Page 125 of Roulette Rodeo
I raise my hand like an eager student.
"Me, sir! Now, where's your nearest and best lunch spot? Because a girl's hungry after gambling and winning a whole buck-load that can feed me and maybe four out of the five beasts here."
I pause, looking directly at Luca.
"Casual attire only."
He huffs, rolling his eyes, but I catch him fighting back what might be a genuine smile.
"I'm just about to leave anyway. Got money to make."
"Or lose," I counter cheerfully.
His jaw clenches, and he turns away with dramatic flair. But he can't resist looking back at Rafe one more time.
"You'd better tame this wild omega of yours," he says, and there's something darker in his tone now. "Would ruin Sophia's legacy if you stooped so... low."
The name lands like a bomb.
Rafe goes rigid, his face completely shuttering. Shiloh and the others let out low, warning growls that make the hair on my arms stand up. Even the older man's expression tightens.
But I just shrug. I've been called worse by better men than him.
At least he's being obvious about his insults instead of hiding them behind false compliments.
"Duke!" the older man says, clearly trying to defuse the tension. "Duke Miller, owner of Duke's Tavern and Grill. Best sandwiches in three counties, if I do say so myself."
"Not the Duke I was expecting," I mutter, thinking of Shiloh's dog, which makes Talon snort.
"Might as well come down to my restaurant," Duke continues, his eyes twinkling. "Unless the sweet, fierce omega is interested in sweets first?"
"Lead the way to the hefty sandwiches!" I declare, hooking my arm through his offered elbow. "We'll have to figure out what just happened over some late lunch."
Maybe having a full stomach is going to help figure out the riddle revolving around Lucky Ace’s ex-pack member…
SANDWICHES AND SASS
~RED~
The sandwich is a religious experience.
I'm not being dramatic—okay maybe I’m envisioning angels singing like what you think happens in mass on a “holy” sunday —this thing is literally making me reconsider everything I thought I knew about food while.
Three years of casino buffet leftovers and stolen crackers did not prepare me for the masterpiece currently occupying all of my attention.
It's called "The Lumberjack," according to the menu, and it's the size of my forearm. Crusty sourdough bread that cracks when you bite it, revealing a soft, chewy interior that's been grilled to golden perfection. Layer upon layer of meat—roast beef so tender it falls apart on my tongue, thick-cut bacon that's crispy but not burnt, turkey that's obviously real and not that pressed deli nonsense. There's aged cheddar that's sharp enough to make my jaw ache in the best way, Swiss that melts into creamy rivers between the meat layers.
But it's the sauce that's really doing things to me.
Some kind of horseradish aioli mixed with what might be honey mustard but could also be liquid gold for all I care. It'stangy and sweet and has just enough kick to make my sinuses tingle without overwhelming the other flavors.
Fresh vegetables provide the perfect crunch—crispy lettuce that actually tastes like something, tomatoes so ripe they're practically bursting, red onions that have been pickled just enough to take the edge off. There's even avocado, creamy and rich, adding this luxurious texture that makes every bite feel indulgent.
I'm aware, vaguely, that conversation is happening around me.
Male voices rising and falling in what sounds like it might be important discussion. But honestly? They could be planning world domination or discussing the weather and I wouldn't notice. This sandwich has my complete, undivided attention.
My technique is precise. Both hands gripping the sandwich firmly to prevent structural collapse, elbows planted on the table for stability. I rotate it slightly with each bite to ensure even consumption and prevent any filling from escaping. When a piece of bacon tries to make a break for it, I catch it with my pinky and guide it back into place without breaking rhythm.
