Page 18 of Queen of Spades

Back when I first got to Vegas, I spent a few weeks as an actual server.

I was so god-awful at it that Jimmy and the other old-timers still heckle me about it to this day.

Mostly, I refill drinks while scoping out the suspicious bets, but even then, I try to avoid holding one of the heavy-ass trays. I lug the thing to the closest entrance of Spades and eye the beefy bodyguard at the door.

“Could you please move? I need to get through.” I balance the huge tray on my shoulder and pop a hip out, giving the beefcake a questioning smile.

“Sorry, ma’am. The high-roller room is closed tonight.” He crosses his arms over his chest.

“If that were true, then I wouldn’t have gotten a call to deliver this. Now would I?”

“Hand it over. I’ll take it in.”

“Are you going to take over bartending too? You’ve blocked off an intricate part of the business, and my boss wants Dave moved to somewhere he’s actually needed.” My free hand pops up, giving him a shooing motion. “I like being employed. Talk to whoever you need to check in with on your little earpiece thingy, and get me permission to head in there. I’ll wait over here.” My chin tilts in the air as I back a few feet away.

There’s some low murmuring, but he’s good. I can’t pick out any actual words of what’s being said.

I pace the area in front of the door that leads back to the main club, occasionally glancing at the beefcake.

He smirks, eyeing me from head to toe. “Just a heads up, in case you think you’re about to land yourself a billionaire; the boss only likes blondes.”

I snort. “His loss.”

“But not mine,” he says seductively. “I’m a big fan of your ass in that—” He cuts off as the door opens behind him.

It’s crazy watching his gaze snap to eye level as he slides to the side.

The man standing in the doorframe isn’t Cassian Forbes, but holy hell.

He’s not bad to look at.

Not bad at all.

The short, dark hair on top of his head is a little longer than the sides. There are hints of gray at his temples and along the jawline of his short beard. He’s wearing jeans with combat boots, a suit coat, and a dress shirt with suspenders—like the super sexy kind, not the old man variety. They’re dark gray, a couple of inches thick, and end in the horseshoe clips that I have a weird affinity for.

My gaze rakes over his strong chest.

Dammit, I’m now one-hundred-percent sure that suit coat is hiding two shoulder holsters.

I let myself get distracted by the big dick energy and forgot to immediately assess his risk factor.

“I haven’t had the chance to pat her down yet, sir,” the original beefcake says.

My head tilts, and I do my best to paste on a doe-eyed expression as I back up a step. The tray hits the wall behind me, and my other arm flies up to stabilize it.

“Christ, Tanner,” the older guy grunts in a Scottish accent.

“I’m just trying to do my job.” I flutter my lashes for good measure and purposely quicken my breathing so my chest rises and falls rapidly.

“Me too, sweetheart,” Tanner, the beefcake says. “Sorry, Ward. I was about to handle it.”

“I’m supposed to be taking over for Dave—the bartender…”

“Come on.” Ward, the sexy new guy, waves me forward.

I stabilize the tray in front of me using both arms. It’s awkward, but I imagine it seems like I’m using the tray as a shield of sorts.

Human nature tends to have a few universal tells. Someone who’s afraid might use a physical object to put distance between themselves and someone they’re uncomfortable with.

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