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“Such a hard life.” I put the back of my hand to my forehead, like an outraged Victorian duchess.
He leaned forward, letting his elbows drop on the table. Such a small gesture, and still, it filled me with unexpected delight to know that even the Almighty Dr. Cruz Costello could use a few table manner tweaks.
“So. What do you want me to teach you first?” he asked.
“How to make an entire town believe you’re the Lord’s gift when it is perfectly obvious you are Mr. Average with a fabulous ’stache?”
“I mean in the casino.”
But his smile widened further, making my knees part involuntarily under the table. I licked my lips when I thought about the dusting of dark blond hair peppered on his chest.
Yesterday at the pool was the first time since I was sixteen that I’d wanted to climb someone like a tree. My sexuality had been so dormant in recent years, I hadn’t realized it was still buried inside me.
“Oh. I don’t know. I think I’ll just go for the fruit machines.”
Translation: I couldn’t afford anything else.
He shook his head. “C’mon, Tennessee. You’re more hardcore than that.”
“I may be hardcore, but I’m also broke.”
“I’ll foot the bill.”
“You’ve done enough of that already.”
“Not nearly. The truth of the matter is, I want to have a good time on this cruise, and if that means spending a few bucks, then I’m all for it. It’s not about you, Tennessee, it’s about me. If you really want to be like Gabriella Holland, you should let me treat you well.”
“I don’t want to be like Gabriella Holland,” I corrected him. “And I don’t want your charity.”
“You call that charity?” He snorted out. “Sweetheart, if I didn’t enjoy you, I’d leave you in the room and find someone else to keep me entertained.”
That was a backhanded compliment if I’d ever been slapped with one.
“You don’t expect me to put out, do you?” I cocked my head sideways.
“Expect? No. Hope? Always.”
I mulled this over.
It was true that I didn’t let men treat me well. In fact, I didn’t let them treat me at all. The very few men in town who had wanted more than a tumble between the sheets with me and actually went through the effort of so-called courting me were met with a cold shoulder.
I threw Tim Trapp’s flowers into the trash in front of his very eyes, donated the gifts Roy McCarthy sent me to charity, and flat-out refused a job with Eamon Levy as a secretary at his workshop, even though it had great benefits and medical insurance, because I knew he was going to ask me out.
But maybe this was the perfect solution. To play make-believe with a man I could never have in real life. To heal myself and practice a little through this little adventure.
“All right. Teach me your ways, Master Costello.”
“Miss Turner, I thought you’d never ask.”
There were a few things that immediately stood out to me the first time I stepped into a casino.
First things first—this was not a place for people suffering from epilepsy.
The bright colors, blinding lights, constant ding-ding-dings echoing in your ears and dark surroundings made the place look like what could have happened to Alice had she stepped into Wonderland under the influence of LSD and way too many tequila shots.
It looked like the grown-up version of an arcade, only slimy instead of fun. With waitresses dressed in uniforms that made my Jerry & Sons outfit look like it belonged in a nunnery, floating between tables and handing drinks to sweaty men and women.
Cruz was right that the slot machines were probably a bad call. The only people occupying them were seventy-five and over, and it looked like you had to rely solely on luck, which, I was aware, was something I was not endowed with.
