Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 29168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 146(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 146(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
“You all should come to the event. It’s a seated dinner event. I bet if we put you at our table, we could sell those other six seats for a nice chunk.”
“Anything to help.” Kaden puts his hand on my thigh. Before I can think better of it, I place my hand on top of his. I'm really getting into my part here. I'm acting. That's all.... At least that's what I tell myself once again.
Chapter Eight
KADEN
“He’s bluffing.” Graham sends a narrow-eyed glare toward Brooks, who doesn’t look up from his cards.
The chef is staring at his hand intensely, but that’s nothing new. It’s the way he looks at everything. Brooks’ usual tell for a good hand is glancing down at his chips after picking up his cards, but he didn’t do that this time, so Graham could be right.
The thing is that Graham might be bluffing too. He’s always talking, trying to cover up his own bad or good hand. Dylan, our fourth, is distracted. He might have a good hand, but he doesn’t even notice because his mind is elsewhere. I knock my fist against the felt-covered table.
“Earth to Dylan. You still with us?”
He jerks to attention and slides a handful of chips to the center. “I call. Did I hear you were bluffing, Brooks?”
Brooks slams his cards down and glares at us. “I was not bluffing.”
“Show us your cards then,” Graham says.
“I don’t have to show you anything but my five knuckle sandwich.” Brooks raises his fist toward Graham.
“Threatening me with your paw at the poker table is crazy,” Graham says, laying down his hand. It’s a flush, jack high.
“Fuck.” I throw my cards in. Graham wins more than he loses, which is completely unnecessary given that he’s a gazillionaire.
“You suck at cards, country boy,” Graham says as he rakes in the chips. “I’ll throw the next hand since your wallet is probably thin these days. You tell the boys about your big purchase?”
“Not yet.” I stretch my arms and then hold them out. “Congratulate me, gentlemen, I’m getting married.”
“I already heard,” Dylan says. “I was thinking about making you guys a wedding blanket, and no, you don’t get to say what kind you want. I’m making it so you’ll live with the final result.”
I hold up my hands. “Friend, I’m all for whatever you want to make. I hear your stuff is selling for thousands at Neiman these days. If my football career doesn’t work out, I can always sell the gift to feed my family.”
Dylan is not having it. “You can’t sell my gifts. I’d have to kill you then.”
“We can’t have that because poker sucks with three players,” Graham tells me.
“Why did Dylan already know?” Brooks suddenly says. “And Graham knew. But not me.”
“Graham took me to this super secret Batman—”
“More like Alfred—“ Graham interjects unhelpfully.
“—like jewelry,” I continue ignoring the other man. “I bought a diamond for Frankie.”
“I didn’t know you were marrying her.” Brooks is frowning even harder. “I would have cooked you a marriage meal.”
“I just decided we were getting married. I saw an opening”—I gesture with my hand as if I was pushing a curtain aside—“and made the most of it. Frankie wanted to close a deal, and the guy whose signature she needs on the contract is a fan of happy couples.”
“So it’s fake?” Brooks wonders.
“Nah, it’s real.”
“Frankie thinks it’s fake,” Dylan informs us. All of his intel comes from his fiancée, Nat, who is Frankie’s best friend, so his intel is solid, but it’s still irritating.
I contemplate throwing my glass of whiskey in his face but realize that would both ruin the felt on the table and also affect my chances of getting the wedding blanket. “It’s real.”
“But—“
“But nothing. She has a real diamond on her finger, and by taking it, she’s agreed to be married. Isn’t that how contracts work, Dylan?” He’s the lawyer. Why is he busting my chops over this?
”It is, and I respect your efforts.” He raises his glass. “Let me know if you need me to run interference.”
“What are you going to do? Lock Nat up in a tower?”
He gets a devilish grin on his face. “If I must. Enough about you. What’s going on, Brooks? You’re not all here tonight.”
Our chef grimaces. “Supply issues. Eggs, milk, and meat are getting scarce. I need a more innovative menu.”
Brooks spends more time thinking about food than any human. He’s a master in the kitchen, doing magical things like making cake, whipped cream, and marzipan look like toast and eggs. Eating at his restaurant is like a theme park for the mouth.
“If you got more innovative, you’d probably be making food out of shoes or footballs.”
“Leather is a natural product,” he muses.
Dylan throws a card at Brooks’ head, but since he’s a knitter and not a quarterback, it flies over Brooks’ shoulder.