Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 60736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Emmeline looks up, her brow furrowed. “My name is Emmeline. And who the hell are you calling an ice cream cone?”
Rita’s face flushes and I stand in shock, staring down at Emmeline. Damn, girl. I give Rita a smile. “Uh, I think we’ll skip the drinks. Thanks.”
Rita gives me a haughty look, and struts away, shaking her ass harder than she needs to, trying to show me what I’m missing.
Emmeline watches her as she leaves. “Who was that?”
“Just an ex.” I wave my hand through the air, dismissing her concern.
She gives me a look, giving me the feeling it’d be best to fess up now.
“Confession time. Might as well be honest. I have a lot of exes.”
“Why so many?”
And the truth slips from my mouth before I can stop it. “I guess I just had a hard time finding the right girl.” My gaze holds hers and I feel our connection straight down in my core.
Chapter 7
Emmeline
I lose all one hundred dollars of his money at the slots, but I win it back at the roulette table, betting on red. Then I lose another hundred, betting on black, making me let out a string of cuss words.
That makes Rawley laugh.
He doesn’t seem to mind me losing his money. In fact, he seems to enjoy watching me lose it. When I lose another hundred betting on red, the f word slips from my lips. “Fuck.”
He slides his hand over my ass, giving it a little pat. His mouth finds my ear, his breath tickling my lobe. “Daddy’s little girl has a dirty little mouth, doesn’t she?” Making a blush rise all the way from my chest to my hairline.
When he offered to drop the daddy, babygirl thing, a deep disappointment hit me right in my gut. I love him calling me babygirl, and I love having him be my daddy. Like, love it, love it. Like, make my toes curl and my panties melt off love it.
Making me wonder why I’ve been living my whole life without a daddy of my own.
We stop at the bar and he orders an amaretto sour for me, and a bourbon for himself. I never drink this early, but it seems like this is a week of firsts. Plus, I’m eager to welcome the whole liquid courage thing. I take a sip of the drink and it's like nothing I’ve had before, sweet and tangy but sour on my tongue. It’s delicious, and the liquor moves down my chest, warming me.
We move on to Blackjack. Sitting side by side, we watch as the vest-clad dealer flings cards around the table with expert precision.
I have no clue what I’m doing. I’ve never played cards. But Rawley does, and when the dealer asks me if I want to stay or hit, Rawley gives my thigh a little squeeze and I instinctively know that means stay. I give the dealer my best poker face. “Stay, please.”
I win the hand. Or the round. I’m not sure what it’s called, but apparently the little red pile of chips Rawley pushed in front of me just won me three hundred dollars. Not bad.
My daddy knows what he’s doing.
My daddy. I almost snort out loud, wondering what’s come over me. The dealer is flinging cards again and there’s Rawley’s hand slipping higher on my thigh, warm and big and protective, ready to guide me to winning. I could get used to this.
I win again, this time five hundred. Forgetting my poker face, I clap my hands, giving a little squeal. Rawley laughs. The dealer looks like he wants to shake his head at me.
We leave the Blackjack table and move onto a large oval-shaped one, an elegantly dressed crowd gathered around. “What’s this game?”
“Craps. It’s a fun one. High energy.”
I give a laugh. “Craps? Like, oh crap, I lost a shit ton of money?”
He laughs back. “Not exactly. My friend Gabriel, Miranda’s husband? He models for my company, so maybe you’d recognize him. Anyway, he explained it to me once. I guess it was originally played in France, a group of old men gathered in a circle, squatting down over the sidewalk making bets. It was called, crapaud, for toad. Craps was a spinoff, and your wager against the dealer is a casino crap.”
“Fascinating. Should we try it?” I watch as the players’ hands fly over the table, stacking and sliding chips around the numbered felt. A man with a long stick gathers and scoots a set of shiny red dice to the center of the table. Some laugh and make their bets with a jovial lightness. Others don’t lift their gaze from the green felt.
Rawley gives me a brief explanation of the rules and the more I watch, the more intimidated I get. He looks to me. “Do you want to play?”