Playboy

  It’s a little absurd that he suggested as much.

  Yet he makes it look like art as he raises and pushes his chips forward. He slowly stands but I sense I know that move. It’s a calculated one, a move meant to intimidate the other players.

  It doesn’t work.

  Another player is all-in, too. He’s short a dozen or more black chips but no one points that out. I guess there are rules for this but I don’t know what they are.

  When my date was short, I was the prize. Guess this player doesn’t have a girlfriend to toss in the pot.

  As if he reads my mind, Cullen shoots me a sexy, knowing wink.

  And for one delicious millisecond, I pretend Cullen Carmichael is all mine.

  * * *

  He plays for three hours, and wins about two hundred and thirty grand. He tosses me two ten-thousand-dollar chips in such a playful manner that my fingers tingle when I catch one in each hand. He then leads me to the elevator. I steal glances at him on our ride to the room, but he’s still wearing his poker face. I wonder if he’ll want to undress me.

  Do I want him to take this dress off me?

  Who am I kidding? After our day together, I’d strip down for him. And like it.

  Too soon, Wynn. Stay strong.

  The internal dialogue bores me when the more reasonable side of my consciousness takes the lead.

  As he unlocks the door, I feel his hand on the small of my back, leading me in.

  Why does everything he does seem so terribly sexy to me?

  I leap away and go straight to the bar, getting a bottle of water from the small fridge.

  “I’m hitting the bed,” I say, giving merit to my voice of reason. “Goodnight.”

  His phone buzzes. I hear him say, “Hang on,” and curse when I shut the door to my bedroom. Ha! Gotcha. I really didn’t want the temptation so it’s best that I escaped.

  This will make our dare so much more rewarding.

  I’m impressed by the suite and take in the huge king bed and the city lights blinking outside.

  I shower in the large marble bath, then I lay in bed in my bathrobe with a towel over my head. I check the time and realize it’s late in Chicago, so I pull out my laptop and check emails on the gallery exhibit.

  Then, I do what all gallerists should swear off—I surf hashtags to see if anyone’s talking about the upcoming show.

  They are! And I’m stoked I checked.

  Once done, I sigh and stare at the closed door. I wander over and open it an inch or two and peer outside. I hear the shower water turn off in his bedroom, and minutes later, I hear him out in the living area, playing pool. I tie the robe tighter around me and step out. He senses me approach, but doesn’t stop aiming for the white ball.

  Click. He gets three balls into the pockets with a hit. Changes position and aims.

  “I have to hand it to you. You’re full of surprises. I didn’t see you as a runner.”

  “I’m . . . not.” I roll my eyes at his back. “Okay, so maybe I ran for a minute. I’m here now.”

  He makes another clean shot then props the pool stick under his chin. His eyes are dark, studying me.

  This guy has got a winning presence, a brooding confidence.

  I know that he’s the kind of man who has expectations, but he gives nothing away as to what they are. He’s a guy who’s highly sexed and works that energy to his advantage.

  And I’m eating him up with my eyes.

  “What’d you think about it?”

  “Vegas?”

  “Or me.” He takes another shot. Misses.

  “I could do both.” I take the unspoken dare.

  He freezes.

  My breath catches when he turns. There’s a tumultuous force around him now. It’s not just now. He’s larger than life wherever he is, wherever we go. He enters a room and makes it his own. And I know from the depths of my soul he takes a woman the same way.

  Takes her. Possesses her. Claims her as his own.

  That knowledge should make me run in the other direction. Instead, I’ll send him running. I know how to do it, what to confess.

  Careful, Wynn. You don’t want to push him away entirely. Do you?

  I think about consequences before I quietly say, “Emmett and I told each other we loved each other. I dated him for years. I moved in with him. I even had a pregnancy scare, but nothing came of it.”

  I walk to the couch and sit, trying to decide how much I’ll tell him.

  “I was . . . disappointed when I received the news.” That’s an understatement. “He knew how much I wanted to be a mom, so the scare? It wasn’t super-terrifying. What was heartbreaking . . .”

  “He was relieved when he found out that it was only a scare?”

  I nod, the sadness threatening to destroy me all over again. Not because of how Emmett responded to the news. That was minor. What came next was devastating.

  “I kept waiting for him to make a move, but he was growing distant. We broke up. I couldn’t believe that all that we had between each other was a lie, but it was. We got back together, and for a time he seemed to put in the effort.” I shake my head. “It was no use. I tried so hard. I tried to have meals warm, look beautiful, be in a good mood, I didn’t even let on when I was tired. Our relationship was hanging by a thread.”

  He sets the stick down, crosses his arms, looks at me.

  “His feelings changed. So I moved out.” I need to tell him about Emmett, not because it defines me or where I am in life or because I want to remember the bottom of the barrel that I once scraped. It’s more than that. “He says he simply cannot take that next step, but I know it’s because of me.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Sure it was. Is. Things changed after the pregnancy scare. I felt disappointed, oddly, when I realized I wasn’t pregnant.” I’m almost there, almost ready to rip open a vein and bleed all over the place.

  And why? Why do I want to tell this man, this sexy and present and available man something so personal? So real?

