“Please Ryder? I want to try. If I lose, I’ll pay you back, I promise. Every penny.”
She tilts her head, sticking her bottom lip out the tiniest bit further, and I melt. As if I could ever say no to her.
“Fine,” I sigh, knowing that even when she does lose, there’s no way in hell I’m taking her money back. I give the dealer a nod, letting her know to deal us both in and to put the bets on my tab. “Show me what you’ve got, Marshmallow.”
“You’ve gotto be fucking kidding me,” I grumble as Lindsay clears the cards from the table and Mabel slides the pile of chips in the center closer to her. We’ve played four hands, and she’s completely wrecked me each and every time. The first few thousand dollars I lost, I chalked up to beginner’s luck. By the third hand when Mabel wiped the floor with me yet again, the look of sheer indifference and coolness never leaving her face, I realized she’s been playing me like a fiddle.
“C’mon, Rye Bread, one more hand. I’ll even go double or nothing, give you a chance to win your money back.”
“Yeah right. You only want to go double or nothing so you can fly home with even more of my money. You hustled me, Mabel Scout Quinn.”
A server sets down a round of drinks—only our first since we joined the table, since neither of us wanted to be inebriated while we played—and Mabel purses her lips, blowing me a sexy, sarcastic kiss that I feel in my bones.
“I sure did, Ryder Atticus Finch. But is it my fault that you didn’t know I was president of the poker club at Stanford?”
“Seriously? How did you even have time for something like that?”
She shrugs. “I was terrified of getting caught oncamera doing something stupid, so I never partied. It’s not like I could get away to the mountains every weekend, so I had to find my fun somewhere. If I wasn’t in the earth sciences lab, I was in a frat basement cleaning out pockets.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, the vision of Mabel wearing nothing but the threadbare Stanford t-shirt she wears on family movie nights and a green, see-through visor, smirking villainously while taking the money of clueless frat boys clouding my brain.
“God, just when I think you can’t get any hotter,” I grumble, because apparently, the whiskey has made me loose-lipped. A beat passes, and when I open my eyes, Mabel is staring at me, those big brown orbs blown out wide, her martini paused halfway to her lips.
Okay, it’s possible I’m regretting that last drink right now.
“What?” I ask when she doesn’t say anything.
“You think I’m hot?”
I almost roll my eyes, but when I realize she’s serious, that she actually doesn’t realize how I see her, I can’t help it. There is just enough liquor in my system to make me reach over and place my hand on top of her thigh, my pinky brushing the soft skin peeking out from the hem of her dress.
“Mabel, of course I think you’re hot. You’rebeautiful. You’re stunning. You’re the most gorgeous woman in every room you walk into. Most days, I find it impossible to keep my eyes off of you.”
It’s subtle, the hitch in her breath, the way her lips part ever so slightly, how her pupils dilate further, but I notice it all. And for the first time, that intense, magnetic force that pulls me into Mabel’s orbit over and over doesn’t feel one-sided. It doesn’t feel like all the energy in the room is contained in my chest. No, it’s buzzing between us, electrical sparks firing off in every which way as we sit in the aftermath of my admission. My body has a mind of its own, and I’m helpless against the way my eyes zero in on her lips. Helpless against the urge to lean in, to tighten my grip on her thigh, to bring us close enough to feel the warmth of her breath fanning my face.
But then Mabel is moving, swatting my hand away and scurrying out of her chair.
“Nice try, Rye Bread, but pretending to think I’m pretty won’t get you your money back. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m in need of a treat. Winning really gets my sweet tooth going.”
She tries to sound indifferent, but I can hear the edge of panic in her tone.
Oh lord, I have fucked up.
In the time it takes me to collect our vouchers—the chips are just for show these days—and throw acouple of bills on the table as a tip for Bunny, Mabel is already breezing through the heavy curtain that separates the high roller club from the rest of the casino. It takes a few long strides to catch up with her, but when I do, my hand on her shoulder is immediately shrugged off.
“Mabel, slow down.”
“I want to hit the gelato spot we walked by earlier before they close. I’m dying for a scoop of chocolate hazelnut.”
“Mabel, I’m trying to talk to you,” I say, this time hooking my arm around her elbow. “I’m sorry if I freaked you out. I shouldn’t have said?—”
She yanks her arm away from mine like I’m some gross seaweed brushing her leg in the ocean.
“Not here, Ryder,” she spits, anger burning in her eyes. It’s not her usual playful annoyance staring back at me. It’s a genuine ire that I can feel in my gut, and I throw my hands up in surrender.
“Mabel, I?—”
“Not here,” she says again, her gaze flitting around as casino-goers and passersby begin to notice us standing here. I follow sheepishly as she stomps towards a quiet alcove, pressing her forehead on the wall between a janitor’s closet and an electrical room. I tuck my hands into my pockets, watching in confusion as she takes three long, deep breaths, the sameway she does before a run in competition. I don’t dare try to speak again, not until she’s ready to talk.
