Page 12 of Betting Her Curves

“Where are my manners?” he asks, rising to a great height. “Let me get you a drink, sweetheart. What are you having?”

“An old-fashioned.”

He shoots me a look.

“It’s not my place to ask, baby girl, but I’m going to. Are you old enough for alcohol? I noticed that you didn’t have a cocktail earlier tonight.”

I swallow because this is so embarrassing.

“I’m old enough,” I grit through clenched teeth.

That black brow raises again, his hand poised in the air as he reaches for a decanter of some sort.

“Are you now? What year were you born?”

My mind spins furiously, but at this moment, I’m incapable of any math whatsoever, even basic addition.

“Fine,” I huff, spots of burning color on my cheeks. “I’m eighteen. Not old enough to drink, but I’ll take an old fashioned just the same.”

Patrick grins at me, his visage so handsome that it’s frankly unbelievable. This man could be a male model, and yet here he is, sparring with Ashley Finnegan as I stew helplessly on the couch. He finishes mixing the cocktail and then slips the glass to me.

“You’re drinking under the supervision of an adult,” he winks. “Although I made your old fashioned with just a splash of bourbon. We don’t want you getting drunk, do we, on a night like this? But Ididadd two cherries because I know little girls adore cherries.”

I stare at him, an even hotter blush covering my cheeks now. OMG, I probably look like a fire engine because he makes me so mad! But I manage to keep my cool and merely smile in his direction.

“Thank you so much. Idolove cherries, and I’m sure I’ll love your concoction.”

Then, I take a sip and true to his word, there’s practically no alcohol. I’m sipping on what tastes like sugar water mixed with orange juice, and Patrick grins again as he takes a seat on the couch next to me once more.

“So tell me how an eighteen year old came to be playing at the high ante table in the Degas,” he says in a silky tone. “Your presence tonight was unexpected.”

I take another sip to fortify myself and then look him in the eye.

“Well, I’m a high school dropout,” I say baldly. “I never got my degree, and would be considered uneducated by most standards.”

The dashing billionaire shrugs.

“Doesn’t bother me. Are you from Vegas originally?”

I shake my head slowly.

“No, I’m from Buffalo, New York. My hometown is about as far from Vegas as you can get, in both miles and style,” I say in asoft tone, my gaze going faraway for a moment. “Buffalo is in Upstate New York. It’s freezing cold in the winters, and has been in the throes of an economic downturn for oh, about five decades now.”

Patrick’s black brows rise.

“I can’t say I know Upstate New York very well. But I’ve heard it’s beautiful. That’s Westchester County, isn’t it? Sorry for my ignorance. I’m Irish, if you can’t tell,” he winks.

But I shake my head, blonde tresses swaying.

“No, Westchester is the area directly outside New York City. Buffalo is way on the west side of New York State, bordering Lake Erie. In fact, that’s part of the reason why we’ve been in an economic downturn for so long. Buffalo used to be a center of transportation linking trade between the Erie Canal and the Hudson River, but the rise of trucks and trains kind of obliterated the centrality of the Erie Canal. As a result, Buffalo went down with it.”

Patrick looks at me for a moment, pausing.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he speaks in a low voice. “But you got out. You left Buffalo and came to Vegas.”

I take a deep breath and nod.

“Yes, and it’s not because I hate my hometown. I love my hometown, and Buffalo was good to me. There were a lot of arts and culture centers, and my mom signed me up for ballet when I was just a little girl. In fact, I fell in love with dance, and was serious about becoming a professional ballerina.That’swhy I’m in Vegas. I came here to dance with the Las Vegas NationalBallet, but they went kaput,” I add in a wry tone. “They never got off the ground, so I turned to high stakes poker to pay my bills.”

---