MJ looked at the clock. Time to go. Her children stood side by side and she pulled them in for one more hug. She didn’t know what would happen between Chris and her, so she wanted to savor this moment while everything could still be okay. Her heart split in two. One half staying back with her kids and the other eager for the distraction of the tables, the thrill of the game.
Lisa’s SUV pulled into her driveway as Daisy foretold. Tommy carried out her luggage, and both kids waved as she and Lisa drove away. The trees were just starting to bud and a few bold daffodils brightened up her mostly barren flower beds. She memorized every detail, knowing that when she returned, things would be different. She just wasn’t sure how different.
So much had changed already from when Chris and MJ first met.
Why did she let Lisa talk her into attending a frat party? She spent enough time with drunken dudes at Bucky’s—she didn’t need it during her off hours, too. At least this one seemed to be invite-only rather than the open-call meat market of most college keggers. As she weaved through the crowd, her wrist smacked against a nameless, faceless body. She pulled it in close and rubbed the sore spot, still raw and shiny from the tattoo she’d gotten yesterday.
She pulled out of the crowd and looked at her wrist. Rising above the tender skin was a tiny tree, no bigger than a dime, scraggly and windswept. Tiny pink-purple flowers burst from the branch, barely specks, but evidence of survival. It was her reminder, her motto. She had survived and she would continue to survive because she was strong, like her tiny iron tree.
Another body stumbled into her. She turned to yell at the offending idiot and was greeted with Lisa’s already-rosy face. MJ’s ire melted. She could never be mad at Lisa.
“Oh my God—you have to come with me. They have pie in the kitchen,” Lisa shouted above the music.
Without waiting for MJ’s reply, Lisa grabbed her arm—not the sore one—and yanked MJ through the crowd into the only-slightly-less-crowded kitchen. Standing in the corner was a tall boy with sandy-brown, floppy hair breaking into a curl on the back of his neck. He wore a faded blue T-shirt, jeans with holes worn in the knees, and ratty sneakers. His clothes hung off him, as if he needed a few years to fill them out. Lisa ruthlessly elbowed her way through the handful of girls surrounding him. When she reached her target, she turned back to MJ and pulled her up alongside.
MJ found herself staring up at him. His full bottom lip held a crumb in the corner of his mouth, which turned upward into a wide grin when he saw her, before he ducked his head down, keeping the smile to himself.
“Chris, you have to give MJ a piece of your pie. Now!” Lisa said.
He looked back up at Lisa and gave her a smaller smile.
“Who am I to refuse two lovely ladies?” He turned to the counter, where two pie pans sat, one empty and one almost. While he scooped a piece out and slid it onto a plate, Lisa leaned in to drunk-whisper, “Isn’t he adorable?”
MJ could see Chris’s mouth twitch upward. He had heard.
MJ whispered back, “Need me to be your wingman?”
“Not for me, for you.” Lisa poked MJ in the chest.
Before she could respond, Chris slipped a paper plate and plastic fork into her hands.
“Saved by the pie,” he said with a wink. MJ smiled back, appreciating the twinkle in his blue eyes. Maybe Lisa was onto something. It had been a while since she’d been on a date. But as the other female party guests clamored for his attention, MJ shook off the feeling. Why would he choose her?
“Thanks.” She turned her head and was searching for a place where she could eat her pie in peace when Chris put his hands on her waist and lifted her onto the counter. In an instant, her heartbeat tripled and her face flamed. If she hadn’t held the pie, she’d have punched him. Or kissed him. Or both. Her nostrils flared as she rallied her anger, though she wasn’t sure if it was directed at him for touching her without permission or at her body’s reaction to said touch. Lisa’s eyes widened in alarm, recognizing the warning signs.
But before she could let loose her tirade on personal space and presumptuousness, Chris tilted his head and said, “Sorry. I should have asked first. It seemed faster to just lift you out of the chaos, and now you’re there, so you might as well enjoy the pie. You can yell at me later.”
He flashed another small smile.
