Page 11 of Holiday Hire

"A phrase gamblers use."

"I'm not a gambler," I insist.

He drills his gaze so hard into me that I try not to shrink back in the seat. But I also have to squeeze my thighs together.

Jesus. What is up with me? This guy is a complete jerk.

He hurls out, "I don't want my boys learning about gambling."

I put my hands over my face, groaning. I sigh, then lower my hands and force myself to look at him, insisting, "I can assure you I won't be teaching them to gamble. Because I. Don't. Gamble."

His expression hardens and he grips the wheel tighter. His shoulders tense, and the fabric of his T-shirt stretches across his biceps. He claims, "Irresponsible gambling ruins people's lives."

I stare at him.

He continues, "I'm raising my boys to be good human beings and future responsible adults."

Is this guy for real?

What a hypocrite.

Unable to stop myself, I point out, "Don't you train racehorses?"

He flinches, but it's so fast, I wonder if I actually saw it. He replies, "Yes. But that doesn't mean I agree with irresponsible gambling."

"What exactly is responsible gambling?" I tilt my head, narrowing my gaze.

His knuckles turn white. He answers, "Having limits. Knowing when to quit and walk away. Not being an addict."

I smirk. "But you train horses for both responsible and irresponsible gamblers to bet on?"

The color fades in his face. He snarls, "If you have a problem with how my family makes our money, you don't need to return."

I hold my hands in the air. "Whoa! I don't have any issues with it. I'm simply responding to your attack."

He scrunches his face. "My attack?"

"Your assumption that I'm going to teach your kids how to gamble; something I've never done, by the way," I admit.

"You've never gambled?" he asks.

I cross my arms over my chest. "No. I'm a teacher, remember?"

"So?"

I roll my eyes. "We don't exactly make a lot of money. It would be crazy for me to risk losing anything I earn."

He stays silent for about a mile, then questions, "So what bet did you want to make?"

Seriously?

"Go on. Tell me."

I debate whether to tell him I forgot or to answer him.

"Well, don't leave me hanging," he urges.

I finally reveal, "Fine. If at the end of my trial period, you realize you're wrong and need a nanny, then you owe me a favor."

---