Chapter Two

Not much to my surprise, Jason barely looks at me. In the beginning, anyway.

Which kind of suits me really, because I spend the first few hands trying to remember even how to play poker, and the rest trying my best not to lose. I join in with the banter with the guys, even making them all laugh one or two times, which shouldn't make me feel proud of myself but there it is. I'm sitting opposite Chase, who keeps making faces at me and tying to trick me into giving away my cards, which isn't helping.

There are seven of us in total, and I try to remember their names as the betting starts up. There's Andrew — the guy with black hair and glasses, who everyone just calls Drew — who's sitting on Jason's other side. Next to him is Peter, who's Scottish and has a million freckles scattered over his pale cheeks.

Then there's Chase, who needs no further introduction, and Mark, who has a lean face with close-cropped blond hair. Finally, on my other side, there's Joe, who's slightly on the chubby side with a haphazard mop of mousy brown hair. He says the least of the group, and when he does talk it's like he's just missed the punchline of a joke.

As the game progresses, I get the feeling that the guys are holding back. Somehow, I suspect that if I weren't here, there would be several lewd jokes thrown about like an invisible game of ping pong. As it is, they just make semi-polite conversation, occasionally teasing each other and then glancing my way, as though I might be offended to hear them swear.

It's at once both endearing and a bit irritating. I'm not a child. Okay, so I'm younger than them by a good margin, but it's not like I've never heard anybody say the 'f' word, for fuck's sake.

We're a few rounds down and nobody has struck out yet. My stack of chips has diminished by an almost embarrassing amount, but I'm not the only one – Joe, next to me, is almost as down on his luck as I am.

Of course, my brother is raking it in, and isn't doing a damn thing to be humble about it either.

I actually have a good hand for once. Better yet, everyone except Chase and I have folded. A strange tension settles on the group, as though secretly they want to see me wipe the floor with my brother's smug smile; that's what I tell myself, anyway.

He moves a small stack of chips from his pile to the centre of the table.

"Raise," he says, with a shit-eating grin, "150."

If I win this, it would totally put me back in the runnings of the game. My gaze drops to the cards in my hand: the Ace of hearts, and the Queen of spades. On the table, there's a Six of hearts, a King of diamonds, a Ten of hearts, and a Three of hearts. That's a lot of hearts. We're down to the last card, and everyone else has already given up.

My guess is that Chase already has a flush – that's five cards, all of the same suit, as I learned earlier in this game. I nearly have a flush too, and by having the Ace, mine would be higher if a fifth heart came down on the last card. I also have a Queen. I could get a straight instead. That wouldn't beat a flush, if Chase does have one, but if he's bluffing… Then again, I might not get anything at all, and I'd have to live with that sanctimonious expression he's giving me for the rest of the evening.

These thoughts chase each other around my head like a pair of siblings playing tag, and I take a gulp of my drink to quiet them. I'm already starting to feel a little light-headed, and a little more daring. Opposite me, Chase just smiles. He's not even looking at his cards. They're face down on the table while he leans on his hands, goading me. He's such a dick sometimes.

Peter elbows him, and murmurs something in his ear. Chase just shakes his head. "Nah man," he says, his eyes fixed on me. "She's going down."

I feel a stirring at my side, a warmth. Jason has edged closer to me. His stack of chips is bigger than mine; he's been folding conservatively so far, nearly every hand, except for two – and he won both of those.

On instinct, I hide my cards from his line of sight. He chuckles softly.

"May I see?"

I cast him a sidelong glance. What if he gives my hand away? He could be in cahoots with my brother. No, wait, that's stupid, they've only met tonight, and besides, who would do that?

I shrug, opening up my cards. "Sure."

From across the table, Chase frowns. "Hey, no help."

"Come on, Chase, she's not played before," says Drew, whose eyes are resting on Jason and me. Feeling self conscious again, I take another sip of my drink. "At least let her try to topple the Poker King."

I can't tell if he's taking the piss or not.

Jason looks at my hand for a solid half-minute, then to the face-up cards on the table. Mark has dealt this hand so far, and he watches us expectantly. It's my turn. If I want to keep playing, I have to match Chase's bet. I'm grateful for the soft undertones of the background music, because otherwise this might get awkward.

I feel Jason's eyes on me and force myself to glance at him. He really does have a very handsome face, I can't help but notice. It's one of those boyishly masculine faces, half caught between youth and adulthood - smooth lips and soft eyes offset against a fierce jawline and a touch of five o'clock shadow.

He raises an eyebrow ever so slightly, and the corner of his mouth lifts . He holds my gaze for a moment.

"I'd go in," is all he says, before he leans back in his chair.

"Call?"

