Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“You’re going to be in so much trouble when you get home.” Weston laughed, the sound echoing off the tall, glass windows that surrounded us on three sides, letting in the views of lush vegetation, and to Crossland’s delight, the pool where the exclusive resort’s other guests lounged, some topless. Brynn Allen, Weston’s assistant and best friend, looked up over her e-reader, but settled back in on the couch behind Weston, tucking her legs under her as she continued to read.
Weston’s addiction was twofold. First, the guy was an adrenaline junkie. Second, he was addicted to ignorance, because if anyone looked at me the way Brynn watched him, I would have had a ring on her finger years ago. The two were pretty much attached at the hip, as evidenced by the fact that she was no more than ten feet away from him at every game. Not that we weren’t all allowed to bring guests—we were. But even if Weston brought additional female companionship, Brynn was always on the flight manifest.
“Whatever. Just deal. One more.” I held up my finger to let him know I meant business. My flight was scheduled for three hours from now, and nothing irked me more than being late.
“Sore loser,” Weston sang as he dealt out two cards to each player.
Just like in business, we were methodical when it came to the game. We sat in the same positions every time and always remembered who’d dealt last so everyone was treated equally.
Ethan put in the small blind, one-dollar bet, and Gareth dropped the big blind, the strapping sum of two dollars.
I checked my cards discreetly, then put them face down on the table—ten of hearts and queen of spades.
The bets started, and I raised Crossland’s call. We had our own rules when it came to the game. The first round was always money and never more than ten bucks. The second round, now that’s where things got interesting.
“So tell me, Ash, you do anything about that little dare from the gala a few months back?” Weston burned the top card on the deck and then laid out three, face up on the table. Nine of clubs, ten of diamonds, and two of hearts. That gave me at least a pair.
“To which dare are you referring?” I yanked on the collar of my T-shirt, knowing damn well exactly what he was talking about.
Again, the minimum bets went in, but this time Next Month’s Game was written on each chip, just like they were every hand. At the end of the game, whomever had won the most tallied the chips, and boom, our loser was selected.
“Stop acting like you don’t remember the dare. We all know you have the devil’s memory. I bet you remember the name of the kid who borrowed your pencil in the third grade and never gave it back,” Gareth said with a scoff, leveling a stare at me as he dropped another chip into the pot. It read host next charity gala. “Raise.”
Shit, his hand must have been good, because he avoided public events like the plague. He never did anything that brought too much attention to his money, or how he’d made it. We never asked, but we all knew.
“First, her name was Claire, and it was my favorite pencil,” I started, scribbling the same bet on my own chip. “And second, it wasn’t even that she didn’t give it back as much as she handed it over to Tommy Bakersfelt. That pissed me off.”
“Call.” Crossland threw in his own chip that read host the next charity gala. “And I still can’t understand why a romance writer would want to shadow you for a month.” The blonde in his arms settled back against his chest.
“To make my life a living hell,” I muttered.
Fiona, the wife of one of my hockey players, had asked if her friend—said romance writer—could shadow me for an upcoming book about billionaires, and I’d begrudgingly agreed after these four assholes had gotten involved, making it a full-on dare.
“Raise.” Weston threw in his chips and another that said Jimmy Page guitar. “So I’m taking that as a no, you haven’t made good on the dare?”
“Damn, you’re throwing in the Page guitar?” Ethan said, his eyes widening. “I thought you loved that thing.”
“Maybe my hand is just that good,” Weston smirked.
Maybe it belonged to his father, and he was willing to burn it just like everything else his old man had touched.
“Seriously though,” Ethan continued, scribbling on his chip. “You said you needed a few months to get through that new tech deal, and last time I checked The Journal, it went through.” He lifted his brows over his gray eyes and tossed the chip into the pot. He’d put his Aerosmith-signed guitar as an equal bet. “Call.”
I shifted in my seat as Gareth studied his hand and the board. “It’s just that I don’t like people in my space.”