Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“Nope,” Weston and Crossland said at the same time.
Gareth didn’t bother to look up.
Weston’s lips pursed. It was quick, and I almost missed it, but it was there, his one tell.
The fucker was bluffing.
I looked down at the pile of chips I’d amassed throughout all five games we’d played today. There was a tech deal I wanted, a signed baseball I didn’t, and more than a few favors. “Check.”
Weston’s eyes flared for a second before he smirked. “Guess I’m the one who’s going to take everything home, because I’m all in.” He pushed forward all of his chips, to include my exclusivity on the helmets.
“Gonna fold on me, Ash?” Weston asked, nothing but pure confidence in his eyes.
“Not in my nature.” I threw in the one thing I knew Weston wanted, and that would match his all-in bet. 1938 AC 1. “Call.”
“You have to be fucking kidding me,” Weston sputtered. “You’re betting the first appearance of Superman? I’ve been after that shit for years.”
“Then let’s see what you have.” I grinned.
His jaw flexed once. Twice.
“Three of a kind,” he said, laying out three jacks.
“Not bad.” I laid my cards down. “Full house.”
“Fucker.” He shook his head, but there was no anger in his eyes as I raked in the chips. “Listen, there’s one thing…” He winced.
“I’ll make an appointment with her as soon as I’m on the plane,” I promised, stacking my chips. Looked like I had a new townhouse in London…for now. Our attorneys were both thrilled with the hours and annoyed as fuck at how often our property changed hands.
“Not that. I did something fucking stupid.” Weston sighed, which caught all of our attention. Even Gareth put down his phone.
“What did you do?” Ethan leaned forward, his shrewd eyes narrowing.
“I may have lost a Ducati race,” Weston admitted.
“Oh, this should be good,” Brynn murmured, flipping the page on her e-reader. She knew, otherwise she would have been on the edge of her seat like we were.
“Okay?” My brow knit in concern. Weston was a reckless shit, but he never asked for help, so if that’s where this was leading, we were in for some trouble.
“And I may have lost the bet I placed on that race.” He swallowed.
“Which was?” Cross asked, lifting the woman off his lap.
“A seat at this table.” Weston gestured at the table. Our table.
“For our game?” Ethan snapped.
“Obviously.” I connected my palms and drummed my fingertips against each other.
“Who did you lose to?” Cross’s brow lowered.
“Doyle O’Brien,” Weston admitted quietly.
The room was silent for the span of three heartbeats and then exploded.
“That fucker from Bangor?” Ethan.
“That guy is a douche!” Crossland.
“You have to be fucking kidding me.” Me.
“Do you have any idea who the fuck you’re messing with?” Gareth growled.
Okay, that comment won, so we all pivoted.
Gareth’s dark brows lowered over his pale green eyes and I swore that beer glass he was currently trying to crush would have screamed if it had been able to. “Tell me you know how he financed that expansion team, Weston. Tell me you’re not that fucking reckless that you didn’t know who you were racing.”
“I know!” Weston snapped. “He’s an ass. He took Asher to the fucking cleaners to get Sterling’s contract back. I know he’s got…connections in Boston.”
“That make mine in Chicago look squeaky clean,” Gareth growled, shoving away from the table.
“You realize nothing we’ll say in here can be confidential anymore,” Ethan sat back, shaking his head.
“We’ll have him sign the same NDA,” Weston argued. “Look, I get it. I fucked up, but he’s been after us for an invitation for the last two years. The novelty of getting through the door will wear off, and he’ll drop out.”
“And until then, we’ll just make the best of it.” I forced a quick, polite smile because I owed it to Weston to have his back.
Cross and Ethan stood, walking out the door with Gareth.
“Guess the game is over,” Weston said, half-jokingly.
“Guess so.”
* * *
“Asher?” Mrs. Donaldson said through the intercom of my office as I stared out of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Charleston skyline. Maybe it was childish to run my entire business from Reaper Arena, but fuck it, it was a simple pleasure to be close to the one aspect of my company that I took absolute joy in—the Carolina Reapers.
“Irene?” I called back, working a set of Baoding balls in my hand as I worked through the complexities of my latest soon-to-be acquisition in my head.
“She’s here.” In our six years of working together, I’d never dreaded those words like I did now.
“Send her in.”
The door to my office opened, and I took a deep breath, preparing myself for the absolute chaos that was bound to be my life for the next few days. For as long as she wants. Those had been Weston’s terms, thinking I wouldn’t be able to hack it, having someone fuck with my schedule. There was nothing on the line but pride, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t about to win this little dare.