Page 36 of Forged

I don’t like the thought of that. Not one fucking bit. Then she asks something I didn’t expect.

“Have you ever been in love?”

Her timing is lethal. I set my glass down slowly.

“There was someone,” I answer, swallowing hard. “But it was a long time ago, and it ended poorly.”

Her brow pinches. “Can I ask what happened?”

I sigh, hating the memories of Leilani. “It’s a long story, but basically, she used me. She didn’t love me, she just loved what I could offer her.”

Neomi’s head tilts, as if she can see I’m holding back. “I’m so sorry that happened to you. How long ago?”

“Ten years.” I rub the rim of my glass. “I haven’t dated since.”

She nods. “Sounds familiar.”

I look up. “What about you? Your residence is a hotel, you go to Vegas on a whim with a strange man. What’s your story?”

She shrugs. “I’ve been traveling for games for about four years now. The last city I called ‘home’ was Miami. I don’t date because I’m never in one place long enough to try.”

I lean back. “Have you ever been in love?”

She shakes her head. “No. I’ve been close, I think. But I’ve always felt like a steppingstone. I date a man, we break up, and then they marry the very next woman.” She feigns a laugh. “Sort of like a cruel joke from the universe. Good, but never quite goodenough. So, after it happened a third time with the last man I was with, I just sort of gave up, and swore off relationships. That’s when I started traveling full time.”

The server returns with our entrees. A bone-in ribeye for me, charred perfectly, and a filet for her. Conversation relaxes with the first bites, and I let go of the darker memories of Leilani.

I pick up my glass again, let the ice shift, and meet her eyes across the table. “How did you start playing poker?”

Her lips curve, a playful glint in her eyes. “You want my origin story?”

“I do,” I answer. “The tables you play at aren’t exactly beginner friendly. You didn’t wake up one morning and decide to toy with grown men with deep pockets for sport.”

She slowly cuts a bite of steak, chewing thoughtfully before she answers.

“My father was a problematic gambler,” she says. “Cards, dice, horses—if it involved luck and losing, he couldn’t resist.” She says with a slight lift of her shoulder. “I spent a lot of nights in card rooms, sitting beside him. Dealers took pity on me and taught me the math and the patterns of the game. How to see what people tried to hide.” Her gaze flicks up, sharp with memory. “My father believed he was blessed with luck. I learned how to never need it.”

I take that in, the way truth and resolve live in her voice. “How old were you?”

“Eight when I first held cards,” she says, picking up her drink. “Sixteen when I started playing instead of watching. By the time I was twenty-two, it was my sole source of income when I started playing in underground games around Florida and big tournaments here and there.”

I feel something dangerous move through me. A curious blend of admiration and attraction.

“So, you didn’t pick poker,” I say. “Poker picked you.”

“Survival picked me. Poker was just the most profitable language I spoke.”

“And now?” I ask. “What keeps you at the tables?”

Her hand stills. The live flame at the center of her gaze doesn’t waver.

“It’s the one place I never have to make myself smaller for anyone.” She sets her fork down and her eyes look beyond me. “Cards are honest, even when people aren’t. Everyone eventually shows their hand, no matter how big the lie.”

I rest my forearms on the table, voice dropping. “You showed yours the night we met.”

“There was no hiding from you,” she confirms, a spark of amusement catching between us. “I saw the way you watched me.”

“I couldn’t help myself,” I say, not bothering to soften it. “Still can’t stop.”