Page 10 of Just Playin'
Smiling like the cat who swallowed the canary, Becca returns her eyes to me. “And don’t get me started on the players’ salaries, or we’ll be here all night.”
Feeling more comfortable, I allow Becca to spin me back toward the door she rushed out of in a hurry only minutes ago. I really should leave, but with curiosity guiding my steps, I’m more reluctant to go than stay. I like Becca. She gives off a vibe that reveals our differences in age and wealth won’t stop us from forming a friendship. For some inane reason, she likes me.
I highly doubt her male companions agree with her viewpoint.
“THAT’S PERFECT,Willow. Thank you. Just leave it on the counter, and I’ll bring it out when the dumplings are ready. ”
Becca’s praise makes it seem as if I hand-whipped the cream instead of using the fancy electric thingumajig every knocked-up wife has. With a mischievous grin, she barges me out of the kitchen with more gusto than an eight-months-pregnant woman should have.
“Why don’t you go see what the boys are doing in the den?”
Before I can announce I’d rather eat uncooked liver, she pushes me into a room that’s bigger than the entire floor of my college dorm. The den looks like a playful space. . . if you’re a man stuck in the Stone Age. Bulky leather seats take up one corner of the room, surrounded by walls of liquor that extend from the floor to the ceiling. A black billiard table sits to my right, and a poker table is in the middle of the room. It’s only just visible through the blinding rays of a mammoth TV that’s playing highlights of the game Iunfortunatelymissed tonight.
That’s where Dalton and the still unnamed man sit. They’re playing cards and smoking cigars while watching reruns. If that doesn’t prove I’m out of my element tonight, nothing will.
With their focus rapt on some man sprinting down the sidelines, I mosey to the side of the room to summarize my evening so far. Although it has been odd, it’s also been fun. Becca’s personality is exactly how I envisioned. She’s friendly, slightly kooky, and she loves her husband with every fiber of her being.
Dalton has a similar temperament to her. He dotes on his wife, but in a sexy,makes me want to drooltype of way. He has a smoking-hot southern accent, and has laughed off my clumsiness as if it isn’t the first time he’s handled a ditzy college student.
Then there’s the mystery man. . .
Who knew it was possible to sit down and share a meal with someone without their name being mentioned once? I know not all conversations start with, “Hey, blah-blah, can you pass me a napkin?” but politeness usually dictates an introduction—especially after they so rudely scorned the tree-hugging name your parents slapped you with. But nope, his name has been as safely guarded as his personality.
I honestly don’t know if he thinks I’m funny or a complete nutter. If the suspicious glances he’s given me from beneath lowered lashes many times tonight is any indication, I’ll say he’s five seconds away from calling the psychiatric ward to ask if any patients named Willow escaped tonight.
Spotting me lingering awkwardly at the edge of the vast space, Dalton lifts his dark eyes to mine. “Oh, hey, Willow, why don’t you join us?”
See?He has no trouble saying my name, so why is he keeping quiet on his friend’s identity? Seems a little suspicious to me.
When Dalton raises a brow, prompting me to answer him, I murmur, “It’s okay. I’ll wait for Becca. She mentioned something about dessert.”
Good one, Will, bring up food like a piggy who didn’t just scarf down two plates of Chinese without coming up for air.It wasn’t my fault. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and their Chinese was incomparable to the packet noodles I consume most nights. I swear, I nearly orgasmed when the honey chicken hit my taste buds. It wasthatgood.
Not wanting to overstay my welcome, I hook my thumb over my shoulder.“I should probably call a taxi. It’s getting late.”
“It’s barely eleven,” Dalton scoffs at the same time the mystery man asks, “What’s up, buttercup, afraid poor poker skills will make you lose more than your hate of all things American?”
Buttercup?Should I be pleased he’s awarded me a nickname so quickly or annoyed? I’m not often given a nickname, so I’m inclined to swoon, but this one’s double-meaning has me sitting on the fence. In theory, it sounds sweet, like a cupcake topped with delicious buttercream icing, but in reality, he could be insulting me.
Buttercup flowers are deadly when consumed by cattle and people. He is aware my parents gave me a tree/plant name, so did he nickname me Buttercup because he believes any man who devours me will learn from their stupidity by dying? Or. . .
Certain I’m looking too deeply into this, I answer, “No. I’m a good poker player. I just have limited funds on me.”None. I have none. Bar a few pennies in the bottom of my bag, I’m flat broke until Tuesday.“I depleted my cash at a food truck outside of the stadium. Their pretzels were worth the splurge. They were only the teeniest bit stale.”
I curse in my head when the man with the unamused brown eyes says, “You left the game for food? Wow. I thought maybe you just hated the players, but I’m quickly learning the error of my ways. You don’t just hate the game, you hate American sports in their entirety.”
“I didn’t leaveduringthe game. I left before it started, thank you very much.” My last words are only for my ears, but he can have the daggers firing from my eyes. “And I like sports. Just none that morons with half a brain play.”
All my daggers miss their mark when he smirks. He has a really nice smile, even when it’s delivered with a scowl. “Oh. . . sorry. I didn’t realize your research extended to the players’ academic capabilities. Please, excuse me. ”
Not even Dalton can miss the sarcasm in his tone. “Elvis,” he drawls out in a growl. “Play nice.”
With the tension in the room at a stifling point, you’d think I would have more pressing matters to attend to than clenching my thighs together. I’m not doing Kegels because Elvis’s narrowed eyes make his dark and brooding features even sexier; I’m doing everything in my power not to pee my pants.
My bladder full of wine stays where it should, but the girly shrill rumbling up my throat like thunder makes it hard to play it cool. I sound like a hyena seconds from gorging on a wildebeest. I’m in pure, man-meat heaven from karma slapping Elvis hard in the face.
After coughing to clear the laughter trapped in my throat, I ask, “Your name is Elvis?”
When his eyes narrow to barely a squint, all attempts to hold in my giggles are lost. I laugh like a lunatic, my chuckles coming out with the occasional snort from my lungs’ brutal fight for air. I swear, I’ve never laughed so hard in my life. Tears roll down my cheeks unchecked as my almost bursting bladder holds on for the frightening ride.
