I walk slowly around the table with my eyes trained on Rafe.
He watches me, his fingers steady on the cards lying face down on the green velvet. His face is so carefully blank that I know it’s a mask. He’s minimizing his own tells.
I come to a stop beside him. The croupier has paused the game, and the weight of people’s eyes feel heavy on me.
“Hello, husband.” I run a hand over his shoulders, and I feel drunk on it, the power of this moment. My hand slides up into his hair and I bend down to kiss him.
But just as his lips meet mine, I break off and set my lips to his ear instead. “I’m annoyed. I didn’t come here to spend the night alone.”
He stiffens, and his free hand comes to rest snugly at my waist. My voice was low, but it’s quiet in here, the air tense.
I hope people hear us.
“Darling,” he says. “Entertain yourself.”
My hand tightens in his hair. “How much longer until you’re done?”
“Until I win,” he mutters. “Find someone else to entertain you.”
“When’s the break?”
“In five minutes.” His voice sounds low and angry, and itsparks something deep in my stomach. “You’re holding up the game.”
I stand and release my grip on his hair. Our eyes meet for a long, annoyed moment before I turn on my heel and walk off into one of the corridors. I open a door randomly, knowing the table can still see me, and slam it behind me.
I wait there, my back against the door, and breathe deeply. My heart is pounding.
It doesn’t take long. Less than the five minutes he said.
Rafe opens the door.
In the short period it’s open, I see the others milling behind him, rising from the table. More than a few people are watching us.
Rafe shuts the door behind us. “What was that?” he asks.
“A distraction,” I say.
“Making it seem like we’re in a fight.” His lips slowly curl. “Brilliant.”
I reach up to fix the collar of his shirt. It’s a bad habit I’m developing, but I can’t find it in me to stop. “I’ve told you before,” I say. “Apathy is the worst thing we can show. Now they all think we’re in here arguing.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “You keep doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Adjusting my clothes when I know for a fact my collar is straight. If you want an excuse to touch me, Wilde,” he says, “you don’t need one.”
I ignore that. It’s too close to a truth I’m not ready to admit. “How long until they come looking for you? When’s the break over?”
“Ten minutes,” he says.
“Then we stay here until someone comes looking for you.”
His smile widens. “You want to cause a scene?”
“I’ve heard what people are doing behind these doors. Plenty of people are getting busy. Let them think we argued and then slipped in here for some… private time.”
“Private time,” he echoes. “Yes.”