Jason shakes his head. "No. All in."

I blink at my my remaining stack of chips. Going all in would mean I'd be out, if I lost. And the first out, which would be really embarrassing. Still… I remember how Jason has played so far, and I can't help it, something about the guy just makes me trust him.

Nodding, I push my chips into the centre of the table and meet Chase's eyes over them.

"All in," I say, as confidently as I can manage.

"Fine," he says with a nod. "And when you lose, you're doing the clean-up of the after party."

"And when you lose, you're taking me out shopping."

Joe gives a small laugh, but he's the only one who does.

Chase narrows his eyes for a moment. Then, agonisingly slowly, he counts up the number of chips and places them next to mine. It's on.

With nothing more to gamble, he and I set our cards on their backs so everyone can see. A woop goes up from the group as they see Chase's hand: the Four and Queen of hearts. He has the flush. My stomach sinks as I stare at my measly Ace and Queen. Peter slaps Chase on his back, and Chase takes a greedy swig of his beer, eyeing me.

Only Jason sits quietly, his eyes on the cards. Beneath the noise of everyone else I hear him murmur, "It's not over yet."

He's right. There's still one more card to go.

Mark burns a card, then turns the last one face up for all eyes to see. I swear it almost happens in slow motion. All eyes are on that card — except for Jason's. Jason's are on me, like he's willing me to win.

It works: the Seven of hearts falls next to its brothers, which gives me an Ace-high flush. The group gasps, laughs, then cheers.

The grin that spreads across my face practically hurts, and I mock punch the air in victory. The clattering of the chips feels good as I drag them to my winnings, now fully back in the game. I look up to Chase, and his smile is gone.

"That was fucking lucky," he says to me over his drink, but he's not entirely embittered; there's a small smile beneath his words that only a sister would notice. "Good job, sis."

"Guess that makes me the Poker Queen, huh?"

"We'll see. Let's deal up again."

Beside me, Jason smiles, almost to himself, and that makes me feel… strangely happy. I owe my winnings to him, really, but he won't take them from me, insisting that I won them fair and square.

The night continues on in much the same fashion. Jason plays a few hands, but sits most of them out, preferring to watch us as we all pit ourselves against each other — and quietly help me when he senses I'm struggling. While the others are betting or talking or are otherwise distracted with the easy atmosphere of the night, he goes over some of the more complex rules and probabilities of the game. He explains what cards are good to watch out for, when it's a good idea to call, raise or fold, how you have to base your decision on how many hands are in or have been dealt, and so forth.

Mostly, I just love listening to him talk. I find myself nodding along with the things he's saying, trying to remember all the tips he's giving me; but I keep getting far too distracted by the line of his jaw, or the curve of his neck, or the bob of his Adam's apple when he swallows. Damn it, Alex, he's just being nice; he doesn't have to be entertaining me. I'd half expected to be pretty much ignored this evening.

Yet the more hands we play, the more he gently helps, signalling to me when I have a moderate hand and then letting me work it out for myself later.

As the night goes on he gradually brings over more and more snacks, and downs another couple of beers. Mark and Joe polish off nearly a dozen between them in that time, and go out pretty quickly to one of Jason's dominating hands. Peter is next, his pale cheeks a little on the flushed side.

After a while of watching me, Chase, Drew and Jason play a few hands, they get bored and wander over to the rest of the room. Their laughter tells me they've started on more alcohol, and the way the music chops and changes means they've found the iPod.

With the help of Jason, I push Chase out of the runnings entirely. He takes it in remarkably good grace. All he does is ruffle my hair as he goes past and tells me to not to hustle the two remaining guys too much.

Drew and Jason talk shit for a while as they go head to head, clearly close friends, and each dares the other to put in more. Drew is convinced he'll win, but Jason out-lucks him with four of a kind on the last card.

Drew, crestfallen, takes his beer and joins the others, who are now swooning over Chase's sound and TV system.

It leaves just me and Jason in the half-light of the dining table. He starts to shuffle the cards, not looking at me.

"I shouldn't have done that," he says once he starts dealing. He's still next to me, but he's turned in the chair so that he's facing me.

I peek at my cards. Both no-gos. Crap. "Done what?"

"Gone in against Drew." He gives a deep laugh as he sits back and shakes his head, and it brings shivers to my skin. "I had a shit hand."

"Doesn't that make winning so much better?"

"No." Jason shakes his head. "It was just luck that I won. It was against the odds. Drew's hand was better up until that last card, he should have won."

"But he didn't." I can't help but smile at him, trying to reaffirm that his victory was well deserved. "You did. That's how luck works."

"People get this game wrong, though. It's not really about luck. It's about skill. It's about reading people, and playing the odds against them. I knew Drew had a good hand, and I was expecting to lose. I went in anyway."