  He frowns. “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too,” I whisper, but try to bite back the urge to say enough without telling him everything. To say something like, “I basically have built-in birth control, which isn’t such a bad thing. And I can adopt.”

  But the words stay trapped inside as I try not to remember the agonizing pain I felt the day I found out that I wouldn’t have my own child. I wouldn’t have a little girl with my hair or a little boy with Emmett’s smile. “He’s an idiot.” Cullen’s eyes are dark, and he seems to be struggling. “That’s all I’m going to say about him. As for you. You’re . . .” He stops, then says gruffly, “You’re perfect. You don’t need him.”

  Deep down inside, I’m screaming, “But I do. I can’t adopt a child as a single parent. It’s doubly hard!”

  He just looks at me, and I wipe my tear. “Anyway. That’s why I think I need a friend, more than anything. Just a friend. And I’m sure, judging by your reputation, that you don’t lack women who want you in bed. But I doubt you have many people who . . . well, what you said about them liking you because you tip well. I’m not here for that reason.”

  “No, you’re here because you hate my guts—look down on what I do. And I’m about to enlighten you on how thrilling it could be. You game?”

  I love that he takes me out of my sorry state and puts the good times back in perspective. “Yes.”

  “Show me. Come here.” He tilts his head back with an easy jerk.

  The come-hither call entices me.

  He’s just too inviting to ignore, so I head over, my heart starting to pound a little faster.

  Suddenly my neck is in his hands. He draws me closer. “Kiss me,” he husks.

  Our lips are a whisper away.

  I stretch my arms around his broad shoulders and kiss him like he might get away. I don’t want him to go. I don’t want to be sent away.

  He kisses me breathless then kisses me back to life again.

  And I l
ike it. Need it. Because he makes me feel wanted and I need that sense of belonging right now, especially after I poured out my heart.

  His kiss doesn’t make me feel bought or sold, won or lost. I’m grounded, safe, and feel . . . I can’t even think it. It’s petrifying to let my mind travel down that rabbit hole.

  I’m starting to feel too comfortable, at home.

  “Cullen . . .”

  “Shh,” he whispers. “Let me have this, you.”

  “No.” But he’s already into this, into me.

  His fingers are in my hair. His lips skim my cheek, ear. Whispering kisses, fluttering tongue, all of it is too much, too soon, and too damn hot.

  I’m responding and don’t know how to stop. How can I resist the irresistible, sate the insatiable?

  This guy is a gambler, a man who wants to win at any cost.

  When I finally pull back, I’m breathless. A real wreck.

  We take a minute, give each other enough space.

  I ask, “Do we have a deal?”

  “Hmm?” He drags his thumb across his lip.

  “About friends?”

  “Deal,” he husks out.

  The mood is ruined.

  I killed it on purpose.

  “But Wynn?” The next second Cullen smiles a wolfish smile. “I’m the sort that kisses his friends on the mouth. Fair warning.”

  “I think we really should—”

  “Oh, we will.”

  “You didn’t let me finish.”

  “You forgot what you wanted to say.” He slides his hand around the back of my neck and jerks me against him, teases me with that fierce hot mouth once more. He smirks as if he’s playing. I squirm because I’m not.

  Before I slip away, he presses his lips harder against mine and delivers a bruising kiss, with that same hint of bubblegum and heat and tongue.

  “Goodnight.” He smiles, pats my butt, and I turn around and wobble back into my room.

  Am I playing the player or has he just played me?

  * * *

  I toss and turn for most of the night. Whenever I close my eyes, Cullen appears with that cool smile and even temperament. My palm burns from the chips he puts in my hand. My fingers ache to touch him. My breathing is labored because I can’t get enough.

  I’m damp and so fucking turned on. He’s not just a fantasy or an image in my head. He’s real and he’s here.

  Right across the hall.

  I’m so into the fantasy of him—wanting him, sleeping next to him, fucking him—that I can’t stay in my bed. It’s four in the morning and if he’s asleep, maybe I’ll curl up beside him, drag his arm over my waist and settle down.

  Just sleep.

  Right, Wynn.

  I’m padding across the living room with his door in my sights when I hear the clicking of engaged locks. I turn and dart back to my suite in time to shut my door and place my ear against the wall, expecting to hear only footsteps.

  Instead, I hear him say, “I left it at the front desk. Ask for Mike in the morning and he’ll take care of it.”

  I frown in concentration. Did Cullen go to a private poker game? Did he lose? Why didn’t he ask me to go?

  Staring up at the ceiling, I feed into the gambler’s superstitions.

  He should’ve taken his lucky charm.

  I hear ice clinking in a glass, which speaks of his growing frustration.

  “Look, Mom, I’m tired. I don’t want to be disrespectful but if you were so concerned about ‘family’ then you would’ve shown up for Callan’s wedding. At least meet his bride . . . I think you’d like her.”

  Mom? He was gambling with his mom?

  Silence.

  “Like I said, the money is downstairs. Mike handles my affairs here and he’ll be happy to cash it for you when he arrives. At eleven.”

  More silence.

  “Because it isn’t an emergency.” He sounds exasperated.

  An extended silence follows this time. I don’t think Cullen is talking about a poker game.

