The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(26)

Chevy shoots me a look, which I know is meant to remind me of his warnings. Like I could forget.

“Can we focus on the game? Your deal, temp.”

Winnie sighs, giving me a look, which tells me this conversation isn’t over. Turning to my dad, she taps the top of the deck. “So, I get to choose the game? Any game?”

Before Tank can answer, I jump in. “Go Fish doesn’t count. Neither does Crazy Eights.”

Someone—I’m betting Collin—kicks me under the table, and Tank gives me another disapproving look. I meant my comment to be teasing, but it came out of my mouth as just plain rude.

This happens to me sometimes, where my gruffness encroaches on rudeness territory. I remember in seventh grade, I started getting notes on my report cards talking about my tone of voice problem. When I stopped talking almost at all in class, the next report card said I had a tone of face problem.

Right now, I think I have both.

Ever so slowly, Winnie raises her brows at me. “What about Uno? Old Maid? Those okay with you?”

I lean back, crossing my arms over my chest. No need to dignify this with a verbal response. Big Mo coughs, I’m pretty sure to cover his laughter.

“What’ll it be, Winnie?” Tank asks.

Though most of us prefer the classic Texas hold ’em, it’s the choice of the person dealing. Every so often someone—usually Pat—chooses some stupid game like Love Your Neighbor which lasts forever, involves multiple rounds of betting, and passing cards around the table to other players. So far tonight, we’ve played hold ‘em and one round of five-card stud.

“Just pick something simple,” Chevy suggests.

Look—I like Chevy. But despite my own comment that came out ruder than I expect, I very much dislike how he’s speaking to Winnie. It’s patronizing and demeaning, even if she doesn’t know poker. If he weren’t her brother, we’d be having words. If he were my brother, one of us would have already dragged him outside by the collar.

Winnie practically growls. “I swear—if you say one more thing to me, we’re going to take this outside.”

Collin whistles low.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Big Mo says. “Think you could take her now, Chevy? Because my money’s on Winnie.”

“Same,” Harper calls from the couch. I cover my smile with my hand.

“Thank you for those votes of confidence, but I think my brother is sorry. Aren’t you?” Winnie definitely kicks him under the table now.

“I’m just trying to help,” Chevy says, wincing. “Stop kicking me.”

“When did I ask you for help?”

“I just thought—”

“Keep thinking on your own game.”

Chevy winces. “Jeez, sorry for trying to help.”

She kicks him again. “That’s not a real apology.”

“Ow! Fine. I thought it would be nice since you’ve never played.”

Winnie sighs, pushing her glasses on top of her head to rub her eyes, something she’s done more than once tonight. She puts the glasses back in place and glances around the table, looking at each of us in turn. When her gaze collides with mine, her blue irises sear like a cattle brand on some invisible part of me.

Her focus moves on just as quickly from me as she does with everyone else at the table, and I try to tell myself I’m not bothered I didn’t get an extra few seconds of her stare.

The look she gives Chevy is harder and makes him squirm in his seat. I respect the way she doesn’t back down. It’s actually pretty hot. Which is not good.

“Could we get back to the game?” I ask.

Winnie heaves a sigh and begins to shuffle the cards.

“I already shuffle …d.” Chevy’s words drop from his lips as his mouth hangs open.

Winnie’s fingers fly over the deck as she expertly shuffles the cards. The room is suddenly silent, and all eyes are on her hands. Jaws have dropped around the table, and Chevy’s is the lowest of all. She’s not doing a standard shuffle, but something I’ve never seen before. It’s the kind of thing reserved for Vegas dealers or movies about poker.

The snap and shh of the cards and the deft movements of her hands are hypnotizing. Why is this so sexy? It shouldn’t be, but her strong yet delicate hands are fascinating to watch. Beautiful. Once again, Winchester Boyd has managed to shock me.

She clears her throat. “Omaha, high low. Low hole wild,” she says, naming a game I’m only nominally familiar with, and begins to deal.

The cards fly over the table, each landing exactly where they should. Omaha isn’t that uncommon of a game, but her specificity tells me two things that track with her ability to shuffle: Winnie is no poker novice, and I have even more reason to stay away from her.

When the cards have all been dealt, Winnie turns to her brother, putting her arm around the back of Chevy’s chair and leaning close.

“I never said I hadn’t played poker before,” she says.

“When did you learn?”

She shrugs, turning back to her cards, point made. “College.”

Tank and Big Mo both begin to laugh, deep booming sounds that echo off the hardwoods. Harper has her face buried in her book, but I can see her shoulders shaking. Chase grins, and Collin looks at Winnie like she’s the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen. He’s not wrong. But I want to smack the look off his face anyway.