Conceal
He’s not looking at me when I approach. He’s focused on the game. The sound of the chips echoing as he fiddles with them scratches at my nerves. I know he’s doing it to toy with me. I’m not sure how I know this because I don’t know him, but I can tell. The chips rattle over and over again, making the hairs on my arm stand up. The sound reminds me of nails dragging down a chalkboard.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
It’s almost as though it’s a nervous tic.
I take a deep, long inhale and summon up all the strength in my body not to yank the annoying chips from his hand and throw them at him.
No.
There will be none of that.
Only smiles and a sugary sweet voice that would give me a cavity. A grin so deep, he’ll never think I would have the audacity to steal a fifty from him.
“Can I get you something to drink, sir?” I ask.
Sweet. Sweet. Sweet. Sugar. Sugar. Sugar.
At the sound of my voice, the chips stop moving, and I wait for him to look up, but I’m not prepared when he does. I’m not at all prepared for the look he gives me. Nor am I ready for how green his eyes are from this vantage point. These are the eyes of trouble. Eyes you get lost in.
Scratch that . . .
They are eyes you drown in.
But not me.
Not now.
Not after everything I’ve been through. Maybe a few years ago. Maybe before.
Now I am long since jaded.
No. Those emerald orbs hold no power over me.
“Sir?” I say again, and this time, I know without a measure of a doubt, if I were any other woman, I would melt on the floor because as I stare down at him, the right side of his lip curls up into what I could only call his signature smirk.
This is the kind of smirk that a man like him has perfected. Its goal is to cause permanent damage to the recipient.
This is a smirk that is only fit for a god.
The worst part about it is that he knows it.
Bastard.
The thing, though, is he doesn’t know I am immune to smirks like this and even more immune to men like him.
After what I’ve been through, I know you can’t trust anyone but yourself.
“A drink?” I ask.
“In a rush?”
“Not at all, sir.”
He leans forward in his chair, arms resting on the felt of the table beneath him. His head is cocked, and he’s arched his right eyebrow.
Jeez.
Does he have to look at me like that?
I straighten my back, fusing my spine so tightly it could easily snap.
A gust of wind would be the culprit or another smile from him.
Either way, my facade of indifference has dropped into place. I’m a fortress, impenetrable to this man. No matter how handsome he is.
I’m not in the right frame of mind for men or distractions. Only one thing can take up space in my mind right now . . .
What I’m going to do about the news I found out about my father.
If someone had told me how far off the path my life would drift in the past year, I’d never believe them, but here, serving drinks to this arrogant jerk, I can’t recognize myself, and that’s not because my hair is dyed and I’m wearing contacts. Strike that, I forgot my contacts. It’s because my life is an episode of America’s Most Wanted.
“No need to call me sir. My name is Jaxson Price.”
Thankfully, I keep steady and show no reaction to his name. My walls are up and strong, but I’m no idiot. I might not be from New York, and I might not go out much, but I know exactly who this man is, and if I thought his looks were deadly before, now I know this man is bad for my health. Jaxson Price is Manhattan elite.
Fuck that, Jaxson Price is so much more than that. He’s an American god.
I need to get out of here.
Of all the games for him to show up at, of all the gas stations for him to stop at, and of all the people for me to fuck with, it had to be Jaxson Price.
“What can I get you, Mr. Price?”
I should know what he’s drinking, but I don’t. Maggie would know. But I’m not Maggie, so I have absolutely no clue. I have to hope that whoever is behind the bar does.
He tilts his chin up, and his grin broadens, and then on a faint whisper as if he can read my mind, he says, “Don Julio, 1942. Extra chilled.” And then as if he never said it, as if he didn’t throw me a life raft on this job, he looks back down at his chips and the sound of the rattling starts again. He’s back to playing.