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I slap the bill into her palm with more force than necessary. Thankfully, she slides it into her pocket and not her bra.
The air is thick with her excitement. She leans back against the glass, exposing the soft curve of her throat, then she looks up at me through thick lashes. “Best of three?”
I laugh. “You’re pushing it, girl.”
“Aw, come on. You can afford to lose a few more bills. You’re a billionaire with two yachts and a whole-ass island in the Caribbean.” She jerks her head toward the street. “You probably have a grand in change in the center console of your car alone.”
My eyes slant. “You been Googling me or something?”
The air shifts at the sound of her breathy laugh. I don’t like how it tastes; how it feels in my slacks.
“Or something,” she whispers.
Fuck.
She holds my eye for longer than she should. Her sly smile slowly slips off her lips, until there’s no trace of humor left on her pretty little face.
She looked me up? Why does that send a dark ripple of pleasure through me? I guess because it means she’s been thinking about me.
I doubt she’s thought about me in the same way I’ve thought of her, though.
Half-naked and covered in that cream.
The image flashes behind my eyelids for the millionth time today. Before I can stop myself, I close the gap between us, resting my palm against the wall above her head.
She tenses as I move closer. Then, as another rumble of thunder rocks the booth, she lets out a hot, shaky breath against the base of my throat. I feel it like a lead weight in my balls, and I push my hand a little harder into the wall.
Glaring at the dog-eared calling cards of taxi-drivers and cheap hookers, I ask her a question I know I shouldn’t.
“Have you ever been in love, Penelope?”
I don’t know why I ask it. A mix of it being one of the last questions my date asked me, and mild curiosity, I guess. Sometimes, when a girl moves back to their small hometown, it’s because they’ve had their heart broken—according to most of the shitty Hallmark films my mama used to watch around this time of year, anyway.
Penelope’s eyes slide up to mine, searching them with a guarded expression. “Is this another game?”
I shake my head.
“Then, no.”
A small flicker of relief dances like a candle in the darkness of my chest. Ridiculous. I shouldn’t give a flying fuck if this girl has been in love or not. I don’t.
“Why not?”
I think I know the answer. Twenty-one is no age to fall in love. But to my surprise, she tilts her chin, stares me dead in the eye, and tells me something I don’t expect.
“Women don’t fall in love; they fall into traps.”
Letting out a breath, I push myself off the wall in an attempt to get away from the intoxicating scent of her strawberry shampoo. Away from the damp heat of her coat brushing against my chest. But even as I lean against the cold glass door, it’s impossible to get away from her. She might be five-foot-nothing, but she fills every inch of this space, making the air so thick and sweet that it might just burst at the seams.
I wonder who hurt her? A boy her own age. Some spotty kid in his basement, no doubt. Briefly, stupidly, I wonder if I should hurt him, too.
“That’s a very jaded view of love, Penelope.”
“And you?” My gaze falls down from the rain-stained roof at the sound of Penelope’s voice. “Have you ever been in love?”
I laugh. I can’t tell her the truth. I can’t tell anybody the truth, not even my own brothers. Because if I did, I’d have to admit something else, something bigger.
I chose the King of Diamonds, not the King of Hearts.
