Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 63862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Vegas is her playground, and she’s very, very good at the game.
One good night turns into celebratory drinks. Celebratory drinks turns into a gorgeous stranger with a dangerous smile.
And one unforgettable, slightly blurry night later…
She wakes up with a wedding ring.
The man from last night? Her husband.
The good it was obviously a mistake.
The bad he refuses to divorce her.
Now she’s stuck in the most inconvenient waiting game of her life—trying to outplay a man who’s just as smooth, infuriating, and irresistible as the night she married him. Every attempt to untangle their accidental marriage only pulls them closer together… and every “one last time” hookup makes things messier.
Because when the cards are down, the house isn’t the only one playing to win
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER ONE
The chips hit the pot with a confident clatter, making the pile topple in a tight burst of sound.
Across from me—some big-time manosphere podcaster who loudly proclaimed when I’d sat down that women shouldn’t be allowed in the poker room—cracked his neck.
He was so full of bravado and misogyny that he didn’t realize it was his tell.
I’d been listening to him run his mouth all night from another table, watching him with the goal of clocking his game style so I could take him for his whole stack of chips.
This was a high roller room.
And he was starting to sweat in his hairline.
I reached for my stack, grabbing the pile of pink chips—each one of them representing five grand—and pushed them into the pot.
“Raise.”
His jaw went slack.
He did a double neck crack.
It would be interesting to see if his ego or his logic won out when it got to him.
“Too rich for my blood,” the man beside me said, laying his cards down and reaching for his scotch instead.
One more man called.
Another folded.
Then it was me and the podcaster.
He had sweat stains under his arms now.
But it was his ego that called again.
“Alright, let’s see ‘em,” the dealer said, trying his best to hold back a smile.
When you did this for a living, you got to know just about every dealer on the strip. This particular one knew I almost never bluffed when the pot was big. If I was upping the ante, I had the winning hand.
Cards kissed the felt.
I kept my gaze on the podcaster as I set mine down.
He had a Full House.
I had a Straight Flush.
“Straight flush—queen-high. Straight Flush takes it.”
The dealer pushed the pot toward me as the man-child across from me flew to his feet so fast he knocked over his chair.
“This is bullshit. She cheated.”
Around the table, a few men shook their heads or rolled their eyes. No one liked a sore loser. Especially in this room. High rollers didn’t sweat the money they lost. They were just here for a good time.
“Layna’s a professional poker player,” an older man at the table—if I wasn’t mistaken, an oil executive with a watch that cost more than the whole pot—said, glancing up at the podcaster. “You were in over your head the second she sat down.”
I finished stacking my chips and passed a toke to the dealer, who was professional enough not to look shocked at the amount.
He had a granddaughter with a lot of health issues and was the kind of grandpa who would use the money to help with the bills.
“See that? She bribed him!”
“Have a little pride, man,” another player said.
Then, from another, “Winners always tip the dealer.”
“What’s the matter?” I asked, leaning back in my chair, looking casual even as I went ahead and rubbed salt in his wounds. “Do you need money for the valet?”
He went a shade of red I’d never seen before.
“Shut up, you stupid bi—”
Security at casinos were silent shadows that moved swiftly when the slightest bit of tension popped off.
The podcaster was grabbed under each arm and led away. He didn’t go quietly, either. I felt secondhand embarrassment watching him being dragged from the room.
“Seat open?” another voice asked as he righted the podcaster’s chair, then waited for a nod from the dealer before sitting down.
Well.
This guy was certainly an improvement from the podcaster bro.
This one at least knew how to dress for the honor of being allowed in the most exclusive high roller room in Vegas.
Where podcast bro had worn a see-through knitted button-up and khakis, this guy was in a full midnight-blue suit, complete with a pocket square, cufflinks, and the air of confidence that said he dressed like this often.
Add in the fact that he was insanely, almost disarmingly, good-looking, and my night was looking up.
Tall, fit, with his dark hair in a long slick back, stormy blue eyes with thick lashes, and all of that in a classically handsome face with a stern brow, a generous mouth, and a strong jaw. And that stubble on his jaw? Hot. Not so much in a cultured way, but in a ‘I’ve been too busy to shave’ kind of way. Which, obviously, was better.
“Harrison,” the oil exec greeted. “Been a while.”
“Haven’t had much time for leisure.”
“I know that feeling well.”
“Blinds,” the dealer called before the sound of the cards whispering together drifted to my ears.
We each tossed chips into the pot and waited for the cards to be dealt.
I never looked at mine first, preferring to watch everyone else take in their hands.
And since I already played a hand with the others, my gaze settled fully on the Harrison guy.
As close as I watched, though, he gave nothing away.
Damn if that wasn’t hot too.
Especially for someone who clearly wasn’t a professional player. But, I guess, in its own way, big business was a different sort of high-stakes game to play.