“How are you doing, sugar?” I ask softly, noticing the blush in her cheeks at the nickname. Shit, I need to know her name.
She gives me a smile. “I’m good, sir, thank you. Got about another hour and then I’m off the clock.” She bites her lip again, and I swear to God, she must be able to read my mind, knows what that’s doing to me.
“Mmm,” I all but moan before giving her a nod. “I’ll take some more water, sweetheart.”
She takes a look at the table, then back to me before nodding. “Yes, sir.”
I reach out and softly grasp her elbow as she turns to leave; she gasps and I wish my lips were on hers so I could swallow it. “Please,” I murmur. “Call me Corey.”
“Yes… Corey,” she whispers, before slipping away and around the other side of the tables.
“Sir, your bet?” The dealer calls me to attention, and I shove some chips toward the center.Whatever.I’m playing another game right now, and it feels like it’s worth more than whatever I have on this table.
When she comes back around with my water, she sets the bottle down gently next to me and collects my empty glass. She pauses, and I lean back slightly, pressing against her where she hovers behind me.
I glance up at her as the dealer lays out the cards on the table; I have an ace showing.
“Good luck on that ace,” she whispers.
I glance back up at her, and the desire in her eyes is unmistakable. Looking back at the dealer, I cock my head. He flips the second card down—it’s an ace.
Looking at her, she has a grin on her face. “Good luck on those… aces?” she says playfully.
Turning toward the dealer, I slide a second stack of chips toward my other stack, indicating I want to split these. “Down, please,” I say, as he deals out the second cards, sliding mine face down next to my aces.
She leans in closer, and it takes everything in me to not turn my head; she’s so close. If I looked at her, our lips might actually touch. And that might turn me into a goddamn animal here at this table.
I can feel her breath as the dealer flips his second card. He had a king of spades showing and flipped a three. Could be good, should be good, but he flips out another card. A five of spades–fuck.
The dealer tilts his head toward me. He can’t pull any more cards, and I have to hope I’ve got more than a seven under each of these hands.
He reaches out, flipping the first, then the second.
Both are queens of hearts.
Despite a multiple deck shuffle, I almost laugh at the coincidence. The stranger at my table nods in my direction, a clear “congrats” without words. I turn toward her, and… She’s gone. I spin around and look around the room; she’s not there.
It’s a weird sting for her to not be there when she wished me luck and waited for the cards to flip. As the dealer—his name is Emerson, according to his name tag—swipes up my cards and slides me my winnings. I lean forward.
“The server,” I ask, quietly. “What’s her name?”
He stares at me, then takes a sweep of the room. “Honestly, sir, I am not sure. She’s filling in tonight. She’s not usually in the high limit room.”
I frown, and for a moment, I consider pushing back from the table and slipping my phone out of my pocket to text Aaron or Drew. They must know who she is? Or know someone who knows who she is?
Shaking my head, I try to snap back into the game. The dealer is starting a new shoe and–fresh off a big table win–two newcomers approach our table and sit down.
Blackjack is pretty damn enjoyable for me. I love being able to sit down and narrow my focus to two things—my hand and the dealer’s hand. Calculating the odds between my hands and theirs. Yes, you play at atable, but I play against the dealer. It gives me focus and a certain level of peace and calm.
But not now. Not now that I’ve seen her, felt her next to me, her breath next to me, wishing me luck.
Emerson deals, and he’s got a five showing, while I have a ten and a three. I should stay, I know I should. In Vegas, they have this thing called “the book” aka the thing you should statistically follow if you want to win against the dealer. “The book” would tell me to hit, but something in me hesitates. Emerson looks at me and tilts his head. “Sir? Stay? Hit?”
He’s patient, and I appreciate that. I am in no way intoxicated, even though I have had two bourbons. Searching the room one more time, I look for her and see her coming around to the table. I wait for her to slide next to me, like she has the last few times.
Cocking my head back, I mumble, “What do you think?”
Her eyes flash, looking toward Emerson, then back to me. “I can’t—” she starts, but I stop her.
