Page 8 of Poker
“If I’d have known that’s the sight that was gonna greet me, I’d have come in earlier,” he teases.
“Don’t start,” I snap, and guilt flashes in his eyes, causing my shoulders to sag. “Sorry.”
“You know I didn’t mean anything by that comment, right?”
I huff out a laugh. “Yeah, I know. You’re about the only man who can get away with talking to me like that.”
The guilt morphs to something else, something unidentifiable. “Other men talk to you like that?”
“Careful, Poker,” I taunt. “Someone might think you’re jealous.”
He scoffs at that. “Nah. Just looking out for you is all.”
Damn.
“I can take care of myself,” I remind him.
“Never said you couldn’t.”
This time, I let the eye roll happen. “Whatever. What can I get ya to drink?”
“Surprise me.”
I shake my head. “Okay.”
A minute later, I set a cocktail glass with pink booze in front of him. “What the fuck is that?”
“Cosmopolitan,” I reply, failing miserably to stifle my mirth.
“It’s pink!”
“It is.”
“What am I supposed to do with a pink drink?”
“Drink it.”
“But… I…” He shakes his head as he sputters. “I can’t drink that.”
I tilt my head. “Why not?”
“It’s pink,” he repeats.
“Afraid it’ll make your balls shrivel or something?”
“Or something,” he grumbles.
“Just try it,” I urge with a shrug. “Might even like it.”
He mumbles under his breath before lifting the glass to his nose and sniffing. “Fuck, it even smells pink.”
“Quit bein’ a baby,” I grouse.
Poker narrows his eyes at me, and with his gaze locked on mine over the rim of the glass, he pours it down his throat in one long gulp.
“Well?” I ask when he swallows and sits back. “Whaddya think?”
“It’s pink.”
