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Glenda just rolls her eyes and gives him a gentle shove, like she’s used to his schtick. And who knows, for them, maybe this is foreplay. Me, I hide whatever I’m actually thinking and look at the only person here who doesn’t make me want to scowl, which is Fox.

And he’s smiling, all right, but his eyes are hard.

“Hey, back off.” His voice is light, not even remotely threatening, but…firm. Sincere. “She’s mine.”

Gently, he presses his forearm to my waist. Drawing me into him. Possessive.

Jim just laughs. So does Glenda. I smile, too, but my pulse is in my throat and my legs feel suddenly wobbly.

Because Fox is…warm. Solid. And pinned against him like this, even for show, I feel…small. Delicate.

Safe.

The word barely has time to flash in my mind before he lets me go. Because we’re moving on. There’s more to do. The dealer calls for more bets, Fox stacks a few chips—on red, this time, fair enough—and this time we bust. The wheel spins. The ball clatters. Fox’s stack goes down, comes back up, goes down again, and somewhere around the fourth spin I realize I’m clutching the edge of the table like it’s a life raft.

“Relax, sweetheart.” Glenda pats the back of my hand and snaps in the air as a waitress glides by. “Can you get these folks a drink already?”

I cringe a bit at her brashness, but the waitress seems totally unfazed. And looks at Fox first, of course.

“I…uh…” Fox, in turn, looks at Jim. “Whatever he’s drinking.”

Jim lifts his chin. “Black label, double, neat,” he says, pointing to his empty glass for emphasis. “Make it a round.” The waitress nods and looks at me.

“Um…” I glance at Glenda, who’s holding a champagne flute in her pearl-pink manicured fingers. “Champagne. Thanks.”

I don’t want to get drunk, not even tipsy, but refusing would invite too many questions, and wine I can go slow on, reasonably.

Plus, I should relax. Because Fox is relaxed. I have to hand it to him, really: he’s playing the part well, pumping his fists when he wins, sagging in defeat when he busts, elbowing Jim and laughing with the dealer and engaging with any and everyone else. After a few more rounds, we’re up—slightly.

“No more bets!”

I crane my neck at the wheel as the ball stutters to a stop. Bust. The dealer sweeps away Fox’s chips.

“Damn,” Fox mutters. “So much for my gut instinct.” He leans in next to me, practically over me. “What should I do now?”

I’m thinking. Lose too hard, too fast, and we’re SOL, but play too conservative and nothing noteworthy will ever happen. The outside bets aren’t going to do it, but I don’t have a sense of what’s in scope here. I try to glance at the placard, but Fox is blocking it. “What’s the minimum?” I murmur back to him.

“Um…” I feel him shift to look at the sign. “Is that…”

“Per spin, or per bet?” Glenda butts in, clearly still eavesdropping.

Fox opens his mouth. Closes it. His eyes slide over the brass stand like someone looking at a menu in a language they’re pretending to speak. The pause runs just long enough to notice.

“Both, hon.” Glenda rescues him without glancing up from her chips. “Twenty-five a spin on the outside, five a number on the inside. They’ll nickel-and-dime you into the grave.”

“Right,” Fox says. “Yeah. That’s what I figured.” His shoulders droop, like he’s out of his depth, and for a moment I panic. But no, I remember, that’s the whole act.

Right?

We play. Two spins, three, five, until we’re a hundred dollars up. It’s going well, too well. And I’m getting antsy.

I tug on Fox’s arm—just a girl pulling her boyfriend close, at least if anyone is watching.

“Go big,” I murmur. “Make it stupid.”

“How stupid?”

I think about it. “Half your stack?” I suggest, and glance over at our newfound friends. “Make Jim cry,” I say, raising my voice this time.