Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 112903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Determined not to read too much into that, I take my seat and open the box. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Beck pulling out Sally’s chair.
“Aw, thank you, Beck.” She’s still wearing that gorgeous, lit-up smile as she sits.
I can’t help but notice how calm she seems around him now. Like the nervousness she had at The Rattler is melting away.
That’s a good thing.
I tell myself that Sally feeling confident is a really good thing.
Why, then, does it feel so fucking awful to watch her right now?
Why do I reach for the leg of Sally’s chair and yank her toward me like a possessive caveman, making her yelp? It’s not like me to care. Scratch that—I do care. It’s just not like me to show it. It’s especially not like me to be so publicly possessive.
But as far as my brothers and Sally are concerned, this is all fake, so I’m safe.
Only I don’t feel very safe at all when I pat my lap and say to Sally, “Your seat is here.”
Duke lets out a bark of laughter that he tries to pass off as a cough. I cut him a warning glance before turning back to Sally.
Her long, dark eyelashes flutter. “Really?”
“You wanna learn how to play, don’t you? You and I will play the first hand together. Cards’ll be easier to see if you’re on my lap. Plus, it’ll be more fun this way.”
Sally bites her lip. I’m gripped by the fierce, almost-frightening urge to grab her and put her on my lap myself. Let Beck know she’s mine. For tonight at least.
He’s gotta let me have a win. Just one. That’s all I ask.
But then Sally shocks the shit out of me and does what I told her for once. She rises out of her chair, and her eyes glimmer as she saunters the two steps it takes to get to me. Then she puts a hand on my shoulder and settles her weight on my lap before turning to the side and swinging her legs over my thighs, flashing a whole lot of smooth, soft skin in the process as the slit in her dress practically rides up to her belly button.
Fuck.
Me.
For life.
The scent of her flowery body lotion—I figured out it’s jasmine—fills my head. My entire being leaps at her nearness. At the flirty, playful way she snakes her arm around my shoulders and shimmies her ass, giving me the friction I desperately want but absolutely don’t need right now.
But her eyes, her smile, her general naughtiness, are the real turn-on.
She puts her other hand on my chest and asks breathlessly, “This better?”
“Much.” The word comes out as a grunt.
Sally runs the tip of her tongue along her top teeth. “You gonna show me the ropes, cowboy?”
Can’t. Stop. Staring.
At her mouth mostly.
Does she feel the buzzy, tight energy between us too? Or am I losing my mind?
The only thing keeping our faces more than an inch apart is the brim of my hat. I think about taking it off. I don’t, thanks to the few remaining shreds of self-control and dignity I have left.
“What kinda ropes we talking about, Sunshine?”
“Toby Keith did say something about roping and riding going together.” She’s fighting laughter, and I fucking love it.
I wanna kiss you so bad it hurts.
“Interesting,” I say.
“Y’all need a minute, or should I, uh, deal?” Sawyer asks.
The hand Sally’s got on my chest moves to my nape. I bite down on my cheek when she starts to toy with my hair. Goose bumps break out along my arms and legs at the tender, easy way she touches me, drawing her fingertips gently across my scalp.
“Yes.” Apparently, I only speak in one-worded sentences now.
I opened the floodgates, didn’t I, by holding Sally’s hand back in the truck? I showed her how simple flirting could be, and she took that idea and ran with it.
Who knew she was a natural? She’s clearly not overthinking this. Instead, she’s…present. Carefree even. The idea makes my chest soar.
I can feel Beck’s eyes on Sally and me as my brother deals the cards.
Because I’m an asshole—why not stir the pot?—I curl my hand around her hip and use it to shift her a little bit more toward the table, her back to my front. Her hand falls from my nape, but this way, I’m able to rest my chin on her shoulder and murmur sweet nothings in hear ear about gambling like a degenerate.
“Okay, so those are the communal cards, and we can all use them.” She motions to the five cards that Sawyer dealt face down on the table.
“Exactly.”
“And these”—she takes the pair of cards out of my hand—“are just for us, and we use the communal cards to make the best combination.”
“Right. We’re looking for patterns—numbers, suits. Pairs of things, three of a kind. Flushes are what you really want because—”