Page 38 of Van Cort
The wheel spins, the ball circles, and my eyes flick between the table and the wheel, the sound of the slowing ball ratcheting up the tension.
“Black thirty-three,” the croupier calls and the people around the table make a variety of responses ranging from indifference to glee.
“Your turn. I can see your mind churning just watching.” His voice is soft but goading, and he presses his hand into my spine, pushing me forward.
My eyes snap to his, but he just holds my stare.
Fine.
I flick my hair to one side. My hand moves forward and hovers before I double-check my calculations and place the first of my chips on the table with my heart in my mouth.
For the next half an hour, I break even – winning a couple, and then proceeding to lose, just as I think I’m getting the hang of it. At least I’m not out of chips. The thrill of the risk is exciting. It’s real. Live. Not hidden behind spreadsheets and files.
And I’m having fun.
“Time to switch it up.”
“Oh?” I ask, turning to him.
“Time for dice. Craps should be fun. Especially when I give you my chips.”
“No. Absolutely not. I can’t waste your money.” My brows pull down into a scowl.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s yours. Remember, we had this conversation.”
“Call it an investment. If I asked you in a professional capacity, would you do it?”
“That’s different. I know what I’m doing at work.”
“Weigh up the risk, make your bet. I want to see you do it.” I study his eyes, trying to see if he’s joking or playing around, but he looks deadly serious. “Learn.”
“This could end up being a very expensive date,” I joke.
“Only if you lose.”
My eyes bulge in panic, and he cracks that sexy grin of his. “I’m going to get us both a drink. What would you like?” I tilt my head a fraction at the question. “I’m not allowed to ask?”
“White—”
“Not wine. Champagne, spirits, take your pick.”
“Fine. Vodka tonic with ice.”
He leaves for the bar, and I assess the table one more time and place my chips. All of mine first, and my heart is in my mouth again. My hands splay on the shiny wood surface of the edge of the playing table as the balding gentleman throws the dice.
And I lose.
Fuck!
I step back, edging away from the table, but I’m blocked.
“Going somewhere?” Everett’s voice startles me.
“No, I just.” I turn to see him with two drinks. “I thought you didn’t drink?”
“Who says it’s not water?”
