Page 57 of Wild Card
I’ve dreamed of this. Her. Having her here.
“You have to place your blind, Gwen. That means match my five.”
Her lashes flutter up to me. “Oh, whoops.” She giggles and reaches for her stack of chips, counting them meticulously before sliding them next to mine.
I glance down at my hand. It’s good, not a throwaway. But I don’t want to womp Gwen. I could toss a couple of hands just to be nice. But not this one.
“Bet,” I say, sliding in a few more chips.
She stares at me, a smile dancing on her pretty mouth. Then with an innocent shrug she says, “Bet,” and matches my chips again.
I quirk a brow at her, trying to make sense of her giddy demeanor, then lay out three cards face up for the flop.
It makes my good hand a great hand. I have a straight. Glancing up at her, she’s still looking at me like the Cheshire cat.
I know I’m just regular drunk and not hammered, but I can’t quite make sense of her expression.
“Bet.”
She nods, taps the table, and responds with “Call.”
I turn the blind card, and it changes nothing for me, but her face lights up like it’s Christmas morning.
It makes me want to fold. Shovel my entire stack of chips her way and lose it all to her.
But I don’t. I burn another card and flip the final one so that five cards are laid out between us.
“All right, let’s see ’em, Dawson.”
Her baby blues go wide. “My cards, or…?”
My heart stutters, and my eyes fall to her chest. She smiles and takes a deep swig of her wine, then turns her cards over, not even giving me a chance to fall all over myself with that innuendo.
I watch her face. The flush on her cheeks. The twinkle in her eye. I may not know much, but I’m pretty sure she’s flirting with me.
And it’s the first time I’m hit with the realization that I don’t know how many glasses of wine she’s had. That I might not be the only one here who is “regular” drunk. Having a rum and Coke while still taking painkillers was a monumentally stupid decision.
Not wanting to gawk, I drop my gaze to the table.
Her hand is fucking terrible.
I flip mine. “Straight.”
“Shoot, I guess I lose,” Gwen says, smiling against the rim of her wineglass.
“Gwen, that was a terrible hand. Were you taking advice from Clyde on how to—” My train of thought dies off, because Gwen has pulled off one raccoon sock and tossed it over her shoulder.
My heart thuds heavily. “What are you doing?”
“We’re playing strip poker. I lost. Had to take off an article of clothing.”
I swallow. What I should tell her is that wearen’tplaying strip poker. That was a passing joke. But I don’t know what else we’re playing for. Chips? Participation trophies?
I eye the sock. It’s just a sock—no lines crossed. This is my chance to course correct this entire thing right here and now.
Tell her to put it back on.
Tell her to put it back on.
