I draw out my wallet and hand the woman a crisp twenty dollar bill. “For your trouble.”
8
Laurel
The casino floor is packed full of felt-covered tables and smiling people clamoring to give Rafe their money. I guess they don’t think of it that way, but standing up here on the raised platform, having a basic understanding of the statistical reality of gambling, I watch the pretty waitresses handing out champagne, and I know she’s inviting all these people to have a good time so they will bet—and lose—more money. Only in Vegas can you laugh and smile while you’re being taken for all you’ve got.
“Is it fun?” I ask mildly, looking over at the handsome devil beside me.
His hand slides around my waist and he tugs me close. “Is what fun? Gambling? Sure, to some degree.”
My smile widens. “No, robbing people and having them thank you for it.”
Flashing me a knowing grin, he says, “What are you talking about? This is all on the up-and-up. Aside from the restaurant, this is as straight as my business gets.”
“Mm hmm,” I murmur, unconvinced.
“These people are looking to have fun. I give them a place to do it,” he continues.
“Bunch of suckers,” I reply.
“Stand here five more minutes and I’ll make enough to buy you a few more books. Still think they’re suckers?”
I rock my head from side to side, considering. “Well, yes. But at least I’m doing a better job spending their money than they are.”
“That’s the spirit,” he tells me.
“How are the schools around here?”
Rafe frowns, like he must have misheard me. “What?”
“I was thinking, as much as I love my surprise, and as happy as beautiful books make me, what if next time we put that $13,000 to better use? I’d like to talk to the teachers in our school district, particularly the STEM teachers, and see what kind of projects they need funding for. Could I make that my present wishlist instead?”
Still a little blankly, he asks, “You want me to give money to teachers?”
“I’m not asking you to hand over cash directly. I’d like to get a feel for what kinds of materials they need for their classrooms, then we could buy things for them. Investing in our schools is investing in our little one’s future,” I tell him, placing a hand on my stomach. “I used to do bake sales and help out with raffles when I was in junior high and high school because we could never afford the equipment to do the really cool stuff. If you’re going to throw money around anyway, why not use it to invest in better equipment so that when the time comes and our baby goes there, they’ll be better equipped to work out this little Price-Morelli brain? Plus, it will benefit plenty of other kids, too. Fueling little brains is always a good idea.”
Rafe shakes his head, surveying the floor. “Life with you is gonna be fun, isn’t it?”
Smiling faintly, I poke him in the side. “Once more, with feeling.”
After Rafe shows me around his casino, he takes me out to a quiet dinner, just the two of us. The red, leather booth we sit in is another rounded one, so even though I think it’s gross when couples sit on the same side, there are no sides, and I end up right next to Rafe instead of across from him.
I get the impression he is probably one of those gross couples even if there is the option of not sitting close, because the man cannot stop touching. If he’s not brushing my hand or my thigh or my hip, he’s touching my arm or my shoulder or my face. I remember over Easter weekend I loved that, so I don’t know why it’s bothering me now.
Well, I guess I do. Every time he touches me, it makes me think of the inescapable inevitability of going home with him tonight. Since “I’m not ready” worked so poorly last night when we were in Chicago, I have to assume it’s going to be even less effective now that I’m on his turf. Every touch of his hand feels like pressure instead of affection, even if he doesn’t mean it that way.
And I really don’t think he means it that way. The problem is with me, not him. He’s behaving normally for someone trying to jumpstart a new relationship, but I’m still trying to keep a safe distance.
After a delicious dinner and a “shared” tiramisu for dessert (I ate most of it, while he took three bites), we’re off to some club Rafe apparently favors. I’m not much of a club person. Personally, I would prefer to go home, kick off these kitten heels, peel off this clingy dress, and watch some TV before bed. Instead, I’m ushered around a line of prettied-up people waiting to get in, through a back entrance, and into the loud, colorful, beating heart of the club. A huge man in a leather jacket greets Rafe and shakes his hand, then turns and starts pushing his way through the throng of people.
Rafe grabs my hand so I don’t get lost in the shuffle, while I murmur apologies to the people glancing back at us as we move past them. These people have probably waited in line for hours being pushed aside so we can walk right in and sail past them. It makes me feel a little like an asshole, but Rafe seems accustomed to stepping right over people.
To my relief, the roped-off area we are led to has a much smaller concentration of people. There are rounded booths over here, but each one is sectioned off to give an illusion of privacy
I hope to find our booth empty, but prepare myself for Sin to be there. The booth we stop in front of is not empty, but I don’t recognize the couple already seated there.
Before we take our seats, Rafe keeps one hand securely placed on my hip and uses the other to gesture to the table. “Laurel, this is my cousin Gio and his wife, Lydia.”