Disarmed, MJ nodded. Lisa gave her a wink and disappeared into the crowd, probably looking for someone for herself now that she’d effectively thrown MJ at Chris. Chris turned his attention to the other girls fighting for the last few slices as MJ used her fork to cut off the first bite, having to force the meek utensil through the crispy crust. MJ was used to store-bought graham cracker crusts with instant pudding and Cool Whip. This was something else altogether. It was creamy and flaky and lemony and like nothing she’d ever tasted before. She closed her eyes to block out all the commotion around her.
“Sweet Jesus,” MJ said.
She finished the pie, opening her eyes only long enough to carve off each taste, enjoying every bite in her solitude. After the last morsel, she opened her eyes to see Chris staring at her, a small smile tugging at his lips when their gazes met.
“Marry me,” MJ said.
Chris’s eyes widened; then he threw back his head to laugh. MJ’s stomach fluttered. His smile made her heart race, but his laugh electrified her whole body. She hadn’t felt like this . . . ever.
“It might be a bit early for a proposal, but I will accept the compliment.”
“Probably wise; I’d only be marrying you for your pie.”
“I get that a lot.” He handed the last piece to a dewy-eyed, stumbling girl. Then hopped up on the counter next to her. His hand brushed against hers, warm and slightly sticky from the dessert. MJ pulled her hands into her lap, but he still sat close. Too close. She tried to scoot away without being obvious, but he just leaned in closer to talk over the party’s noise.
“Does Lisa do that to you a lot?”
“Do what?”
“Shove you at seemingly eligible single men?”
“More than she should if she values her life,” MJ said, then digested what he’d said. “Seemingly?”
She glanced at him quickly from the side of her eye, then returned to scanning the room. Now that the pie was gone, the partygoers were returning to the rooms stocked with booze. Only a few stragglers like themselves, craving a bit of quiet and space, remained.
“Let’s say I’m in pursuit.”
MJ’s nerves relaxed. He wasn’t interested in her.
“Ah, who’s the lucky lady? Is she here?”
“Nah. She’s in the marching band, so she’s at a game this weekend. She works at a bar sometimes. I’m trying to figure out her schedule.”
MJ nodded, envisioning a cute, bubbly band member she’d never met but still didn’t like. She hated making small talk with people she didn’t know. She scrounged the archives for a good question to change the topic.
“Where did you learn to make such a bliscious pie?” MJ asked.
“Bliscious?” Chris asked, raising his eyebrows.
“It’s bliss plus delicious. I’m being efficient but you’re slowing me down by needing an explanation.”
“You can’t just invent words.”
“I refuse to be linguistically constrained by dictionary writers.”
Chris laughed again and MJ couldn’t help but share a smile. He had a great laugh that shook his entire body. It wasn’t self-conscious or contained. She wanted to make him laugh more.
“I like that. I’m going to join your quest to throw off the yoke of definitional tyranny,” Chris said.
“We can start a movement.”
“The Frefinitions!”
MJ scrunched her face in confusion.
“Free plus definitions,” Chris explained.
“Not bad,” MJ said. “It’s a start.”
Lisa helped her once to find her true love. Maybe she can do so again, MJ thought as they left he
r cozy neighborhood.
Chapter Fourteen
Why don’t we live like this all the time?” Lisa asked, lying like a starfish on their giant king-size bed. She moved her arms as if she were making snow angels in the fluffy comforter. They had arrived late the previous evening and already MJ felt ridiculously pampered. A limo had picked them up at the airport, and they were led straight to their room rather than having to deal with check-in. Chilled champagne and fresh strawberries greeted them in their spacious suite. They’d kicked off their heels and enjoyed the gift, leaving only the empty bottle and a plate of strawberry stems, giggling well into the night.
After sleeping late and enjoying a delicious breakfast of warm croissants and hand-poured coffee, the two treated themselves to mani-pedis. MJ loved her family, but this was the first time in twenty years when her only responsibility was to herself. No driving the kids to school or wrangling the dirty laundry into the laundry room. Nor guilt for not doing those things. The freedom was addictive.