  “I always call you back, Mom.” A beat later, his voice is softer when he says, “Because you’re my mother. No matter what you do or don’t do, I love you. Now get some sleep. Everything will work itself out but nothing good happens after three o’clock in Vegas.”

  That opinion should be debated, I decide, hoping to have a chance to prove him wrong.

  Someday, maybe. But not tonight. Family matters are better left between mother and son. Plus, I’ve heard the horror stories about Cullen’s mom. While I’d love to comfort him, this is one night when he’d probably rather sleep alone.

  REDHEAD

  Cullen

  Several months ago . . .

  “Who’s the redhead?”

  I aim my gaze at the redhead entering the club so my brother knows who I’m referring to.

  Callan follows my line of vision. “That’s Wynn.”

  “Wynn what?” I run my eyes all over her, already savoring having my hands all over her.

  “Wynn, and she’s taken, man.”

  I stand to leave. I’ve got a flight to catch. But for some reason, my eyes linger on her even as I slap my brother’s back in farewell. “Let me know if she becomes available.”

  It’s not until I’m on the plane that I put together the connection. “Wynn.” I toss a few ice cubes in a glass tumbler. A splash of whiskey, a twist of lime, and the first sip burns all the way down.

  We’re next up for takeoff when it dawns on me.

  I should’ve introduced myself.

  A woman who looks like “Wynn” needs to be with a man who loves to do the same. She needs someone who will dote on her and buy her pretty things, someone who enjoys showing her off while introducing her to the world. For some reason, I hope she has these things already. Whoever warms her bed should count himself lucky and spoil her.

  I shoot Callan a text:

  Is she happy?

  Callan: Who?

  Redhead.

  Callan: Why do you care?

  Just answer the question.

  Callan: I guess. Why?

  She didn’t look it.

  Callan: I’ll bite. What’s a girl like Wynn supposed to look like?

  WELL sexed. Find out if she’s happy.

  He doesn’t respond until hours later.

  Callan: Livvy says she hasn’t had sex in several months. Happy?

  I slip my arm away from the redhead in my bed.

  Me: Very.

  “Wynn.” It has such a nice ring to it.

  “Of course you’re gonna win, baby,” my date moans, reaching for me. “Want me to give you some luck before I go?”

  “I’m good,” I say, not meaning to be insensitive, but ready to ditch the broad who was nothing more than a placeholder, a lame substitute for a woman I don’t even know.

  I’m not the guy who settles but last night, I picked up a generic fix hoping to get name brand satisfaction.

  It didn’t work.

  JOBS

  Wynn

  I wake up late, surprised that I slept so much. Seeing it’s almost noon, I leap out of bed, brush my teeth, comb my hair, and add a little lipstick before I pad outside, my heart sinking when there’s no sign of Cullen in the suite. I’m peering into his bedroom to see his bed is unmade, and for some reason I stare at the dent in the pillow for a little while, when there’s a knock on the door. I swing open the door, and a man in a uniform stands next to a tall, linen-covered table.

  “Breakfast, madam,” he says, motioning me for permission to wheel the cart in.

  “Please. Come in.” I step back and allow him inside, salivating over the scent of bacon. I sign the tab to the room, wish him a good day back, and when he leaves, take a seat and peer around the silver-edged dishes. All of this, just for me? There’s everything from French toast, to eggs with hash and bacon, to Belgian waffles with berries on the side.

  “Good morning to me.” I happily pour myself coffee, add maple syrup to the waffles, and dive in.
>
  That’s when I see the note resting on one of the silver platters.

  Gaming money for you on your nightstand. Look me up at the tables.

  CC

  Why did I just shiver?

  Reading it again, I whisper, “I could get used to this.”

  And his “friendly” kisses.

  Don’t go there, Wynn.

  You have a bet to win.

  I hate to admit it, but if job appeal carries much weight in our wager then he’ll win hands-down based on perks alone and I haven’t even started shopping yet!

  I try not to remember the way I opened up to him last night and the way he made me feel accepted—fuck, more than accepted, desired more than anything else—as I eat breakfast. For some reason, I can’t eat fast enough. Once done with my waffles, I guzzle down half a glass of orange juice and run to my room, eager to go downstairs. I don’t want to dwell on why.

  You don’t want him. You just want to win.

  I continue to brainwash myself and psych myself into gung-ho, bet-winning mode as I dress in jeans, a comfortable sweater, and my favorite boots. I add a pair of long earrings and pull my hair back into a ponytail. Then I check my nightstand and spot the three ten-thousand-dollar chips he left for me.

  Wow. I’ve never met anyone who parted so easily with his money.

  I tuck them into the back pocket of my jeans and wonder if I want to buy something. Buy myself one of the paintings that I’ll be exhibiting in my gallery next week. Buy shoes, or a bag, or invest it with his brother, Callan. I make a point of remembering to book an appointment with him when he and Livvy return from their honeymoon as I head down into the casino.

  I spot Mike in the lobby as soon as I exit the elevator. He’s striding in my direction.

  “Miss Watson . . . Wynn.” He shoots me a crooked smile. “Is it morning or afternoon for you?”