“That’s okay.” He slides closer, his arm brushing mine as he leans in. “I’ll teach you.”
The proximity does not help my concentration.
“Okay,” he says, pointing. “The shooter rolls the dice. You can bet with them or against them. We’re optimistic people, so we’re betting with them.”
“We are?”
“We are tonight.”
He explains the pass line. The odds. The rhythm of the game. His voice is calm and steady, and I’m struck again by how patient he is.
“You’re good at this,” I say.
He shrugs. “My dad was a pit boss.”
I blink. “Really?”
“Yeah. I grew up around tables like this. Learned early how to read a room. And when to walk away.”
“That explains a lot.”
“Like what?”
“You don’t seem intimidated by chaos.”
He considers that. “You grew up around fertilizer, didn’t you?”
I laugh. “My dad sold fertilizer, yes.”
“And your mom was a teacher?”
“Fourth grade.” I smile at the memory. “She still corrects my grammar.”
“Good woman.”
“She is.”
I rest my elbows lightly against the rail of the table.
“My brother used to tell people Dad sold shit,” I add.
Jesse snorts.
“He wasn’t wrong.”
“No. But Dad worked hard. My parents both did. They built something steady.”
“Steady’s underrated,” Jesse says quietly.
“It is.” I swallow. “I want that someday.”
He looks at me then. Not teasing. Not amused.
Just listening.
“You will,” he says.
The shooter rolls.
