His laughter raises gooseflesh on my arms. I love the sound of it so much.
“Look at you trying to rub the shine off me.” He rests a palm over his heart, feigning that I’ve wounded him. “You sure you’re not Irish? That’s our way with each other, you know.”
I smile but don’t have a chance to respond because Clare Duffy enters the kitchen with a sharp green-eyed gaze. Her red hair is thin and stick-straight. I bet it dries in five minutes, which is something mine could never do.
“Jamie, you finally made it.”
“I did, yeah.” He turns in her direction, causing the gold pendant to thump against his chest. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to wear jewelry, but the dark chain does have a “fuck off” vibe that suits his overall lawlessness. “How are you, Clare?”
Clare’s got the body of a coffee stir and a personality to match, complete with traces of bitterness. She’s not afraid to spar over politics, history, or religion, no matter who’s around. The Allendales would be appalled. But Clare has her acceptance to the country’s top law schools. She can afford to be smug. I admire her accomplishments and the flashes of her “zero fucks given” attitude. She’s not a blue-blooded GU legacy girl. Instead, she’s proving what can be achieved by someone who’s smart, driven and fearlessly assertive.
Turning her attention to me, Clare says, “Allendale, you’re dismissed for the night.”
“Hold on,” Jamie says, accepting the way Clare leans in to give him a kiss on the cheek. “She’s serving drinks, and I need one.”
The fact that he’s making excuses for me to stay causes my skin to tingle with anticipation.
“Jesus, James, you’re freezing,” Clare says, ignoring what he said. Instead, her hand slides down his side, touching his bare skin until he shifts out of reach. Her hand drops, but her expression is unchanged. She’s not one to buckle under an awkward moment. “If you already lost your shirt tonight, it doesn’t bode well for your getting into the game.” She arches a brow. “You know the buy-in is ten grand, right?”
I nearly choke. Ten thousand dollars isn’t a lot of money for most Granthorpe families, but as someone who only gets 250 dollars per month for incidentals, it feels like an insane amount to use to play a game.
“I’ll manage,” he says in a low voice. His eyes return to me. “I’ll have a whiskey. Bushmills, if you’ve got it.”
I start to turn. “I’ll check.”
“No Bushmills,” Clare interjects, her voice growing haughty. “Only Jameson’s. But the Jameson’s is top shelf, so I suppose you’llmanagethere, too.” Her smirk is plenty sly as she links an arm around his to guide him toward the poker table.
A spark of jealousy burns through my chest, but I tamp it down. It’s actually a good thing Clare came out and made her interest in Jamie O’Rourke evident. He’s clearly wild and a world-class flirt… which is dangerous. Because, though I would never go out with a bad boy, nothing turns me on more. It’s some kind of genetic flaw in my low-rent DNA.
Exhaling when they disappear into the sitting room, I try to regroup. The best thing I can do is leave as soon as I drop off the last round of drinks.
I won’t interrupt the game for last call. I know what all five—now six—of the players are drinking. I mix the cocktails and carry a tray into the room. Switching out empty glasses, I make my way around the table.
The game’s banker counts the one-hundred-dollar bills Jamie’s given him and then sets stacks of chips on my tray for me to deliver. When I set the chips in front of Jamie, he lifts one and lets it ride over the backs of his scuffed knuckles as he plays with it. After I set his whiskey down, he passes me the chip.
“No tips,” Clare says, reaching over with the intent of snagging the plastic disc.
Before her hand reaches mine, though, Jamie’s fist closes around it, trapping the chip inside. And trapping my hand in his. The tightness of his grip conjures an irresistible ache inside me. This is the kind of guy who pins a woman down and makes her like it.
“No tips?” Jamie scoffs. “It’s America. Your lot tips for someone saying good morning.” He turns toward me, holding me prisoner with his attention as though he’s some kind of hypnotist. “Keep it, Cranberry Sauce. For waiting in the cold for me.”
His calling me by a nickname feels intimate. The way he’s looking at me is, too. My lips part, and for a moment, I’m transfixed, my mind as much his captive as my hand. I should try to jerk free. But I don’t want to.
Whatis happening? Between my legs I’m burning as though someone’s lit a torch in my groin. Heat creeps upward, and I’m afraid his effect on me will show on my face.
“Jesus, James. What the hell?” Clare’s voice snaps like a whip. “Let go of my terrified intern.”
Jamie’s eyes never shift from my face to Clare’s. “Terrified, is it? Really?”
“No,” I say, feigning casualness.
Yet, Clare’s rebuke reminds me I should object to his grabbing my hand and keeping it imprisoned without permission. Even when I do pull my arm back, it doesn’t free me because Jamie’s grip tightens. Which sends a stab of lust through me the likes of which I’ve never felt before. I want more of this. Ofhim.
When Jamie finally releases my fingers, I force myself to set the hundred-dollar chip carefully onto one of his stacks.
“No tips,” I say firmly, my heart jack-hammering against my ribs like I’ve run a marathon. “Have a good night.”
“You as well.” Undaunted by my refusal to keep his tip, he smiles at me before I hustle toward the door.
