Page 1 of Play the Last Card

Chapter One

Ivy

Fingers tap against therounded edge of the bar. Despite the large hands and the long fingers, the tapping is soft, and gentle, and completely out of rhythm. It makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. A slight shiver trickles down my spine as I eye the man who seems to be studying the bar top with great interest.

The tapping stops and he lifts his head. With the cap pulled low over his eyes, a shadow falls across his features and I can’t quite make out the color of his eyes from my spot by the beer taps. I force myself to look down, eyes back on the taps as I twist my wrist and switch out the glasses in my hands. A steady stream of beer flows eagerly and the second pint glass fills to the top.

“Won’t be a moment,” I call out, my eyes falling on the man again. He hasn’t called me over since sitting down, nor has he really shown any indication that he is ready to order, but I call out anyway. Still, there is something in me that can’t resist trying to get his attention. He gives a slight nod without meeting my gaze and his fingers take up tapping again against the lacquered bar top.

The man’s disinterest bothers me.

Why?

No idea. But it does.

“Here you go, Doug.” I push the two overflowing pint glasses in front of the older gentleman.

“You should pour yourself one, darlin’. On me and the boys,” he replies as I add the drinks to his tab.

“You know I can’t drink on shift, Doug. Stop trying to get me in trouble.”

He laughs, heartedly and with his whole body. He gives me a fake pout and shakes his head, telling me, “I’m just waiting for the day you quit this place and run away with me. You know that.”

I can’t help but laugh right along with him. Doug is good natured, sweet, and madly in love with his high school sweetheart. I’ve heard the stories about him and his wife enough times to know that he is only kidding about running away with him.

Doug is my favorite regular customer by a mile. I’m only here casually to help out but during the quieter hours when Doug and his buddies are the only ones around, they like to regale me with stories, talk nonsense, and dissect any football game that happens to be playing on the bar’s televisions. I remember the time I’d asked Doug if he’d ever played before—a passing comment after I’d first started working shifts at the bar—and the rollercoaster of a story that had followed ended with him breaking his ankle in high school and ruining any chance of him going pro. I laughed, commenting that it was a damn shame because he looked like he could have been an American All-Star. That had earned me the brightest smile from Doug who’d been quick to agree.

That story remains my all-time favorite of his.

“You’re a gem. Thanks, Ivy.” Doug is missing a tooth but his grin hasn’t suffered from it. The faded, over worn Broncos jersey stretches over his large beer belly. I can’t help the smile that grows again and I wave him off.

When I turn, the man in the cap has raised his head a little and I can see more of his jawline. Sharp. So sharp.

He’s been watching the exchange with Doug but when our eyes meet, his gaze drops and his fingers resume their out-of-rhythm tapping. I approach, moving slowly down the bar to his seat.

“Hi,” I say, resisting the urge to clear my throat first. My mouth is suddenly dry and I practically feel my nerves pulsing under my skin. Why the hell am I nervous? “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Water.” He pauses as his chin lifts slightly. His rough voice raises goosebumps on my arms when he adds in a low grumble, “Please.”

“Sure. Nothing else?” My hand is already moving toward the chilled glasses in the fridge next to where I stand.

“Just the water. Thanks,” he adds quickly.

At least he has manners. I fill his glass with ice, eyeing him as he whips the cap off his head and runs a hand through his hair.

My stomach turns over with a pang of familiarity.

I know him.

He looks so familiar, it’s as if I recognize some of the features of his face but can’t place them clearly in my mind. It’s a blurry, pixelated version. My mind screams at me, positive that I have seen this man before. I try to school my features though; I don’t want to scare him off while my brain tries to put the pieces of this puzzle together.

“You from around here?” I ask before I can stop myself, letting my easy and well-rehearsed customer service smile slip into place. I slide a coaster under the glass of water and place it in front of him.

Green. His eyes are green.

My gaze drifts over his strong jaw, and up to his hair, taking note of the way his hair curls at the ends after being trapped under his cap. I glance down, following the trail of corded muscles down his arms. His biceps stretch the cotton, the t-shirt he wears hugging his shoulders, his chest, his stomach. I swallow. I would bet good money that he has an eight pack under that shirt of his. My gaze darts around his impressive form and my fingers twitch, wanting to reach out to feel how solid he is.

God, I need to get a grip.

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