About this book
Brooke's husband has a gambling problem.
Not the dramatic kind — no second mortgages or secret debts. Kyle just chases longshots and inside straights, and every few months something comes up short. She's learned to manage it the way she manages everything else in their marriage: quietly, efficiently, and without thanks.
On poker nights, she plays waitress in her old college cheerleading uniform — black and gold, pristine, tighter than it was at twenty — because Kyle likes reminding his friends what he married. She pours bourbon, clears ashtrays, and pretends not to notice the way they look at her.
Then Calvin puts a Rolex in the pot. Kyle can't cover it. And Calvin suggests an alternative.
One night. Whatever he wants.
Kyle turns to Brooke and asks if she's willing. She steps behind him, puts her hand on his shoulder like the good wife she's always been, and looks at his cards.
Inside straight draw. He needs a seven. There are maybe two left in the deck.
She says yes.
Not to save him. Not because she thinks he'll win.
Because Calvin is dark and rugged and built like something she hasn't felt in years — and her husband just gave her permission to find out what she's been missing.
He'll never make that bet again. She'll make sure of it.
