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“Then you either have to raise it or fold.” Mischievousness prances victoriously around as I rock on my heels. “Either way I win.”
“Fine.” Confidence I find almost impossible to resist rears its delicious head. “I raise you two shoes.”
“Calling.”
He tilts his head condescendingly and waves his hand a second time. “Impress me.”
“The tank back by the bar,” my chin tips that direction, encouraging him to turn his head. “You’ve got a Tiger Oscar. Oscars can be rather aggressive, which makes them difficult to keep with other fish.”
“That I knew.”
“However,” his gaze gravitates back to mine, “they’re known for being less aggressive with their owners learning to not only beg for food upon seeing them but to also allow themselves to be petted for treats as though they’re dogs rather than fish.”
“That…” One pointed, wagging finger is attached to a baffled sigh, “That I did not.”
“I don’t recommend it.” I slide my hands into my back jean pockets yet again. “Not only because the oils of our skin can have a negative effect on their body chemistry, but also because less aggressive is still technically aggressive, and no one wants to lose a finger to a fish.” The tiniest shrug bounces my shoulders. “Not exactly a good story to get sympathy ass from.”
His laughter reverberates around the room so openly and freely that I find myself paralyzed in place, left with no choice but to admire it.
Adore it.
This is the man that hides underneath those layers and layers of clothing.
The man I believe he fears for the outside world to see.
One that smiles.
And laughs.
And is capable of enjoying life.
One that’s…human.
And part of him hates that he’s actually human versus some grizzly mutated monster that should never see the light of day.
Guilt is definitely a bitch.
But self-imposed guilt?
That’s the Great White of emotions.
“Droppy, droppy,” I playfully taunt at the same time I saunter away from the wall tank. “Game’s not over yet.”
“Maybe it should be?”
He’s tossed a sarcastic stare that receives more chuckles.
“I’m being hustled.”
“You were warned.”
“I was warned you knew some shit, but you’re clearly a fish shark.” The poorly worded choice of phrasing has him shaking it off during the shoe removal process. “Fact shark?” Coming out of his sneakers precedes him shedding his shirt. “Whatever shark.” The article is carelessly thrown over his shoulder. “You’re taking me for all I’ve got, Miss Winters.”
“Oh, I’m about to, Mr. Wilcox…” Now at the edge of the corner of the bar, I brace my elbows on the surface and smugly lean backwards. “This next bet, I’m going all in.”
“You have more to work with than me.”
“Then you better figure some shit out or you’ll – again – be forced to fold.”
