Luck, Love & Lemon Pie

by Amy E. Reichert

  MJ had no intention of being up this early after her late night at the tables, but back home it would be nine o’clock, and Lisa had been bumping around their room for a few hours—even getting in a little shopping on her way to meet MJ for breakfast. MJ was saving a table so they could decide how to spend their day.

  “Here you go, love.”

  Startled, MJ looked up as Doyle set a coffee cup and croissant in front of her. She was surprised to see him in the Starbucks of all places.

  “How did you know I was here?”

  He pointed to the cameras in the corner. “I know people.”

  “Are you stalking me?”

  “Is it stalking if I only did it once so I could surprise you?”

  “Yes, it is. And it’s a little creepy.”

  “Then yes, I was stalking.” He sat down. “I didn’t mean it to be creepy. Sorry.” His voice slowed down, like it had when he was apologizing for the pineapple, so she could tell he meant it.

  “No worries.” MJ smiled, then waved as Lisa walked in, gesturing at the table, but Lisa pointed that she was getting a drink first. MJ popped the top off her coffee and stood to go add the requisite flood of cream she required, but stopped in her tracks. It had already been added. Doyle had already mixed it in. She took a sip. Perfect. She sat back down, dumbfounded at the simple gesture and how much it meant. It reminded her of Chris’s habit of always having her old-fashioned ready and waiting when they met for a fish fry. He always did it even though she rarely acknowledged it. That needed to change. She couldn’t take those kindnesses for granted. And she’d start with Doyle.

  “Thank you. It’s exactly right.”

  “My pleasure,” Doyle said with a shrug, but a small smile belied his nonchalance.

  Lisa joined them with her cup of tea. On a murky but highly rigid principle, she never ordered coffee at a Starbucks. She would have had her caffeine jolt from the hotel room’s coffee machine already. She nodded to Doyle as she blew across the top of her cup.

  “Well, isn’t this lovely?” Doyle said. “We three, sitting and enjoying a nice cup of coffee and sunshine.” He looked around at the handful of customers. From where they sat, they could hear them ordering. “Feck, this is dull.”

  “What do you propose?” MJ asked. “A prop bet?”

  Lisa looked confused. “Huh?”

  MJ explained while Doyle leaned back in his chair, seeing how long he could balance on two legs. Lisa grinned once she understood.

  “Ten bucks that guy in the baseball hat and cargo shorts will order a frilly drink.”

  Doyle sat up, intrigued.

  “You need to be more specific.”

  “Fine, he’ll order a vanilla Frappuccino.”

  Doyle pulled out his money clip and peeled a ten off. Lisa added her ten on top.

  “I’m in.” He turned to MJ. “You want some of this action?”

  She paused with a chunk of croissant halfway to her mouth. “I think I’ll finish enjoying breakfast.”

  Over the next twenty minutes, Lisa earned a hundred dollars off Doyle as she rattled off ridiculous drink orders. Doyle started demanding she specify size, but even then she still got two right for every one she missed. MJ almost confessed that Lisa made a living guessing people’s orders, but Doyle didn’t seem to mind losing—it was the action he craved. MJ finished her breakfast and savored their friendly banter . . . well, at least it had been friendly.

  “Bull pucky. I’m not going to believe it until I see it,” Lisa said.

  “I don’t have one in my pocket.”

  “What does he not have in his pocket?” MJ asked.

  “A mythical million-dollar chip he claims the casino has and uses.”

  “A single chip worth one million dollars?” MJ asked.

  “Bonn Oir had a few chips made for the whales to use. Only a few people ever see them, and certainly not us lowly poker players. It wouldn’t be practical. But there are a few players who like the cache of gambling with a single chip worth such a lofty sum.”

  “And he’s full of green shit,” Lisa said.

  “It’s the American Express black card of poker chips. You are chosen to get one. Until then, no one knows if it’s real or not,” Doyle said.

  “He just wants to whip out his black card to impress you,” Lisa said.

  “I do not just whip anything out. I have some finesse, right.”

