3. Neomi
The young man’s chips are still being pushed toward me when my attention shifts—drawn like a magnet to the man in seat six.
I clocked him the second he sat down.
Dark brown hair, tight on the sides, long and thick on the top. Blue eyes that don’t give anything away. His jaw is sharp, and clean-shaven. His shirt is black, perfectly fitted, sleeves rolled to show forearms that flex deliciously. But it’s his hands that keep stealing my attention.
Big hands with short, immaculate nails that are painted a deep maroon that glints under the table lights when he moves his chips. On him, it’s a contrast—a hot fucking contrast.
Most men at these tables show their tells in the first ten minutes. Not him, though. He plays tight and disciplined. Watching, learning everyone’s rhythms before he risks a real move.
Which tells me three things: he’s not here just for fun, he knows how to play, and he should be considered a threat.
Interesting.
The cards are dealt for a new hand. I shield my cards with one hand and lift the corners with my thumb.
Queen of Hearts. Ace of Clubs.
Pretty enough to play with.
I catch the man in seat six watching me. Just the faintest turn of his gaze. A professional assessment. I tilt my head, studying him right back. He picks up his water, watching me over the rim and it’s embarrassing how my clit begins to pulse under his scrutiny.
The blinds stand between us at first, then the fold-fest begins until it reaches him, and he triples the blind, fifteen grand.
An old rounder sitting next to me is hanging on with a pitiful stack of chips that’s been dwindling all night.
He takes a second look at his cards before folding, pushing his small blind toward the dealer.
Smart. This isn’t his hand.
It’s ours.
I call. Seat six glances at my stack, then at me.
The flop hits: Ten of Hearts. Seven of Diamonds. Queen of Clubs.
Top pair. Not terrible. I tap the felt.
He waits a moment—studying me—and checks.
The smart bastard knew I was going to check-raise him.
The dealer burns and turns: Ace of Spades.
Now I have top two pair. Only thing beating me right now is a straight or three of a kind. Time to find out if he has either.
I slide four chips in and bet twenty thousand.
His eyes lift. Blue eyes that look like a calm ocean. He studies me like he’s trying to see into my soul.
Finally, he asks, “Did you hit that flop?”
I shrug, then he calls.
River: Seven of Hearts.
The card pairs the board. Well, that’s annoying. It could help him. It could help me more if he only hit a single pair on the flop.
I count out a stack and push forty-five thousand forward.
He laughs quietly, a warm sound that prickles right down my spine.
“Bold,” he says.
His voice is smoke and gravel. Controlled and confident. Too calm for a man staring at a bet that should make him sweat if he doesn’t have the cards.
I smile sharply. “I don’t play timid.”
His eyes stay on me as he cuts chips. “So I’ve noticed. Now I need to decide if you actually have a hand or if you think you can bluff me like you did the gentleman earlier.”
“I’ll tell you the same thing I told him. If you want to know, then call,” I say softly.
Challenge issued.
He thinks. Which means he has something decent, but not good enough to feel safe.
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.”