Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
“Excuse me, were you two just over playing blackjack?” a man asks behind us as we wait in line.
I glance over my shoulder and recognize a handsome dark-haired stranger. He and his friend were the ones taking all our money a few minutes ago.
“Playing is a strong word,” Lindsey teases.
He laughs and reaches his hand out to her. “I’m Logan. This is my friend, Roman.”
We all shake hands, and I quickly recognize the gift for what it is. These men aren’t anything like the pair we came across in the bar the other week. They’re gorgeous, both of them, dressed up in tuxedos with their hair smoothed back in sharp contrast to their well-honed features. They’re young, close to our age, and confident enough to introduce themselves to us and get the conversation rolling while we all wait in line. Logan and Roman both work together in banking. Their boss couldn’t make it tonight, so they’re here in his stead to present their bank’s hefty contribution to the hospital.
“Will it be in massive check form?” Lindsey asks, hands together in prayer. “Please say it will be.”
Logan laughs. “Actually, I think they just announce it over the mic at the end of the night. So-and-So Bank has donated some obscene amount, so please applaud and look impressed.”
“I’ll be sure to play along,” I say with a smile. “How’s this?”
I attempt to make a very shocked face, pressing one hand to my chest, and the two men grin.
Roman, the one closer to me, leans in. “Beautiful.”
My cheeks flood with color, and I’m grateful that it’s our turn to order drinks. I go for a margarita on the rocks with extra lime and Lindsey sticks with champagne. After we’ve ordered, we hover near the bar, and the guys take the opportunity to stick with us.
“Should we head over and try our hand at baccarat?” Logan asks.
Lindsey scrunches her nose. “I have no idea how to play.”
“Neither do I,” I add.
The men smile and exchange a glance. “No worries,” Logan says. “We’ll teach you.”
It surprises me when Roman drops his hand to my lower back to usher me through the crowd. I don’t necessarily want it there, but I don’t want to jerk away and cause a scene either, so I let him step close and guide me then immediately regret my choice when I glance down the center aisle of the hall and spot Connor with a group of attendings from the hospital.
Though there are four of them in total, Connor is the one facing me, separated only by a few yards of marbled floor. He’s breathtaking in his black tuxedo. Tall and formidable. His jacket is fitted to his broad shoulders and unbuttoned over his crisp white shirt. A handkerchief is folded into a rectangle and tucked into his breast pocket. A sliver of his expensive watch peeks out from the bottom of his left cuff as he lifts a glass of amber-colored liquor to his mouth and takes a sip.
People cut in and out of the aisle between us, but he still spots me right away, almost as if he’s been scanning the crowd, hunting me down. Then, just as quickly, he spots Roman beside me. I don’t think I’m imagining the tick of his jaw when he catches sight of what looks to be a more intimate scene than it really is. Lindsey turns over her shoulder to catch my gaze, her eyes betraying her worry.
I think back to when Dr. Navarro had her hand on Connor’s knee—the sheer rage that filled me in that moment—and I step toward Roman, sending a smile up at him as he leads us off the center aisle to one of the baccarat tables. Instead of droning on with endless instructions, the guys suggest we watch them play a few games to see if we can pick it up that way.
The first game goes slow, or does it go fast? Is it already over? I’m not paying very close attention, too busy checking in on Connor’s group, trying to decide if I recognize the woman who just strolled up to join them, the one plastering herself to Connor’s side.
Roman positions me at the table in front of him so I can have a better view of the game. His hand rests on my hip and my butt is touching his thigh and Connor sees us like this, sees us and breaks off from his group, immediately strolling over.
My spine stiffens as I wait for the inevitable. I watch feverishly as he edges to the side of the table, where guests can gather and watch the gambling take place without participating themselves. He stands there for a few minutes, watching the game, ignoring my attempts to meet his gaze.
I stare at the bowtie that sits below his clean-shaven, square jaw. His thick brown hair with its fresh trim, parted on the side and styled back from his face. So impeccably put together it’s nearly obscene. He sips his drink and then peers up, finally catching me watching him.