  MJ watched them volley back and forth, rolling an idea around her head. Lisa got up to get some more hot water. She was still a little buzzed from last night’s intro to prop bets, and an idea started to grow. She wanted another heady hit.

  “Prop bet,” she whispered to Doyle. “One thousand dollars. You procure the chip within twenty-four hours.”

  “I don’t want your money.” He shook his head and squinted his shining blue eyes. “How about this? If I can’t get it, I’ll give you twenty grand. But if I do, you spend the night with me.”

  MJ raised an eyebrow.

  “Do you not learn? We’ve been over this. Absolutely not. Try again.”

  Doyle ran his tongue along his teeth, his eyes skating over her skin.

  “Fair enough. I win, I get to roll the chip over you.” He picked up a coin between his fingers and demonstrated rolling it up his arm.

  MJ’s stomach fluttered. Being around Doyle was exciting; she never quite knew what he would do next. The unpredictability, so opposite from every other aspect of her life at home, needled her with prickles of anticipation. And everyone knows anticipation is the best part.

  “Only already exposed skin, and you can’t touch me with anything but the chip.” That should limit the potential danger. Even at the cabana, she was well covered. But Doyle’s grin had her second-guessing the bet before they even shook on it.

  “Done.” He put out his hand to shake; she took it. That kind of money would go a long way toward Kate’s first year of college, but MJ had to admit the reckless part of her didn’t mind losing, just to see what Doyle had in mind.

  Lisa counted her tens onto the prematurely aged stone wall, her grin getting bigger with each crisp bill.

  “I’m starting to understand the allure of gambling. I think Mama needs a new pair of shoes,” Lisa said.

  MJ tilted her head back to admire the ceiling painted to look like a sunny Italian sky. A gondolier sang while poling guests around the indoor man-made canals, and garlic wafted from the nearby restaurant, making MJ’s stomach growl. They had dodged the salespeople offering free meals and show tickets in exchange for sitting through their condominium hard sell, and had made it to the safety of the pigeon-free Venetian sidewalks and squares.

  “It’s usually not that easy. You did have him at a bit of a disadvantage.”

  “He could have asked what I did for a living. It’s on him for not doing his research.” She laid the bills in neat rows, then gathered them up to do it again.

  MJ pulled her phone out of her purse and checked her texts.

  Tommy: I miss you.

  Tommy: How do you do laundry?

  Tommy: Dad’s locked in his office.

  Tommy: Never mind. Dad just came out. I’ll ask him.

  Kate:Why is Tommy doing laundry? He put my bras in the dryer!!!!!!

  Tommy:I didn’t know they weren’t supposed to go in there.

  Kate:Who is that hottie on your FB page? Go Mom!

  MJ: Tommy, I’ll take care of it when I get home. You shouldn’t have to wash your sister’s bras.

  MJ: Kate, your bras will be fine. At least he’s trying to help. What hottie?

  MJ: Chris, what is going on there? Tommy is doing laundry?

  MJ: I won $500 in a scrambled egg cook-off! I’ll tell you about it when I get home. Tourney tonight—wish me luck?

  MJ flipped to her Facebook page, and there at the top of her profile was the picture Doyle had taken of them. He had posted it and tagged her, with the comment “My new favorite.”

  “Did you know about this?” MJ held up the p
hone for Lisa to see. She looked up from her money stacking.

  “Oh yeah—Ariana and I have been defending your honor in the comments. Don’t read them.” She gave MJ a stern look.

  MJ flushed and untagged the picture.

  Lisa and MJ made themselves at home in Doyle’s cabana even though their host was absent, happy to take him up on his offer that they make use of it. He had surprised MJ at the coffee shop, letting down his guard for a moment, showing her a more genuine side. Maybe there was more to him than she thought.

  Lisa had picked up where she left off yesterday before the pineapple incident, spread out on a lounge chair with her floppy hat covering her face. MJ pulled off her cover-up to reveal her new swimsuit, another acquisition from her shopping trip the previous day. It was a retro-cut black bikini, high-waisted to a few inches below her bust, then a full-coverage top that showed just enough cleavage—sexy, not slutty. MJ settled onto a chair, letting the vitamin D work its magic. The sun soaked into her early-spring, pale, Wisconsin bones, warming her from within. After a matter of minutes, she was drenched in sweat. The black suit drew the sun like a laser beam.

