He was a true artist.
“So Scout called it accurately,” Max declared. “You’ve got bupkis.”
That wasn’t necessarily true and everyone—most especially Scout—knew it. There was still the chance for Vaux to blow Scout’s ship out of the water with a second face card.
“Come on now, old timer,” Scout prompted. “Keeping me in suspense is just plain bad form. You’ve got squat, right?”
“Of the highest order,” Vaux chortled. And tossed out his last card. It spun midair. Scout’s breath caught.
The card hit the table.
Nine of hearts.
No royal flush.
No flush at all.
No straight.
Not even a pair.
Bupkis.
Fuck, yes!
A sharp stream of air blew through Scout’s parted lips as he stared at the card. “Son of a gun. That was damn, damn close.”
His stomach returned to its proper place. His pulse stopped echoing in his ears.
Vaux gave him a grin full of respect. “You’ve got balls, boy. I like that. You did your gramps proud. I’m not even gonna bust your chops over the loot you’re stealing from under my nose.”
“From under your nose, my ass,” Scout scoffed as he raked the chips his way. “I played that hand with Winchester style and steel resolve.”
“Precisely what I’d expect from this generation of Wins. Now, cash-in and then go collect your real prize. There’s one hell of a looker over at the jukebox who, as far as I can tell, only has eyes for you. Can’t for the life of me figure out why, though…”
Scout’s head popped up from his winnings. And his gaze instantly landed on five-foot-eight-inches of hotness the likes of which he’d never known.
A raven-haired beauty in black leather pants and boots, wearing a tight, slightly shimmery snakeskin-print sweater in sapphire and black, with a silver zipper that ended just below plumped up breasts, and a low neckline trimmed with black fur.
Her tawny irises flashed with excitement and a hint of mischief. Sending all the blood straight to his groin.
Amendment: This actually was hotness he was well-versed in.
A living, breathing fantasy.
Known as Ciara St. James.
Chapter Two
Ciara’s recent string of bad luck just might have changed.
She watched Scout Winchester stuff a wad of cash into the front pocket of faded Levi’s that fit him sinfully well. As did the grey sweater that pulled tight against his defined pectoral ledge and bulging biceps. He’d pushed the sleeves up to mid-forearm, giving her a fine view of tanned skin and sinew.
He sauntered toward her in the far corner, weaving his way around tables and accepting slaps on the back for having beaten Vaux Forsythe at his own game. It was a rare occasion when someone did.
Scout was also the recipient of many dreamy—okay, blatantly lustful—looks from the local ladies. Ciara knew that only a handful of them actually frequented Waylon’s.
JT Winchester’s best friend Cody owned a hipper bar for the younger, more modern denizens of Plymouth Rock and the surrounding area. Codiacs was always hopping on a Saturday evening. But rumor spread like wildfire in these parts and every single gal within a fifty-mile radius seemed to know when Scout blew into town. When his brothers did as well.