Bet on Ice (Boys of Winter #9) - S.R. Grey Page 0,1

Hell.

As I wrap my large hand around her dainty one, I snort. “Cricket, eh? What kind of name is that? Was your father or mother an entomologist?”

Cricket yanks her hand back like I just burned her.

I guess, in a way, I have.

Sniffing, she snaps, “For your information, Cricket is a good name. It’s a fun one too. It’s also the name my mother gave me twenty-four years ago. And no, neither of my parents are entomologists. Not that I owe you any kind of an explanation, jackass.”

“Ooh, burn,” Benny interjects.

I ignore him and say to Cricket, “True, you don’t owe me an explanation. But you sure as hell just gave me one.”

That angers her further.

Man, I’m a jerk.

I don’t know why I’m doing this.

“Have I told you that I hate you?” Cricket grinds out.

Crap, now I feel bad.

“Ah, come on. I’m just yanking your chain. You know, having a little fun?” With my best mea culpa smile in play—and it usually is pretty dazzling—I add, “I actually agree that Cricket is a good name. A damn good one.”

“You got that right,” she huffs.

And then, finally, she begins to relax.

See, my smile works every time.

I even catch her trying to hide a bit of a grin. A real one too, not a snotty smirk, like the ones she’s been doling out in our interactions.

I think I may be growing on her.

I may be “growing” like a fungus, but hey, I’ll take what I can get.

Out of the blue, and rather obnoxiously, Nolan, seated on my left, asks loudly, “Are you two in on this next game or not? I mean, hell, I hate to intrude on your googly eyes and flirting, but let’s get this show on the road.”

“We’re not flirting,” Cricket snaps, narrowing her eyes over at Nolan. “I don’t even like this guy.”

Now it’s my turn to be appalled.

“Wait, what? What do you mean you don’t like me?”

Snorting and turning away, she says, “I don’t. It’s pretty simple, genius. For someone who knows words like ‘entomologist,’ you sure are dumb.”

“Heyyy,” I protest.

Nolan, chuckling, snipes, “Yeah, sure you don’t like him. What a crock. Pull this leg and it plays ‘Jingle Bells.’”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Cricket says, looking confused as hell.

“Never mind,” I tell her. Cupping my hand to the side of my mouth to address only her, I quietly add, “Just ignore him. We all do.”

Benny, over on Nolan’s other side, has been laughing like crazy throughout this whole exchange.

While the dealer just waits patiently.

Yeah, you don’t rush high rollers.

She knows the deal.

Leaning across the table, Benny then says to Cricket, “It’s a holiday saying, the ‘Jingle Bells’ comment. Since yesterday was Christmas and all, Nolan, is apparently feeling extra festive.”

All three of us crack up then, and Cricket, rightfully so, mutters under her breath, “You’re all a bunch of assholes.”

In this circumstance, we are.

We deserve her ire.

“So,” Nolan begins once we’ve composed ourselves, “are we playing cards or not?”

I hold up a hand. “Yes, we’re playing. I’m in.”

“I’m in too,” Cricket states defiantly.

Whoa, she’s scowling hard over at Nolan.

Not that he notices. He’s too busy telling the dealer, “We’re ready.”

She begins passing out the cards, and Cricket directs her attention to her hand.

I do the same, and we make our bets.

Cricket goes all in.

She didn’t start with a lot, but she’s won so much that her pot is currently huge.

I try to assess if she’s bluffing or not now for this hand.

I don’t know, though. She has a good poker face.

Oooh, but wait, maybe not so much at this moment.

With the way that she’s trying to hide a smile, those cards must be fucking awesome…again.

Too bad I’m grinning like a mofo too.

That’s right, bitches—I have a king and an eight.

Not too shabby.

I go all in, as well.

Since I like to live a little dangerously—you should see me out on the ice—I say to the dealer, “Hit me.”

She slides me another card, face down.

Grimacing and holding my breath, I take a quick peek.

Holy shit, it’s a three.

With my king and an eight, I have fucking twenty-one.

Cricket can’t beat this.

I hold, as does she, while Benny and Nolan ask for so many cards that they end up going over and folding.

Not me, though.

And I know for sure I’ve won this round when the dealer flips her cards and has only nineteen.

“Who’s the fucking man?” I mutter under my breath.

Cricket, hearing that, says, “Not you. The more appropriate statement in this circumstance is ‘Who’s the fucking woman,’ as