  “It’s fot out here,” MJ said.

  “What are you talking about?” Lisa said from under her hat. “No one but Chris understands the ridiculous words you make up.”

  “Fot—fucking hot.”

  “Language, my dear. We’re old—we don’t use the f-word.”

  MJ smiled at her friend, grateful she had come on this adventure.

  “I’m going in the pool—I don’t care how unhip that makes me.”

  Grabbing a huge towel and setting it at the pool steps, she descended into the delicious water. The sizzling heat dissolved as she walked deeper into the blue, cooling her body instantly. She settled onto the steps and scooped water onto her shoulders, chest, and arms.

  “Can I help with that?”

  MJ jumped and opened her eyes, squinting into the bright sunlight. Doyle stood above her on the pool deck, grinning down at her. He wore a white button-down Cuban shirt over green-and-white swim trunks. She couldn’t see his eyes behind his mirrored aviators, but his saucy grin said it all. Something gold glinted in his hand—a poker chip dancing across his knuckles.

  “Bringing me gold already? I prefer diamonds.”

  He picked up her towel and held it out to her.

  “You’ll be wanting to get out, right. I have something to show you.”

  She stood, the blissful water sloughing off her. The hot air sucked up the remaining drops, making the towel superfluous, but she wrapped it around herself anyway, tucking it securely under her arm. She followed Doyle into the shaded cabana, where a ceiling fan helped to keep the area cooler, and Doyle turned to her.

  “I thought you might like to know what a million dollars feels like.”

  He held out his palm, where the gold chip rested with a black “$1,000,000” written around the edge, the shiny Bonn Oir insignia in the center. The gold wasn’t just painted on, it was solid—molded into chip form. He’d actually gotten it.

  MJ gaped. Crap, she’d have to fund Kate’s college tuition the old-fashioned way.

  “I thought it was a myth. Where did you get it?” She reached out to touch it. Doyle pulled his hand back.

  “No, no, no. I promised I wouldn’t let it out of my hands.”

  “Then how am I supposed to know it’s real? It could be a fake.” MJ raised her eyebrow.

  Doyle’s mouth twitched upward as he took a step closer to MJ, putting her within arm’s reach of him. She could see the chips of silver in his blue eyes and the luscious pout of his bottom lip. God, so tempting. Not even so much the forbidden thrill as it was the attention. Doyle’s flirtation in the last two days was more attention than she’d gotten from Chris in the last five years. Sometimes, it was just nice to be asked to dance, even if you had no intention of saying yes—and Doyle was definitely asking.

  “You’ll know.” His voice whispered the words. He pulled on one edge of her towel, sending it to the floor. Curious, MJ held perfectly still.

  Doyle’s voice sounded gravelly as he studied her soft, visible curves. “I won’t touch you, but you have lost a bet.” He looked into her eyes to confirm his promise. MJ glanced down at the chip tucked into the palm of his hand. With a jerky movement, he popped the chip out of his palm, almost as if it sprang up on its own, then caught it back in the same hand. If her gut was right, and he was planning to push her limits, Doyle had just given her his tell. He always did tricks with the chips, and that was one of the most difficult—only a few players could do it and no one would think of it as a tell because they would be so impressed at the feat. Now was the time to test her theory.

  “You’re lying.” Would he know she guessed?

  “Fine. My skin will not touch your skin.” If she was right that he had been bluffing, then he would do something different with the chip. He adjusted his hold on the chip and it danced familiarly across his knuckles, flashing as the lamplight glinted off the metallic surface.

  MJ nodded. He was telling the truth now. He stepped closer so his feet touched the fallen towel that pooled at her feet. The soft breeze from the ceiling fan chilled her wet bathing suit, causing her to shiver. Standing before this almost stranger, in her bikini, MJ should have been embarrassed or reluctant. Instead, she savored the attention.

