Page 15 of Betting Blind
As we move closer to the back doors of the kitchen, I’m reminded of when I saw Jack and a man who could be his twin standing in this spot earlier today. I knew I shouldn’t be listening, but in truth, I was trying to find an apron to house my notebook.
I clear my throat and force myself to look away from his large flexing shoulders as he works. “So, your brother, huh?” I ask lightly.
He stills. “What about him?”
There he goes, clamming back up again. The head of his mop meets mine, and I turn my gaze to the mostly wet floor we’ve finished cleaning. “I, um, couldn’t help but overhear your conversation earlier.” I swear internally. Jack doesn’t strike me as the type to dish his business to just anyone, and his hardened expression tells me as much.
Jack takes the mop from my hand and moves to place them over the rubber mat lying beside the sink to dry. He turns back to me, leaning his backside against the broad sink, and splays his hands over the edge behind him to brace himself. I step to his left to copy him, putting my ass in contact with the metal.
His thumb brushes my hip lightly, but he’s deep in thought and doesn’t notice. I, on the other hand, do my damnedest to ignore the zing of excitement that flows through the point of contact.
“Ben is a mess,” he says.
“What kind of mess?”
I eye his strong body from my periphery. He’s got to be at least two hundred pounds of solid muscle. “One you don’t want to get involved with.”
Loud banging comes from behind the far kitchen wall, followed by a few shouts, but Jack remains unphased by the racket. “Ben’s always been the good-time guy, you know?” I don’t, but I keep quiet and let him finish. Sometimes silence is more helpful than words. “He’d do anything for anyone, and he doesn’t know a stranger. But lately, he’s been distant. Not showing up to work and doing some shady shit. I don’t know what to do about it.”
I wonder what kind of shady business his brother is getting into, but I don’t dare ask. Instead, I offer him comfort, gently resting my hand over the images that cover his forearm and rub the area lightly. His eyes cut to mine when I turn his arm so his palm is up, giving me a better look at the permanent ink etched into the tender skin of his inner forearm.
Similar to the bold knots on the right side, his left has a thick braided band that wraps all the way around and spirals down the rest of his arm before connecting to his wrist. His bicep boasts more intricate knots and symbols that appear to be tribal, yet not tribal exactly.
Angling my body toward him, I hike my leg up on the sink so that my thigh is resting on the edge as he pulls the sleeve of his shirt farther up his arm. Pointing to a series of lines that intertwine in the center of his shoulder, I follow the thick black circle that encases them. “This is a Celtic symbol for strength, also known as a Dara knot,” he says thoughtfully. “‘Doire,’ means oak tree in Gaelic, and the knots in the center are meant to represent the root system that supports it.”
I lightly press my fingers against the bold symbol. The way every piece on his arm crosses and swishes this way and that, makes me dizzy. I nibble on the inside of my cheek as he continues and savor the feeling of his smooth skin beneath my hand. Some of the ink-ridden spots are raised, while others are so smooth, as if the tattoo chose him instead of the other way around.
“My family has roots in Belfast, Ireland. In a way, I guess I wanted to pay tribute to my great-grandfather who lived there,” he says softly. “Doesn’t hurt that it looks cool.” His smile is as warm as the Texas sun, and I want nothing more than to bask in it.
I release Jack’s hand and it gently falls to my bare thigh. “Oh!”
“Sorry,” he mutters at the same time. He doesn’t attempt to move, and the heat of his palm warms my skin where his hand rests.
He’s fixated on the spot, palming my thigh as he slowly presses each fingertip a little bit firmer into my skin, teasing. His big body gravitates toward me, but instead of following through with whatever thoughts have mischief dancing in those eyes, he pauses just long enough to gauge my reaction.
I slide my leg away from him so my feet are planted on the floor and take two small steps so I’m standing directly in front of him. The devil hides behind those icy eyes, and I become riddled with spontaneous sensations.
Jack reaches for the end of my long ponytail and curls it around his finger for a moment before moving it off my shoulder, exposing my neck to him. There’s a good six inches of space between us, yet the warmth from our bodies is enough to feel as if I’m pressed against him. My eyes flutter closed as the whisper of his breath brushes against my flesh just before a loud bang jolts us apart.
My gaze darts across the room to see Derrick hobbling into the kitchen. “Sweet, Jesus!” he curses, jumping up and down, holding his foot. “Did someone widen that door frame? I think I just broke my toe.”
I ignore my body’s protest when Jack puts several inches of space between us.
Hopping over in our direction, Derrick rips his shoe off and rubs his sock-clad foot. “Cass, is it broke? Be honest.”
Grabbing his ankle, I maneuver his sock off to examine the damage. “Does this hurt?” I wiggle his big toe before popping it hard, and he lets out an agonized cry. “Oh, stop. You’re so dramatic.” I grin at the large man, who is bent over, whining about his perfectly intact toe.
“What kind of she-devil are you?” He pouts, cradling his huge foot in his hands.
Laughter bubbles up from my chest. “You’re going to be fine, Derrick, I promise. Put some ice on it, you big baby.” I throw his sock back at him and take my cue to gather my things.
“That is one tough lady,” I hear him whisper to Jack, and though I smile, I wish it were true. There are many days I feel anything but tough, especially when I’m overworked, utterly depleted, and begging God that I’ll win the lottery so I can give Momma the life she deserves. Maybe even have a margarita or two on the beach with Jules.
If only life were so simple.
I step into the cold locker room and crane my neck back and forth to check my surroundings. When I’m certain I’m alone, I place the knuckle of my pointer finger between my teeth and bite down. Just as I thought—definitely not dreaming. My skin still buzzes from the roughness of Jack’s beard and the soft whisper of his lips against my skin. Either he was about to kiss me or I’m losing my mind quicker than I had anticipated.
My pulse thrums. Did Iwanthim to kiss me?
