“Luck has nothing to do with it, Hugh. You’re playing poker, you learn how to read your opponents. You’re playing roulette, you weigh your odds. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to be disastrously bad at blackjack,” I put in. “Isn’t there some easier game I could play?”
“You can watch me play a few rounds first. You’ll pick it up quick,” Jay reassures me with a warm smile as he takes a bite of toast.
“I’m not so sure, but I’ll take your word for it,” I say modestly, and Dad gets up from the table, done with his breakfast. “I’m going to catch the earlier bus, Matilda, but I’ll see you at the office.” He gives me a quick peck on the cheek, and then goes to grab his coat and briefcase. I eye the battered leather, thinking I could get him a new one for Christmas.
The front door opens and shuts.
“You look nice today,” says Jay, and I can’t bring myself to look at him, so I focus on eating.
“Thanks,” I mumble, brushing my hair close to my neck.
“You do that a lot, you know.”
Now I glance up. “What?”
“Your hair. You run your hand through it a lot, moving it to hide your scar.”
“Oh.” Crap, he noticed the scar. I suppose he saw it when I’d had my hair up in a bun last night. “Yeah, it’s unconscious most of the time.” I shrug.
“I could teach you how to stop. It’s pretty easy.”
“That’s okay. It’s not like one of those awful habits, like biting your nails until they bleed or something.” Biting your nails until they bleed? Lovely imagery, Matilda.
Jay nods, still watching me eat. Right now I’m wishing I were anywhere but here. His attention is exciting, yet unnerving.
“Well, let me know if you change your mind.”
A moment of silence elapses. “You’re not going to ask how I got the scar?” I say quietly.
“That’s your business. Though if you wanna tell me, I’m all ears.”
I give him a grateful look, not saying anything more. I’m not fond of reciting stories about myself, so in this case I don’t want to tell him. Perhaps another time when I’m feeling braver. Nobody feels brave at breakfast. Dinner is the meal of bravery. Lunch at a push.
We finish eating, and Jay offers to drive me to the office.
“I’m fine getting the bus,” I say, not wanting to put him out, even though I really want to go with him.
Jay cocks a brow. “You want to ride the boring bus or experience the fucking sexy beast that is my car again?”
An unexpected laugh erupts from my throat. “I think it’s a little early for experiencing sexy beasts.”
My response surprises me. There’s something about Jay that brings out my flirtatious side, and, to be honest, I never really knew I had one until now.
Jay steps closer, his smile matching my own. “It’s never too early for that.”
I shake my head and go to grab my handbag, needing to put some distance between us. He’s definitely unnerving. So unnerving. But in the best way.
“Okay, then, you can drive me.”
“Get ready for the ride of your life, Watson.”
I have to say, his confidence is quite the turn-on.
Five
“So, eh, you’re not planning on cheating tonight, are you?” I ask on the drive.
Last night while I’d been reading up on blackjack, I’d noticed an article about counting cards and got a little nervous. I had this vision of being hauled into the back offices of the casino by some scary bouncers. There’d be a bunch of migrant workers sitting at long tables, counting money in their underwear, while some old mob boss character would threaten me with a gun for trying to cheat the system.
Okay, so maybe I’ve been watching a few too many heist movies. I’m not even sure if there are mob bosses in Ireland. Not the proper Italian ones, anyway. Chinese triad, maybe.
Jay laughs quietly, his hands loose on the steering wheel. “You really think I’m a shifty fuck, don’t you?”
“I never said that! It’s just that you do what you do…and I’m sure you must know how to count cards.”
“You been doing some detective work, Watson?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I reply, crossing my arms.
“I mean, have you been looking me up?”
I snort (rather unattractively). “Noooo.”
“Lie.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Another lie.” He chuckles. “You’ve got to remember the behavioural science crazy uncle, Matilda. I can tell when someone’s telling a fib. Mostly.”