Her fork pauses for half a second. Barely noticeable before she sets it down. Buying time. Or choosing her words. Or debating if she should let me in on the secrets I know she's been guarding.
"No," she admits. She looks up in a so-not-Audra fashion, which makes me imagine all kinds of ways that look could be directed at me. "Don't laugh."
Something in the way she says it—not defensive, but… careful—hooks my attention. "I promise I won't."
Her eyes flick up to mine, searching. Measuring. Like she's deciding if my word is worth anything.
Then, slowly, a wry smile curves her mouth. "I wanted to be a card dealer."
I don't laugh. But I do lean back slightly, studying her like she just revealed a different language I didn't know she spoke.
"A card dealer?" I repeat, more amused than curious. "Why?"
Her smile lingers, but there is a small hint of regret in it. "Because I sucked in school. I knew I wasn't going to college."
She shrugs one shoulder, casual on the surface, but her fingers tighten slightly around her glass. "We're in Vegas. I heard you could earn good money without schooling if you knew what you were doing."
She's not wrong. A good dealer is worth his or her weight in gold. Her gaze lifts to mine again, steadier this time. "I wanted to deal at high-stakes poker games."
That… I didn't expect.
Something low and amused hums in my chest, but it's not mockery. It's interest.
"High stakes," I repeat. "Not blackjack? Not roulette?"
Her lips tilt again, that same almost-smile. "Too predictable."
I lean forward slightly, resting my forearms on the table.
"Interesting," I murmur. "So how did you go from that… to patching up injured animals?"
She huffs out a quiet breath, glancing down at her plate before looking back up. There's another flicker of regret there.
"Life," she says simply.
I don't let her get away with that. "Not good enough."
Her eyebrow lifts. "No?"
"No." My voice lowers just enough to shift the air between us. "You don't strike me as someone who just lets life decide things for her."
That lands. I see it in the way her shoulders still, just slightly. In the way her gaze sharpens, like I just stepped a little too close. Silence stretches between us again. But this time it's more… charged. Her fingers trace the rim of her glass, slow and absent, but deliberate enough to pull my attention. She knows I'm watching. Doesn't stop.
"Maybe I changed my mind," she challenges.
"Or maybe," I counter, not looking away, "something changed it for you."
Her breath catches, so quiet I almost miss it. Almost. For a second, I think she's going to deflect again. But then she leans back in her chair, mirroring me now, her gaze locked with mine.
"Why does it matter to you?" she asks.
There's no attitude in it. Just… curiosity. Real curiosity. I hold her gaze, letting the question sit between us. Lettingherfeel it.
"Because," I choose my words carefully, "people don't just walk away from something they want. Not unless they're forced to… or they're hiding from it."
Her lips part slightly, like she's about to say something, but stops herself. The pause is telling. That woman is challenging me. Me! There are so many layers to her, I can't wait to peel them away one by one until I finally see her fully. In all her naked glory. Physically and metaphorically.
She picks up her fork again, but she doesn't look away.
