Page 7 of Forged

Finally, he pushes his chips forward. “Call.”

I flip my hand. “Two pair.”

There’s a barely-there twitch of the corner of his lips.

He shows Ace-Ten. He has two pair as well—but mine are better.

I rake the pot and grin. “I should’ve bet more. But thanks for the donation.”

His eyes narrow, but there’s heat in it. It’s a mixture of hunger and challenge. “Don’t get comfortable,” he says, voice low. “I’m not done.”

My pulse kicks in a way I pretend not to notice.

“Good,” I murmur. “I’d hate for this to end early.”

We play another few rounds.I win hands, so does seat six, but I’m done pretending the table is the most interesting thing in the room. Money is predictable. Chips move the way they always move. Men fold, bluff, sweat, and crumble.

But the man in seat six watches me with a kind of controlled focus that makes everything else feel dull. I push back my chair.

“I’m cashing out.”

The dealer doesn’t pause. He signals, and within seconds an attendant approaches with two plastic trays. I tip the dealer and slide my chips onto the tray, the soft clacks filling the air. His gaze follows every movement. When the attendant lifts the tray and nods for me to follow him to the cashier window, I rise.

“Quitting while you’re ahead?” seat six asks as I pass behind his chair, his voice low enough to be dangerous.

I glance back at him, catching the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“No,” I say, lifting my purse. “I’m hungry.”

The air shifts subtly. It’s electric. His blue eyes roam down my body, like he’s taking inventory—not of what I have, but what he wants.

He asks for trays and collects his chips. Then he stands in one clean motion with no hesitation. He steps toward me, close enough that I catch the scent of him—dark, spicy cologne, clean linen, something warm and expensive.

“Is that an invitation?” he asks.

I never accept the advances of men at these games. You never know what their motives are, especially when I cash out with a stack like the one I earned this evening. But there’s something in this man’s eyes and in the way he flirts that makes me want more. Shrugging and going against every rule I have for myself, I give him an offer.

“If you like tacos and think you can keep up, by all means, you’re welcome to join me.”

His mouth tilts and my heart skips a beat.

I hand my trays to the cashier and once the cash is handed over, I slide it into my purse. He collects his, stepping close enough that his arm brushes mine when he reaches for the envelope.

When we step away from the window, he offers his hand.

“Lars.”

I slide my hand into his, letting my fingers close slowly around his.

“Neomi.”

His thumb grazes my knuckles in a way that shouldn’t make my pulse jump, but it does. He repeats my name under his breath, soft enough that it sounds like he’s claiming me.

“Neomi.”

I close my purse and start toward the door.

“Let me show you where to find the best tacos in Austin, Lars.”