Page 115 of Dating Goals
“All in for ten million, three hundred thousand,” the dealer says.
I keep my expression neutral despite my racing pulse. If I’m wrong about this…
The room falls silent, everyone collectively holding their breath.
“Gentlemen,” the dealer announces. “Please reveal your cards.”
The Texan goes first, turning over a king and a seven. The dealer slides the cards around to accommodate his hand.
“Two pair, kings and sevens.”
Durand reveals a jack and a nine. “Straight, five to nine.”
Malcolm’s smile grows impossibly wicked as he turns over his cards. A pair of kings.
“Full house, kings full of sevens,” the dealer announces.
All eyes turn to me. Malcolm already has one hand stretching toward the pot.
My heart hammers in my chest as I flip my cards. Queen and Ten of Hearts.
The dealer’s voice doesn’t even quiver when he says, “Royal flush in hearts.”
Malcolm’s face drains of all color.
“The winning hand belongs to Mr. McGregor,” the dealer confirms.
Malcolm’s eyes burn with rage. “You cheated.”
“Careful, Malcolm,” I warn. “Those are serious accusations in a place like this.”
His jaw works silently, fury radiating from him in palpable waves.
“The house recognizes Mr. McGregor as the winner of the main pot and all side pots he is eligible for, awarding him a total of one hundred and five million euros,” the dealer announces formally. But then breaks his stoic facade as he adds, “Also, one Canadian dollar and a Bugatti La Voiture Noire.”
I slide a one million euro plaque toward the dealer as I depart from the table. “For your trouble,” I say.
The dealer accepts it with a graceful nod. “Most generous, sir.”
The Texan ambles over, ruddy-faced and surprisingly cheerful for someone who lost millions. He extends a meaty hand.
“Son of a gun! I haven’t seen poker played like that since my daddy won a ranch in ’82.” His handshake nearly dislocates my shoulder. “You played us like fiddles. No hard feelings here. When you’re beat, you’re beat.”
“Thanks,” I manage, flexing my fingers to ensure they still work. “You played a great game.”
“Hell, I played like a drunk armadillo compared to whatever voodoo you pulled off.” He laughs, slapping my shoulder hard enough to rattle my teeth. “Well, I’m fixin’ to hit the bar and drown my sorrows in bourbon. Next time you’re in Dallas, youlook me up. Cletus Beauregard. My poker nights could use some fresh blood.”
Across the room, Malcolm lunges for his Bugatti key fob on the table, but a security guard intercepts his arm.
“Sir, all items in the pot belong to the winner.”
Malcolm’s face contorts. “Do you have any idea who I am?”
The guard remains impressively stoic. “Yes, sir. You’re the gentleman who no longer owns a Bugatti.”
Malcolm yanks his arm free, straightens his jacket with an aggressive tug, and storms toward the exit. The doors bang open as he plows through them.
“Mr. McGregor.” The floor manager appears at my side. “Congratulations on your win. The banker will see you whenever you’re ready to transfer the funds.”