MJ sat on a squishy armchair, admiring her newly polished fingers and toes, her relaxed feeling slipping away as the time to leave approached and her fingertips began to itch for the feel of cool clay chips.
“If we lived like this all the time, what would we do to pamper ourselves?”
“Duh, get more massages.” Lisa sat up on the bed to see MJ’s face. “Are you nervous?”
“Not too bad. When I start to feel anxious, I remind myself that none of this really matters. Who cares if they decide I’m a crap player? I’ll never see these people again.” MJ checked the time on her phone, then pulled on her boots. “I better go—time for my lesson with Doyle Kane!”
“Are you going dressed like that?”
MJ looked down at her dark blue jeans, black button-down shirt, and black boots.
“I always dress like this when I play.”
“We’re going shopping later. You need to sass it up a bit, Mrs. Poker Maven.”
MJ rolled her eyes, but now she was kind of looking forward to it. Maybe spicing up her wardrobe would provide another coat of armor, another angle she could use to dominate the table. Besides, unlike at home, no one here would know the difference.
“Okay. I’ll text you when I’m done.”
She left Lisa to enjoy an afternoon at the hotel spa while she went to the poker lesson. MJ scanned the crowded poker room: mostly men of varying ages, but she could see the occasional female head. Some older and wrinkled, others young and big eyed. The consistent clink of chips mingled with the rumble of fresh air pumping into the room. Muted earth tones covered the walls, floors, and chairs, broken up with vibrant greens. The instructions had said to meet at The Fourth Leaf, but she couldn’t find any signs pointing the way. The map in their room had indicated it was in the poker room, but she only saw tables.
A young man wearing a dark three-piece suit walked up to her.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” MJ forced a smile. Ma’amed again. This needed to stop happening. Not a great start to a day where confidence would be key. Getting lost didn’t help.
“I’m looking for The Fourth Leaf. I have a lesson there.”
The man’s face smiled.
“You must be MJ. TFL is back there. We’re still waiting for Mr. Kane.”
He pointed to a door in the far corner. Frosted windows were broken by slivers of clear glass, giving glimpses into the private room. At the mention of Doyle Kane, MJ’s heart added a few extra beats. How would she play poker while trying to ignore his face? She’d done a fair bit of Googling him. There were a lot of pictures of him with attractive women on his arms. Were she much younger—and not married, of course—she wouldn’t mind being his arm candy for a night or two. But enough nonsense. She pulled back her shoulders and licked her lips. Time to pretend she was someone else.
“Would you like me to show you to your seat?”
“No, darling, I’ve got it from here.” Darling? Where had that come from? Apparently, Vegas MJ addressed people as “darling.”
MJ took off regally, using the quickest path between the tables, but pausing before the door to summon her courage. To the left, a few people were peeking in the windows, trying to catch a glimpse of who might be playing in the elite room. They wandered off as she gave herself a once-over, then undid an extra button on her shirt to show just a glimpse of the black lace underneath. If she was going to play a part, might as well go all in. She gave the girls a quick extra boost, took a deep breath, and pulled open the door.
The cozy room held two poker tables and a scattering of leather couches and chairs, with a bar in the far corner. Pictures of poker legends hung on the walls. The dim lighting added to the warmth. MJ wanted to kick off her heels and curl up with a book. The only other females in the room were the dealer and an attendant who was already making her way toward MJ. While the room allowed for twenty players, only eight spots were taken—the other regional winners, she supposed.
“You must be MJ. Can I get you anything to drink?” The attendant handed her a name tag to wear like the rest of the men already assembled. She slapped the sticker into place right next to her diving neckline.
MJ looked at the other players. All men, they were dressed similarly to her, comfortable and casual. Most had on hats and sunglasses—a few wore hoodies. One older gentleman immediately reminded her of James back in Milwaukee. He had a large, hooked nose and a bemused smile, just happy to be there. MJ would have to watch him. The rest already had their game faces on.
“I’d love a coffee, extra, extra cream, please.”
