Page 5 of Big Bold Gambler

Eventually, she glances at the clock on the wall and sighs. “My dad’s going to be expecting me home.”

“I’ll walk you out.” Rising I hold onto her hand as I stand.

We make our way to the front of the casino. Outside, she lingers, squeezing my hand before dropping it.

With reluctance she finally announces, “I should go.”

“Yeah.” I reach out and snag her hand again, lifting it to my lips and placing a kiss against the soft skin. “Get home safe.”

“I will,” she promises, ducking her head as she walks through the parking lot to get to her car.

I stay standing there, my eyes not leaving her until she disappears in the mess of vehicles. Then, when I’m sure she’s gone, I turn around and head back inside, an almost childlike excitement running through me. Jeannie is going to be mine.

Chapter Three

Jeannie

As soon as my dad gives me a kiss on the cheek and leaves the house, I head to my studio and start pulling my favorite canvases. I don’t usually show off my art in person. Most of my advertising is done through an Instagram page with a link to my direct website to place orders. Being in the same room as someone while they’re looking at my work feels incredibly intimate.

My palms sweat as I display oil paintings of landscapes and flowers. These are the most basic of subjects, but they feel safe. When I step back to survey the spread, I realize that it doesn’t really showcase who I am as an artist. Still, I can’t bring myself to pull out the self-portraits or the canvases that I designed as an outlet for my anxiety and loneliness.

When I’m satisfied with the collection I’ve pulled, I let Maxwell know that he can stop by whenever he pleases. He replies almost immediately, letting me know he’s finishing something up with something at the casino. Then, full of inexplicable nerves, I settle onto the porch swing out front to await his arrival.

In less than half an hour, he pulls into the driveway in a dark blue expensive sports car. I jump to my feet, too riddled with excited energy to stay seated. Somehow, I manage to refrain from running down the steps to meet him.

“That was fast.” I’m practically bouncing on the balls of my feet, but I can’t help myself.

“What can I say?” Maxwell replies as he shuts the door to his vehicle. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing what you’ve been working on since last night.”

“Well, I hope I don’t disappoint you.” My face heats up at the knowledge that he was thinking about this as much as I was.

“I’m sure you won’t,” he assures me. “So, shall we head inside?”

“Of course,” I say, feeling jerky when I turn to lead him up the outside steps to the landing. Opening the door, I step through the threshold feeling my heart pounding in my chest.

Inside, I lead him through the entryway and through the house. I’m acutely aware of his eyes on my back as I walk. My palms begin to sweat. I wonder what he’s thinking.

“I haven’t been here since your dad bought the place,” he notes after a few seconds of silence, a few seconds of watching my back. “He’s really done a great job with the space.”

“I think a lot of it was my mom,” I admit, glancing over my shoulder for a glimpse of him. “She was the more artistic of the two of them. Or so I’m told.”

Maxwell hums compassionately before saying, “That must be where you got your talent from.”

“You haven’t even seen my work yet,” I murmur, closing my hand on the knob of the door to my studio.

“I don’t have to see it to know that you’re talented.” He gestures for me to open the door.

I duck my head, leading him into the room where I spend most of my time. I’m unable to look at him as he steps into the center of the space, instead focusing on a blue stain on the carpet. The thought of watching his face as he observes what I’ve created makes me want to crawl out of my skin.

“You painted these?” he asks, the awe in his voice unforced, easy.

“And prepared the canvases before I did,” I confirm, finally looking away from the floor. “I like to be involved in every step of the process.”

“They’re beautiful, Jeannie,” Maxwell says as he turns to face me. “Just as beautiful as the woman who painted them.”

“You can’t mean that,” I reply, unsure of how to take either compliment.

I feel like I’ve been cut up, my guts out on display for him to see. He’s not afraid, though. He’s not disgusted. It makes me want to show him the pieces that I have hidden.

---