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“He wanted unlimited free sushi for the rest of the season.”
Asher chuckled, and Cross and I barely covered our laughs with rough coughs. Ethan shot us a glare that told us exactly where we could stick our humor at his expense.
“That’s one I haven’t dealt with before,” I offered. “But I did have a player last year try and demand a bonus for every arena we sold out.”
“Did you give in?” Ethan asked.
I shrugged. “Yeah, but I put a cap on it. Who knows, if you give him the sushi, maybe he’ll score more runs for you.”
Ethan rolled his eyes. “The season is almost over. He doesn’t want the sushi, he wants to drive me fucking insane.”
I laughed, then returned my attention to the hand, noticing that Doyle hadn’t even tossed out his bet yet.
“Are you going to bet, or just sit there?” I asked, my tone switching from friendly to annoyed in the span of two seconds.
Doyle threw in a chip, a satisfied little smirk on his face. “You’re in a mood,” he said. “More than usual. I should be the one digging into you, seeing as you stole a deal from me.”
I furrowed my brow, matching his bet before burning and turning the last card. Fucking missed me. Two pair was a decent hand heads up, but the last card had put three spades out there, and from the smug look on Doyle’s face, he might’ve been chasing the flush this whole fucking time.
“You’re still upset about the marketing firm?” I asked, trying to get a read on him.
Normally, I had no issues seeing right through everyone’s bullshit. It was a little gift of mine that had come in handy with more business ventures than I could count. But Doyle was different. Little hard to read through bullshit when that was all he ever spouted.
“That’s right,” he said. “You outbid me on purpose,” he continued. “I had plans to move it to Boston.”
“I did you a favor,” I said, the irritation in my voice not at all hidden.
“Not performing well?” Asher asked, finally taking interest in the conversation.
“Nope,” I said, still waiting on Doyle to bet.
“Why don’t you put the company on a chip,” Doyle said. “If it isn’t profitable by March, I get it.”
“Ifyou win,” I said, considering as I studied him. He could easily be bluffing. He’d been riding me all night, constantly chasing hands only to lose in the end. “Did you make the spades?” I asked, wanting any sort of reaction to let me know where I stood with my two pair.
Doyle shrugged, not giving me shit. “You have to pay to find out. And that’s what I want.” He scribbled something on his chip, tossing it in. It was a bet that would be equal to the marketing firm—a microbrewery in Boston that I’d have to ask Brynn to research later.
“You know,” Asher said, nodding toward Brynn. “Brynn just completed her masters in marketing.”
I snapped my head to Brynn, utter shock rolling through me. “You did?”
She laughed, the sound sliding along my bones like warm honey. “Yeah,” she said matter-of-factly. “What do you think I do all night while you’re off galivanting with Lena?”
I wasn’t with Lena every night, but she wasn’t wrong. I did spend at least a few nights a month with her when our schedules lined up, but it wasn’t anything serious. It never had been.
I sat back a little in my chair, a sense of shame making my gut twist. How had I not known? Why didn’t she tell me? I would’ve helped her, paid for it—
“Andthatlook is why I kept it a secret,” she said, shifting on the chaise lounge and hitting me with that smile of hers. Fuck, if I wasn’t already sitting she would’ve knocked me off my feet. “You’d try to help. I wanted to do it on my own.”
I nodded, words utterly failing me as a slew of possibilities formed in my mind. Even if I lost this hand, I could pass the marketing firm over to Brynn and she could absolutely get it up and running before March. Seven months was more than enough time, but giving her that responsibility would mean she’d spend less time with me…as my assistant, andthatwasn’t all too thrilling.
But, douchebag Doyle could easily be bluffing like he’d done four other times tonight.
“Call,” I finally said, throwing in the chip with the terms on it.
My stomach dropped the second Doyle grinned like some demented version of the Cheshire Cat. “Flush,” he said, rolling over two spades to match the three face up in the center of the table.
“Fuck me.” I smacked my hands against the cushioned rim of the table, Gareth muttering his condolences before pushing away from the table.