There were two empty seats, one across from the dealer and one in the first spot to the left of the dealer. Her ankle wobbled a bit while her heartbeat thundered in her ears as MJ took a few steps toward the open chair opposite the dealer. The older gentleman sat to her left. He smelled like good cigars and Big Red gum—and that’s what she’d call him: Big Red. To her right was a young man already wearing his sunglasses, shrouded in a gray hoodie with “Poker God” emblazoned on the back. She liked it when they made assigning nicknames easy.
“Gentlemen.” MJ nodded to the table and smiled. A few nodded in return as the dealer gave her a big smile, clearly happy to see another woman in the room.
“First time in Vegas?” Big Red asked. MJ looked at him under her lashes. He wore a tailored dark blue button-down of thick cotton and dark pants. His hair looked well groomed; his skin looked soft and tan. He must moisturize. Gold glinted under his cuff. He was definitely different from the young bucks comprising the rest of the table.
“I’m sorry.” She smiled. “I was distracted by your delicious smell. My grandfathers used to smoke cigars.”
“Nice.” He held out his hand. “I’m Jerry.”
“MJ.” She shook his hand. “And this is my first time in Vegas to play poker. You seem like you’ve been here before.”
“I’ve seen my fair share of VIP poker rooms. This one’s a bit higher stakes than I’m used to, but it’s nicer, too. Fifty grand to get a seat.”
MJ let out a low whistle.
“Ah, now we begin.” Jerry pointed his chin toward the door as Doyle walked in with two tall blondes flanking him. Both wore skirts short enough that MJ could nearly tell their waxing preferences. He wore jeans, a dark sport coat, and a gray T-shirt with Kenny Rogers’s face on it, circa 1980. He searched the room for his spot and a smile cracked through his scruff. He sent his blondes off to entertain themselves on the couches and walked to stand behind Poker God to MJ’s right.
“I believe you’re in my spot, lad. And there’ll be no need for the disguises today,” Doyle said, his Irish lilt adding charm to his command. Poker God rose and slouched to the seat next to the dealer while the rest of the table tucked their sunglasses into shirt pockets. “And don’t look so glum. Samantha is a lovely woman.” He gave the dealer a wink, and she blushed back. The room stayed silent, not knowing what would happen next. Would they all be expected to shuffle their places? Were they committing some u
nknown faux pas? Many fiddled with the chips already waiting on the table, nervous habits MJ hoped to use to her advantage later.
“Hello, lads and lovely lass. The lesson can begin.” Doyle folded himself into the chair, giving a friendly nod to Jerry. He leaned into MJ’s space and grinned at her pointedly. He set a pale green oval on the table in front of him. MJ wondered what that was for. “Isn’t this cozy?”
Based on his choice of companions, she had expected him to smell like a cheap brothel doused in tobacco spit. But instead, hints of tea and fresh-cut wood wafted over her. She dug into the confidence of her sexier self and leaned back toward him.
“Really?”
“Really, what?” he asked.
MJ looked at the blondes giggling on the couch.
“Could you be more cliché? Models?”
“Of course.” He smirked.
“How do you expect people to respect you when you act like a frat boy?”
Doyle blinked at her as the rest of the table stared at her audacity. Jerry chuckled next to her. Then a grin exposed Doyle’s white teeth.
“Methinks she doth protest too much.”
“Darling, I never protest. Not when it’s something I want.”
Doyle grinned bigger.
“Then I’ll just have to find something you want.” His eyes shone through his thick lashes and he winked.
MJ’s heart raced and the pulse in her neck jumped. She turned her attention to the empty green felt. The host settled a small table between her and Doyle and set down her coffee.
“Your coffee with extra, extra cream.” She looked at Doyle. “Mr. Kane, can I get you anything?”
“Just water, please.” The young woman went to retrieve the drink.
Doyle gave MJ another wink, popped a mint in his mouth, then turned to include the entire table.
“Lesson one: Fake it. Fake it like you’ve been there. Fake it like you know more than your opponents. Fake it like sweat isn’t dripping down your back and the pulse in your neck isn’t visible from space. Fake it like things are happening exactly as you planned. Fake it like the Pope at a stripper convention.”
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