“Let me?” She raised an eyebrow. “That implies I need your permission to kick your ass at cards.”
His smile was warm, heating those gray eyes in a way that made her stomach flutter. “Speaking of which, I owe you a rematch.”
“You’re on.” The words came out before she could think about them, but she found she meant it. The idea of sitting across from him again, watching him try to bluff his way through a hand—it sounded wonderfully, perfectly normal. “Very soon, you and me, cards on the table.”
“Is that a promise or a threat?”
“Both,” she said, and was surprised to find she was smiling again.
Maybe she couldn’t control what Cipher had planned for her, couldn’t predict when the next threat would come or what form it would take.
But she could look forward to something—even something as simple as a poker game against a man whose arms felt like home.
ELEVEN
The common room buzzed with the kind of casual energy that only came after a mission debrief.
Steele always thought of a debriefing as a time to unburden themselves, not unlike the religious practice of confession. Both rites provided a way to speak uncomfortable truths and even release themselves of guilt.
As a result, the guys were in rare form this afternoon. Steele sprawled in one of the leather chairs, sipping a strong black coffee and watching his teammates decompress in their own ways.
Mason already claimed the pool table, the stack of one-dollar bills he liked to lay bets with resting on the wooden edge. He racked the balls while bragging about how he’d have been a professional pool player if he weren’t a SEAL.
Chickie sat straddling a chair, shaking his head. “So what you’re saying, Mason, is that you’d rather play with your balls than dodge bullets.”
Several of the guys laughed at the banter.
Wielding the pool stick, Mason lined up to break. “You won’t be laughing when I take your money.”
“Your stance is shit,” Chickie jeered. “You’re leaning like a drunk tourist.”
“Or a one-legged flamingo.” Steele took a sip of the dark brew.
“My stance got me laid in Prague last month. Can you say the same?” Mason glanced at the group sprawled around the room.
Dante sidled up to the table and took a shot, sinking two balls before he scratched.
Mason chuckled at his bad luck, then sank the eight ball with precision mixed with a measure of luck. He turned to Dante and pointed at the stack of dollar bills.
With a groan, Dante pulled out a dollar and slapped it on the stack.
Sinner emerged from the kitchen carrying what looked like his fourth sandwich—something involving an alarming amount of meat and cheese that defied the principles of structural engineering.
“Jesus, Sinner.” Steele eyed the construction. “You planning to hibernate?”
“Protein macros,” Sinner replied with the kind of serious tone other people reserved for discussing national security. He took a bite that somehow didn’t cause the entire sandwich to collapse. “Unlike you pretty boys, I actually use my muscles.”
“Pretty boys?” Mason’s voice carried mock offense as he chalked his cue. “Speak for yourself. Some of us have to maintain our devastating good looks for undercover work.”
“Right.” Chickie snorted. “Because nothing says ‘covert operative’ like spending an hour on your hair every morning.”
“It’s called grooming standards, Chickie. Why don’t you go help Sinner make the pizzas?”
Con’s snort carried all the way across the room from the leather sofa he lounged on.
Steele couldn’t help grinning as he listened to the familiar rhythm of his teammates’ shit-talking. This was what they did—razz each other relentlessly as a way of processing the stress that came with their job. It was comfort food in verbal form.
“Speaking of undercover work,” Mason continued, lining up his next shot, “how’d it feel playing sound guy, Steele? Little different from your usual job description.”
