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“So we’ve established that you’re hungry, and I happen to be hungry, too. We’ve also established that you like me, and I like you, too. Are you in a relationship? Is that why you’re blowing me off?”
“Maybe I just don’t like you.”
“No, you definitely like me.”
I step around a drunk guy who’s about to run into me, and Maverick scowls at him.
“How did you find me?” I ask as we continue our walk.
He shrugs. “I visit lots of poker rooms. Apparently, you visit lots of poker rooms…it was bound to happen.”
“Guess how attractive I find lying?” I say pointedly.
“What makes you think I’m lying?”
“I don’t just think it. I know it. You can’t win at poker unless you can read people well.”
His nostrils flare slightly—I think I’ve just aggravated him.
“Okay, so I looked for you. Is that so wrong?”
“You knew I didn’t want to be found, though.”
He stops walking, throwing his arms in the air. “Look, if you don’t like me, just tell me. If you’re with someone, or you’re gay, or you don’t like guys who go out of their way for you, just say it and I’ll turn around right now.”
I stop walking, too, studying him for a few seconds. He’s very attractive, and there’s an intensity about him that’s sexy as sin. I want to drop my guard, smile, and ask him if the dinner offer still stands. Poker, shmoker. It’s been a hell of a long time since I had a fun night out with a man.
And that’s exactly the problem. I can either stay focused on poker or I can spend my evenings going out with friends and on dates. I can’t do both. Since the day my dad died, I’ve lived and breathed to prepare myself to sit across a poker table from Will Roan. I won’t lose sight of my goal.
“Listen,” I say softly, looking up at him. “If I wanted to go out for dinner and take a guy home with me, you’re exactly who I’d want to do that with. I mean…as long as you’re single. Are you single?”
“Yeah, completely. I wouldn’t be standing here if I wasn’t.”
He seems to have it all—looks, charm, fame and, I assume, money.
“How are you single?” I ask, my brow furrowed in confusion.
He furrows his brow in return. “Well, I’m not seeing anyone at all, so…that makes me single.”
“I get what it means. But it has to be because you want to be single. Unless you have a drug problem or a really bizarre fetish…?”
Maverick laughs. “No.” He pauses, turning serious. “Wait, is wanting to give my woman multiple orgasms, each one in a different position, a fetish?”
My heart started racing when he used the words “my woman,” and it’s not slowing down anytime soon. This guy is dangerously sexy.
“Poker is my job,” I explain. “It’s like if I went out on the ice during a game and asked you if we could go out.”
He grins. “If you can get past security and do it, I’m in.”
“Not really, though,” I say softly. “You wouldn’t leave the ice—and your whole career—over a date.”
His grin falls a bit as he considers what I said. “No, I guess not. I had no idea poker was your job, Gia. I didn’t realize I was asking you to ditch your workday to go out with me. Can we go out on your night off?”
“If I dated, I’d say yes.” I wipe the sweat from my forehead and lift the back of my hair, fanning my neck. “Can we keep walking?”
“Yeah. You want to stop for a drink in a place with air conditioning?”
I consider it. Sitting in a darkened, air-conditioned bar with Maverick Hagen, sipping on piña coladas while we flirt and lose track of time sounds like heaven. But then what? I’ll want more, and I won’t be able to focus on poker anymore tonight.
“Thanks, but I need to get to the Bellagio.”
“I’ll call an Uber and take you,” he offers, taking out his phone.
“No, you don’t need to do that. I like to walk.”
“Already called one. They’ll meet us up at the next block in six minutes.”
“Really?”
He gives me another of his sexy smiles. “Do you mind if I play at the Bellagio too? At a different table, so you’re not distracted by me?”
I laugh. “Don’t you mean so you’re not distracted by me?”
“I won’t deny it. I also like winning, so separate tables it is.”
His acknowledgment of my poker skills makes me warm all over. Not many people know how I make a living, and most who do know are dismissive of it.
“How late are you playing?” he asks.
“It just depends. Sometimes I’m out by three, other times more like five.”
He cringes. “Ouch. I’ve got practice in the morning or I’d offer to take you to breakfast when you’re done working.”
