Page 236 of Vegas Heat

She laughs. “Not in so many words, but after the accusations my mother hurled when she was here last month, he couldn’t exactly deny that he enjoys a particular lifestyle. I told him that was his business, and he told me I was welcome to visit Coax any time as long as I promised to stay on the first floor.”

I wrinkle my nose at the thought. “Do you want to go?”

“It might be interesting to see it, say, during thedaytime, but no, not really. How was your day?” She changes the subject rather abruptly, and I don’t think she’s totally okay with knowing these intimate details about her father’s life, but it’s one of those things I think she’ll figure out how to compartmentalize over time.

“It was good. I went for a run, wrapped some gifts, talked to my mom…”

“How is she?”

“Great. She convinced me to come to Chicago for a couple nights next week. I wish you could come.”

She pouts for a beat. “So do I, but I’m glad you get to go.”

A buzzer dings in the kitchen, and I head over to pull the food out. We eat and talk, and this warm feeling of comfort and home washes over me.

I want her here with me all the time. I want her in my bed when we wake together in the morning, and I want her in my kitchen when I serve her dinner, and I want her lying across my couch as we both stare into the crackling flames of the fireplace. I want to make a life with her.

Everything is going so well. My life is damn near perfect right now except for having to hide the love of my life, and it should be the signal that a storm is brewing.

I force the thought away, instead choosing to focus on what’s going well.

We laugh and bake cookies together after dinner while we toast with eggnog mixed with Fireball, which she claims tastes much better than eggnog with the more traditional brandy, and after two or three where the ratio of Fireball to eggnog seems to be getting higher, I’m buzzed enough not to care too much that the drink tastes pretty damn gross no matter what we add to it.

In fact, I want to pour Fireball eggnog on Gabby’s tits and lick it off.

Nowthere’sa Christmas idea for later. Way to make the holidays merry and…hot.

“More Firenog?” she slurs, and I laugh.

“Are you drunk?”

She shakes her head. “Just enjoying the Christmas spirit.”

“Firenog…not Eggball?”

She makes a face. “Definitely not Eggball.”

Once the cookies are in the oven, Gabby claps with excitement. “Let’s open presents!”

I grin. “Let’s do it. Is this the same gift you gave me last week?” I reach for her to run my fingertips up her torso, but she giggles as she bats my hand away.

“If you’re a good boy, maybe we’ll find time for that later.”

“You can come sit on Santa’s lap,” I say with an exaggerated wink. “Ho ho ho.”

She rolls her eyes as she makes her way over toward the tree, and I can’t help that feeling as it washes over me once again.

God, I love her. It’s so strong, so pure. So unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.

She sits on her knees by the tree and reaches for the big box, and I shake my head.

“You first,” I say, and I sit close to her and hand her a small box.

She narrows her eyes at me, and then she rips the paper off the box with all the glee of a small child. She pulls out a jewelry box and opens it, and she looks up at me when she sees what’s inside.

I decide not to mansplain the gift and opt instead to carefully watch her reaction as she pulls out the necklace with two simple charms on it—a silver outline of an ace and a jack of hearts, both glittering with diamonds.

“This is so sweet,” she says softly. “So meaningful since we met at a blackjack table on my twenty-first birthday, and these two cards add up to twenty-one—the number you wear on the field.”

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