Page 7 of One Big Little Secret

“I’ll live,” I whisper, a little too breathlessly.

“Get your legs working,” he growls at Touchy-Feely, who tries to slam down the rest of his beer. Twelve grabs it out of his hand andthunksit on the counter. “I meant right now, genius. I’m giving you a very generous ten-second head start. If you’re not gone by the end of my countdown, I’ll see you in the river.”

Holy. Crap.

The other man lets out a startled grunt, stares for two seconds, and then runs out of the room.

I turn back to my hero and smile.

And when he smiles back, clearly proud of thinking quick on his feet, it makes my knees wobble.

“Please tell me you’re not actually eighteen,” he says.

“Oh, jeez. You heard that?” I straighten my dress and step back. “Before you accuse me of underage drinking, I promise I’m twenty-one. Got my ID in here somewhere to prove it…”

He puts his hand gently on mine as I fumble for my purse.

“Don’t bother. I don’t need it.”

“Oh, um, okay.”

“Just couldn’t help noticing you were alone and stuck with that greasy fuck. Cruel of your friends to leave you marooned with these piranhas. You with Kayla?”

So he knows her. Not a shock, I guess.

He doesn’t know my name, of course. I’m not sure we should even bother introducing ourselves, but maybe I can forge a new identity for tonight. He’ll never know.

“Are you another piranha man?” I ask.

“Not tonight,” he says with another smile that slays. “Just a handsome stranger.”

“Did I say you were handsome?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Nah. I can hear your thoughts.”

Oh my God, I’m laughing.

There’s no way this guy doesn’t know how freakishly gorgeous he is, but there’s also no chance I’m about to play into his ego.

“Well, I suppose you’re not bad,” I say, following his lead as he strolls across the room. “Where are we going?”

“Roulette.”

“Big gambler, huh?”

He glances down at me. “I feel lucky tonight.”

We find space at a roulette table. I cling to his arm as he trades a wad of cash for dark-blue chips.

This is wildly out of my comfort zone. I feel like people should be staring at me for being with someone likehim, but for some reason no one questions it.

“What do you think?” he asks me. “Red or black? It’s an easy choice.”

“Red,” I decide. “It matches my dress.”

“Red it is. And what’s your favorite number?”

“Why? You’re already trying to steal my social?” Then I laugh, because there’s nothing as absurd as a guy who looks this hot and rich being interested in my social security number. “My favorite number’s eight, so go with that.”

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