Page 112 of Roulette Rodeo
The shower helps clear my head, hot water sluicing away the remnants of morning sex and afternoon sleep.
I take my time, using the expensive shampoo that smells like mint and tea tree, the body wash that turns to rich lather between my palms. Every product is high-end, chosen with care, nothing like the industrial soap we got at the casino.
As I wash, I wonder what I'll even do now.
What does a person do when they suddenly have freedom but no purpose?
I've never had real hobbies—no time for them between surviving my father and surviving Marnay. Never had a job that didn't involve showing skin and faking smiles.
What skills do I even have that translate to the real world?
I can count cards, mix drinks, spot tells at poker tables. I can dance on a pole, apply makeup in the dark, and calculate tips in my head faster than a calculator. I know seventeen ways to redirect a handsy alpha without causing a scene and exactly how much pressure it takes to make a man's eyes water with a stiletto to the instep.
Somehow I don't think any of that's going on my resume.
The dress fits perfectly, which means someone's been paying attention to my size.
The fabric is soft, breathable cotton that moves when I move. The dice hidden among the flowers feel like a secret, something just for me to know about. The cowboy socks are even more ridiculous on than I imagined, but they're warm and soft and make me smile every time I look down.
I towel-dry my hair, leaving it loose to dry naturally.
No point in the elaborate styles I used to wear—no one here needs me to look like a casino advertisement.
My stomach rumbles, reminding me that I haven't eaten since... when? Time moves differently here, stretched and compressed all at once.
The hallway is quiet, afternoon sun streaming through windows to paint golden rectangles on the hardwood. I can hear movement downstairs—cabinets opening, the clink of dishes, low masculine voices that don't carry enough for me to make out words. The domesticity of it is surreal. Four dangerous men just... living their lives, making food, existing in space like normal people.
I'm so lost in thought that I don't pay attention to where I'm going.
I turn the corner at the bottom of the stairs, mind elsewhere, and crash directly into what feels like a brick wall.
Except brick walls don't grunt in annoyance.
I blink, stumbling backward, and find myself face-to-chest with Rafe. He's in uniform—dark slacks, pressed shirt, everything perfectly arranged like he's about to give a presentation to investors rather than stand in his own home.
"You should watch where you're going," he says, voice flat and disapproving. "Not blindly turning corners."
The immediate criticism makes my hackles rise.
Three years of keeping my temper in check evaporate in the face of his condescension.
I pout, crossing my arms.
"This is YOUR house. You're supposed to know where everything is."
He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose like I'm giving him a migraine.
"Well, you're not a thing I can predict is about to turn the corner."
"You could have heard my footsteps," I counter, chin lifting in defiance.
"I'm not a genie in a bottle."
The nonsensical response makes me blink.
"Genies are the ones who grant wishes, not predict the future, stupid."
His eyes narrow at the insult.
