One for the Money

Except that it’s faintly possessive.

I don’t feel like a possession to be bought and sold. I don’t even feel like a head of cattle to be bargained for. No, I feel like a jewel. Something to be coveted.

Something to hold close so that no one else steals it.

He caresses me through the bids, through the flop and the turn cards. I’m left with a single pair of eights. Not exactly auspicious, but better than nothing.

The dealer waits for the round of bidding before the river.

This is the last card, the one that determines my hand for good.

So far none of the other players seem like they have incredible cards, but maybe they’re hiding it well. Then again, two of the men seem enamored with the women who surround them. Three women for two men. And while the men wear suits, the women wear barely-there dresses that are more like glittering swimsuits. Not that I’m judging.

It just makes me feel old in my Dior ballgown.

It’s not the ballgown. No, it’s my actual age that makes me feel old.

Thirty-three is ancient for an unmarried woman in our social set.

We’re waiting for the couple beside us to place their bet. They have to confer over every decision, using the opportunity to feel each other up.

They look deeply in love. Or deeply in lust. I’m not sure I even know the difference.

I glance back at the man who watches me.

His hazel eyes deepen to emerald as he looks back. “Go all in.”

A startled laugh escapes me, but with our faces this close, my amusement dries up. It’s replaced with whatever that couple has—not love, then. Lust. I feel my body become liquid and heavy, as if I’m readying myself. I’m in a room full of people, but my body doesn’t care about that. It wants to take this man. “You’re insane.”

“I’m interesting,” he counters, his lip curling up.

“You’re reckless.”

“I’m interested,” he says, and I know what he means. His tone makes it clear. His gaze does, too. He’s interested in me, the same way the man is interested in the woman he’s practically fingering on the stool next to us.

The dealer clears his throat so that they’ll make their bid.

“You’re young,” I tell him, because it’s the reason we can’t be together. Not the real reason, but one that’s socially acceptable. I’m not some aging widow who has a fling with the pool boy. Men his age don’t hook up with women my age.

“Bullshit,” he says.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine.”

I scoff. “Young.”

His smile turns a little sad. “Age isn’t about how long you’ve lived.”

“That’s exactly what it’s about.”

“It’s about experience.” He leans close, so he can whisper. His lips brush the outer shell of my ear as he speaks, raising sparks of interest throughout my body. “And I think I have lots more experience than you. Don’t worry, though. I’ll break you in slowly.”

“Break me in,” I say, my voice too high. “Like I’m a horse.”

“Don’t be offended. My horses are thoroughbreds.”

I know from society talk that Hughes racehorses are legendary. But I didn’t know how much of that legacy trickled down to Finn. Enough, apparently. “I’m not a thoroughbred.”

“Ma’am,” the dealer says, snagging my attention.

The couple made their decision. They’re in.

It’s my turn. Two pair probably isn’t enough to win this. But I’m only one diamond away from a flush. On the off chance I get it, that could be enough to win.

Or it might not be.

I don’t like the uncertainty. It makes me nervous. Anxious.

Or maybe that’s the way Finn watches me. As if he wants to prove a point. That I’m staid, dependable Eva Morelli. That I wouldn’t know how to have fun if it kidnapped me and took me to an underground casino.

I push the piles of chips into the center.

A gasp sounds from the people around the table.

“Fuck,” Finn murmurs, his hand tightening on my hip. “That was so hot.”

The couple groans in unison and throws their cards down, quitting outside of their turn. The dealer brings the bet around again. Against my high raise, only one man remains. An elderly gentleman who looks severe with a poker face.

He looks, in Finn’s words, experienced. I don’t think he’d stay in with a poor hand.

Every muscle in my body clenches as I watch the dealer’s hand.

He flips a card.

I blink, sure that I’m imagining it. An eight of diamonds sits on the green fabric. Holy shit. I got the flush that I was hoping for, but even more than that, I got a full house.

My fist shoots in the air. “Yes.”

Immediately my cheeks heat at the unladylike action.

Finn releases a low chuckle.

We’re hardly being subtle, but it doesn’t matter. There are already several thousand dollars in the pot. The older gentleman reveals a straight with a rueful smile.

“Congratulations,” he tells me in a gruff voice.