I fold my hand, and Jason shuffles the deck again.

"Why go in then?" I ask with a shrug.

Jason makes an eye at his beer, then glances up and meets my gaze. His eyes are… penetrating. There's no other way I can think to describe them. It's like when he looks at you, he can see you, in entirety. They're eyes you could drown in; dark, molten, like burnt chocolate. It's quite unnerving. I look away, and drain the last of my glass. It's my second shandy. The night is young.

"Drinking makes me take risks," he says at last, his eyes still on me.

He's about to deal the cards again when he pauses, his thumb grazing the pattern of the deck. There's something about the way he's sitting, the way he's sort of but not quite looking at me, that makes me wonder what he's thinking, what he's about to say. Suddenly, I really don't want to be playing poker any more.

"I think I'm kind of done," I say, and Jason looks up in surprise. If he was about to say anything, the words die on his tongue. "Let's say you win?"

"No way." He shakes his head, and more hair falls into his eyes. With his well-practised swipe, he pushes it back with his fingers, then sits back in his chair. He's so at ease it's like the furniture is just an extension of him. He gives me a cheeky smile. "I bet you would have rinsed me with those moves of yours."

"Honey," I say in an American drawl, the words tumbling from my mouth before I can help them, "you ain't seen the last of my moves."

"I certainly hope not."

My stomach plunges straight to the ground. Is he flirting with me? I was flirting with him, a bit, empowered by the tiny amount of alcohol I've had to drink, and the high of the evening generally — but I was not expecting anything in return. I barely know anything about him.

"Was that a line?" I blurt, completely ruining the atmosphere.

Jason looks taken aback. I can't really blame him. He recovers quickly though, and takes a swig of his drink, watching me. Coolly, he replies, "I don't think you're supposed to ask that."

"You didn't answer my question."

"That's because I'm going to pretend you didn't ask it." More of that charm. Wow, is he for real? "Do you need another drink?"

I can't help but grin at him. "Yes please," I say holding out my empty glass. "Although now you're trying to get me drunk — it was definitely a line."

As he gets to his feet I swear to God he gives me a wink. "As you like it, sunshine," he says while he walks away.

I turn in my chair, watching him go, but it's almost involuntary, like a flower following the course of the sun.

It takes me a moment to realise that Chase is staring at me. It takes me an even longer moment to realise he's scowling. I've seen that look before. That's the 'I don't like what you're up to' look. I give him a mild shrug in return, as if to say, 'I have no idea what you're talking about'. He doesn't buy it.

While Jason starts chatting with Mark over by the fridge, Chase extricates himself from the excitement of his sound system and makes his way over to me. For some reason, I sort of feel like I'm busted, and a nervous patter starts up in my chest, like a flurry of rain against my heartbeat.

Chase flops down in the seat next to me.

"So," he says, drawing the sound out. He jerks his head in the direction of Jason. "What's that about?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," I respond, acting up my nonchalance by going for more of my drink — which is when I remember that it's empty.

"Please. You couldn't be more obvious if you tattooed a neon sign on your chest."

Not wanting to get into the improbabilities of that being possible, I fix him with a glare instead. "I am not being obvious," I hiss, checking over my shoulder to make sure Jason isn't in ear-shot. "There's nothing to be obvious about. I'm not even doing anything. It's not my fault he's talking to me."

Chase fixes me with a look that says I should know better. "Come on, Alex, he's just being nice — don't be weird on guys-night, okay?"

I open my mouth to argue, but any retorts I have don't make it out. Chase is right. I surreptitiously glance across to Jason, who's pouring lemonade into a pint glass half full of beer, and it's true: he is just being nice. The way he's laughing so easily with Mark, and how quiet and awkward he was with me by comparison…

I slump back into the chair.

"Fine, I'm sorry. Didn't mean to be a burden, jeez."

Chase's expression softens. "Hey, I don't mean you can't have fun, alright? Why don't you come over and tease Joe about his hair?"

"I'm not just gonna poke fun at someone to make myself feel better," I say, thinking about all the times Rhi and I have done just that. Gosh, I can be a real bitch sometimes.

"Well, maybe you can choose some music, then," Chase says, getting to his feet. "I'll even let you put on Taylor Swift if you like."

I give him a look as though he's just asked me to snog him. "Ugh. Please. Like I'd ever enjoy that trash."

We laugh together as I head over to join the others in the living room, trying not to think about the conversations that never happened in that dark corner under soft lighting with someone much more handsome than he has any right to be.

And when I feel those eyes on me later that night as he hands me my drink, I tell myself that lingering gaze is just my imagination.