  Doyle held the gold chip between his thumb and index finger, light enough that it could spin as if on an axis.

  “Close your eyes.”

  MJ opened her mouth to protest.

  “Trust me,” he said.

  She closed her eyes slowly as he set the cool, gold edge on the back of her right hand and rolled it up her bare arm. With her eyes closed, the sensation intensified. Exposed, yet in the dark, her imagination slipped away like the towel at her feet. She imagined Chris doing something this seductive, this playful. Her heart thumped painfully at the thought, wishing her husband were here now.

  The chip rounded her shoulder. Doyle angled it so he could slowly graze her collarbone. MJ could feel the air move as he molded his body around her, careful not to touch her except through the chip. He reached the other shoulder and the path sent flares through her, scattering her thoughts, making her breathe fast as she envisioned her handsome husband. As he reached the tip of her left hand, she took a deep breath.

  “Well, that was illuminating,” she said.

  She opened her eyes. Doyle’s face was inches from her own, so close she could taste his breath—mint and good whiskey. His look no longer teased but burned. MJ should stop this—she opened her mouth to speak.

  “Keep your eyes closed, please,” he said.

  MJ obeyed. Doyle’s clothes rustled as he moved. His movements swirled the air, making her skin hypersensitive, waiting for any accidental contact. He set the chip on her forehead, slowly rolling it down her nose. She tilted her head back, anticipating the chip’s kiss across her lips. Doyle slid the chip over her chin onto her exposed neck so she could feel its weight when she swallowed. He rolled it into her generous décolletage. A hitched breath from Doyle sent tension throbbing through her.

  But it wasn’t Doyle’s face in her mind; it was Chris’s. She pictured his lopsided grin and pink lips, his brown hair not quite long enough to curl around his ears. Her heart picked up the pace as the chip slowed, then crested her bikini top to continue on to the few inches of bare skin below. MJ inhaled, flattening her stomach as much as possible. Doyle chuckled, the sound lower than before, almost like Chris’s laugh, the chip’s path leaving scorch marks on her. She could tell he had shifted down to continue his game, but when she felt his hot breath flutter across her thighs, her composure broke. She squeaked and stepped backward, her feet tangled in the towel still on the floor.

  As she fell, she watched Doyle’s face transform from teasing to concerned to smiling. By the time her well-padded backside made contact with the cabana’s teak floor, he was already laughing. Gone was the flirtation. Gone were the
flashes of Chris. Back were her inhibitions—and how. MJ blushed and grabbed the towel to cover herself up, holding it under her chin like a bedsheet. The heat flooding her body was fueled with horror at what she just let happen.

  “Oh, God.” MJ pulled the towel over her face.

  “It wasn’t that bad,” Doyle said. MJ could hear the chuckle in his voice.

  “You didn’t know what was going on in my head.”

  “I’d like to.”

  MJ flopped onto one of the nearby wicker chairs, covering herself in the towel. She looked at Doyle. He obviously wasn’t going anywhere until she elaborated. She pointed to the chair next to her and waited for him to sit.

  “I was imagining my husband.”

  Doyle’s mouth gaped, but he recovered quickly. “Well, that’s not where I thought this would go, but I’m okay with it if you are.”

  MJ smiled and leaned over so she could rub her backside. There would be a bruise there in the morning.

  “I’m not discussing that with you,” she said.

  Doyle nodded toward her.

  “Are you okay?” Doyle slid the gold chip into his pocket. “Can I get you some ice? You hit the ground quite hard, right.”

  MJ waved him off.

  “Thank you for showing me the chip. It feels a bit like I’ve joined a secret club.”

  Doyle settled back into his chair, crossing one leg over the other. MJ looked at him—really looked at him. There was no denying he was heart-stoppingly handsome and he could charm a boat from under a pirate if he put his mind to it. His ruffled short, dark hair implied someone else’s fingers had recently roamed freely in it. A champion flirter, renowned ladies’ man, and confirmed bachelor all rolled into one. Yet MJ got the feeling his intentions were more innocent than all of his actions implied.