His worn jeans hug his thighs, and his boots are scuffed.
I find myself morbidly fascinated. How can someone be so attractive and unappealing at the same time?
Gabriel clears his throat, and it’s a split second too late that I realize I’m caught.
“See anything you’re interested in?” he asks.
I’m horrified. Instead of trying to make an excuse, I nod toward the poker tables, grasping for an exit. “I should return to the game, too.”
He frowns, pouting his puffy lips just slightly. “Yeah. Closeted jocks aren’t really my type, either.” He arches an eyebrow. “Are you closeted? I don’t really follow professional tennis.”
Aware that he’s echoing my words about rock music back to me, I fumble for a response. I’m typically good at maintaining my composure, but Gabriel has me on my back foot.
“I’m not… I don’t.” I swallow, annoyed. “You’ve got the wrong idea.”
“Okay,” he says flatly, clearly not believing me. “Care for a drink?”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“All my friends are lost in a poker game, but I could use a break from the cards.”
“I told you, I’m not—”
“Gay,” he says. “So it’s just a friendly drink.”
A cocktail would put me one drink past my limit. There’s no reason to accept this offer. Except that I hear a challenge in his voice, like he knows I’ll chicken out and run away, and for some reason that inspires a burst of defiance.
I refuse to let this stranger with the wavy dark hair think he’s got the best of me.
“Vodka tonic,” I say.
Gabriel looks mildly surprised. “Sounds good. Coming right up.”
I follow him to the bar, not being the type to accept an open drink from a stranger. Gabriel gives me a curious smile as he orders, and when he receives the drinks, I immediately take it from him.
“Vodka tonic,” he says as he clinks his brown drink against mine. “To Vegas.”
I snort. “Sure. To Vegas.”
“Not a fan?”
I sip the drink. “The city isn’t my style. I don’t party.”
He rocks back on his heel. “Uptight?” he asks casually.
I scoff and take another gulp from my drink. “No. That’s not what I said.”
Gabriel shrugs. “Okay. Tennis players just have a reputation, you know? Preppy.”
He’s messing with me, and I’m not going to let him. “I think you’re the one with the reputation, actually.”
“Definitely,” he agrees. “And I’ve worked damn hard to earn it.”
Bristling, I take a drink of vodka and then point the glass at him. “There’s a lot of distance between being uptight and being a Vegas party monster.”
Gabriel laughs. “Vegas party monster? Is that like a Muppet with a gambling problem?”
I squint at him. “You have a passing resemblance to Gonzo, I suppose.”
