, it surprises me that my brother Jared has the talent to do it. And it doesn’t surprise me that a man like Patrick responds to something like that with swift, definitive violence. A minute of silence passes, before he looks down and then up at my face.

“How’s he doing?” He genuinely sounds concerned.

“My mother says it’ll be a week or two before he’s out of the hospital, but it sounds like he’ll be fine. Honestly, we’re not that close,” I say neutrally. My oldest brother Camden and I are in touch. But Jared started treating me like human garbage after the scandal and has barely spoken to me in the interim. It is easier to keep my distance than open myself up to yet another source of judgement. He obviously didn’t deserve to get beat up, but that’s not why I’m here, and not even really why I asked the question.

Patrick gives me a wry smile, a dimple peaking out like a flash of sun behind the clouds. “Probably a good thing, considering.”

Considering we’re supposed to be getting married in four days?

“About that,” I say tentatively. “Listen, Patrick, we don’t have to go through with this.”

I’ve had time to think, to go over the options since he cornered me in the gallery. I’d been in shock. I’d been distracted by him. I’d been swept up in the whole thing. But with time, with space, I’d begun to think that there must be some other way to deal with this.

---