Page 112 of Dating Goals
“Got it.”
“Hurry up, Canadian!” The Texan pounds the table with his meaty fist.
Elodie slips out of the room, and I return to the table and settle into my chair. “Sorry about the delay, gentlemen. Ready to play some cards?”
I have a hundred inspirational quotes about confidence. Grandma has a hundred more. But I can’t think of a single one right now.
“Technical difficulties?” Malcolm asks, eyebrow raised as he arranges his massive chip stack.
“Nothing serious.” I arrange my pathetically small pile of chips into neat stacks. “My Lady Luck needed…to refresh her makeup.”
“Luck,” Durand says with a British sniff. “Is for amateurs.”
The Texan grunts in agreement.
“Five hundred thousand to start,” announces the dealer.
Cards whisper across the green felt. I lift the corner of mine. Jack of Clubs, Seven of Diamonds. Not great, not terrible. What would the voice in my ear say?
The Texan bets aggressively on the first hand, and I fold early. Malcolm wins with a straight, his smile stretching across his face as he rakes in the chips.
“First blood,” he murmurs, stacking his winnings.
Three more hands pass this way. Me folding early, protecting my dwindling chip stack while praying for Elodie’s return. My strategy consists entirely of don’t-lose-everything-before-help-arrives.
Durand studies me with unsettling intensity. Can he tell I’m flying blind now?
“Everything all right, Mr. McGregor?” he asks in that infuriating British accent.
“Peachy,” I say with a tight smile.
I scan the room for Elodie. No sign.
My eyes meet Anika’s across the bar. She’s gnawing her lower lip. Seeing her calms me somehow. Even with no earpiece and Malcolm breathing down my neck, her presence steadies me.
The next hand brings me a pair of nines. Better, but nothing spectacular.
Durand raises pre-flop. The Texan folds immediately.
Malcolm calls. My turn again.
“Call,” I say, matching their bets.
The flop comes. Ace of Clubs, Seven of Spades, Two of Hearts. Nothing helps my nines.
Durand bets big. Malcolm considers, his fingers playing with a chip, before calling.
My nines suddenly seem pathetic. “Fold.”
The door opens, and Elodie slips back in. Her face is pale. When our eyes meet, she gives an almost imperceptible shake of her head.
No earpiece. I’m done for.
The game continues, more intense now. Durand plays cautiously, winning small pots, folding frequently. Malcolm becomes more aggressive, trying to bully us with large bets.
An hour passes. My fortunes continue to slide. Across the room, Elodie grows increasingly agitated, crossing and uncrossing her legs, checking her watch.
I glance again at Anika, who straightens suddenly at the bar, her expression shifting from worry to determination.
