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Time to go. If someone comments on my play, I always leave the table. And it won’t be a hardship to move to a casino without a bad country soundtrack.
“Hi there,” a deep male voice says.
I look over at the man who just filled the cowboy’s seat and see Maverick Hagen, the hockey player from a couple weeks ago. He smiles, looking more than a little smug, and without even asking my brain, the corners of my lips quirk up in a smile back.
How did he find me? Why is my heart racing from the way he’s looking at me? And why did he have to show up just as I’m about to leave?
One more hand won’t hurt. I fold early, my gaze sliding to the dark-haired, well-built athlete on the other side of the table. When he folds, his eyes find mine, and a wave of nervous energy hits me right in the stomach.
I should leave. According to the set of rules I follow every night, it’s time for me to get up and move to a new casino. I’ve been called out for winning, and my focus fizzled when Maverick sat down.
I should leave, but I don’t. Instead, I play an overconservative game, making sure I don’t win any big pots. I’m playing a long game here in Vegas, and getting blacklisted by casinos will ruin everything.
Maverick is a solid player; he’s growing his pot as mine gets a little bit smaller. He’s playing differently tonight, not giving me any tells about the strength of his hands. But mostly, he just looks directly at me, the hunger in his gaze making me feel freshly awoken from a long sleep.
It’s been a long time since I wanted a man. There’s no room for romance in my life, and why bother with meaningless sex when I have a vibrator with six settings that’s a sure thing?
Men are unreliable. You don’t know if you’re going back to a hotel with someone who can’t get a hard-on or who passes out drunk before the clothes even come off. And even if he stays awake and can get hard, there’s a fifty-fifty chance he won’t be good in bed.
Been there, done that, prefer my trusty battery-operated boyfriend.
There’s something almost sensual, though, about the way Maverick touches his poker chips. He stacks them carefully but efficiently. I envy the chip he’s toying with right now, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.
He looks down at his phone, reading something and then typing out a response. Must have been a text. But from who?
Could be his wife or girlfriend. Or his parole officer.
I groan inwardly. Why am I sitting here making eyes at a professional athlete? I need to cash out and move to another casino, because the night is young and there’s more money to be won.
Not allowing myself another look at Maverick, I rack up, pass the dealer a tip and head for the cashier’s window. I’m planning to stop at my favorite little deli for a sandwich and then go to the Bellagio.
When I go to open the door to exit Harrah’s, someone behind me beats me to it, his long arm reaching past me. I look over my shoulder and lock eyes with Maverick.
“Hey, Gia,” he says, smiling playfully.
“Hi.”
I start my walk down the sidewalk, and he falls into step beside me.
“Remember me?” he asks. “Maverick Hagen, from a couple weeks ago.”
“Sorry, I don’t.”
I keep my gaze straight ahead, not allowing him to distract me. It’s not just about the fifty-fifty chance he sucks in bed—I can’t risk being seen with someone famous. He may not be as recognizable as Matt Damon or anything, but with the Saints about to start their first season as an NHL team, he’ll be very recognizable here in Vegas soon.
I’m under the radar, and Maverick Hagen is most definitely not.
“Has mismatching always been an issue for you?” he asks, sounding genuinely puzzled.
I stop walking and look down at the frayed jean shorts and black Ramones T-shirt I’m wearing. I also have on well-worn, black low-top Chucks.
“This matches just fine. What are you, the fashion police?” I ask, glaring.
“I’m not talking about your clothes. It’s your eyes and your words that don’t match. The flushed skin on your neck and your attitude of indifference. You want me to think you don’t remember me, but you do. And you want me to think you don’t like me, but—”
“I do?” I burst out laughing. “I’ll give you points for creativity, Maverick Hagen. Can you tell me what I want for dinner? Clearly you know my mind better than I do.”
He grins. “You want to let me take you out to Bavette’s. Have you tried their steak?”
“Maybe I’m a vegetarian.”
“Are you?”
I shrug. “No.”
I continue my walk, and he’s beside me again within a couple seconds.
