Frustration rolled off her in waves, but I wouldn’t budge.

“Fine. I’ll take a cab.”

“Good. Text me if you decide to go out tonight.”

“Fine.”

Her response was short, and I leaned across the counter. “I’m not trying to be a dick. I’m just trying to be a guy who cares about you.”

“And I’m trying to prove to myself that I can do some things on my own, okay? You’re going to have to let me, Bishop. I don’t do clipped wings. Not anymore.”

I leaned in and brushed my lips across hers. “I don’t want to clip anything. Be smart, babe. Text me later.”

She returned my kiss. “Your coffee’s on the house. I’ll talk to you later.”

I dropped a ten on the counter anyway, and watched her grab a rag to wipe it down as soon as I was out the door.

Even though I’d expected to feel lighter when I came up with this solution, something about it left me off-balance.

I STOOD IN FRONT OF my small closet, the towel from my shower wrapped around my body while I debated what I wanted to do. My gaze traveled back and forth between a little black dress and a T-shirt I’d stolen from Bishop and didn’t have any plans to return.

Why did it bother me so much that he wanted me to go tonight when a bunch of his friends would be there?

If Bishop had said he would go and help me learn blackjack, I wouldn’t have cared. But his aversion to casinos was obvious. It didn’t take a genius to realize that he must have had some sort of gambling problem in the past and now didn’t want to be close to temptation. I could respect that. After I’d figured that out, I felt awful about asking him to go in the first place. It was like offering up a shot to someone who had dropped hints about being in AA.

Idiot.

But instead of telling me to go and have fun, I felt like he’d organized some kind of safe encounter for me. I should have appreciated it, but something about it had rubbed me the wrong way.

Black dress or T-shirt long enough to be a dress? That was the question.

Did I let my momentary annoyance stop me from experiencing more of New Orleans?

Screw it. I grabbed the black dress off the hanger and made my decision.

I was going, and I would have an amazing time. I might not know the finer points of playing blackjack, but I wasn’t stupid. I could count to twenty-one. I understood the basic principles. I’d take fifty dollars and wouldn’t let myself lose any more than that.

After spending what was probably a little too much time on my hair and makeup, I called a cab and headed down to the courtyard to wait. Harriet sat outside with a bottle of liquor and a giant cigar, puffing away like a pro.

“If I were fifty years younger and into women, I’d pick you up in a heartbeat. Way to go, girl. That man of yours is going to pin you to a wall when he sees you.”

Hearing something like that come out of the mouth of a woman closing in on seventy was still jarring, but Harriet was truly one of a kind and only marginally batshit crazy. I loved her.

“I’m not going out with my man tonight, so he’s going to miss out on all this.” I gestured to my wildly curling hair.

“Oh really? You have a fight? That boy doesn’t seem like the type to let you go out on the town without making sure he can keep his claim intact.”

Her words fired up my annoyance from earlier. “He’s working.”

“His loss. You’ll be the center of attention.”

Immediately, I began to regret my decision to go all out with my primping. The center of attention was not something I needed to be.

She held out the cigar. “Want a puff? It’s a good Cuban.”

Of course it was. Because why would Harriet smoke anything but a Cuban cigar?

“I’m good, thanks. I don’t smoke.” I was actually considering going back up to my room and calling off the entire night when the sound of a horn honking came from out front.

“That’ll be my cab. I should go.”

“Have fun tonight, Eden. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

I wondered what exactly that mandate would preclude me from doing, but decided not to think too hard about it. Harriet seemed like she’d done a lot of living in her years, and I couldn’t imagine what she would consider off-limits.

When the cab pulled up in front of the casino, I paid the driver and climbed out. A big sign hung out front advertising the charity event for the evening—THE ONE NIGHT YOU CAN LOSE AND STILL CONSIDER IT A VICTORY.

That was an amazingly generous situation, and I was stunned any casino would agree to donate part of their take. I supposed it had a lot to say about the persuasiveness of the charity and its benefactors.

I took the steps one at a time, careful to make sure my dress stayed down with the breeze picking up off the river. I didn’t want to have a Marilyn Monroe moment and flash an entire crowd of potential donors.

At the door, the man spent longer than normal staring at my ID, and I started to get nervous.

“Enjoy yourself, Ms. Madden,” he finally said before handing it back to me.

I shook off the odd feeling that came with his smile, and headed to the floor. It’s just nerves because you don’t like using a fake ID, I told myself.

The floor was filled with machines that lit up and played music, along with tables, dealers, and plenty of players. More signs that announced the donations that would go to charity tonight hung from the ceiling and sat on the tops of machines. I had no doubt they’d encourage people to play deeper and lose more because they felt like they were losing for a good cause. It was actually a pretty brilliant fundraising idea.

Signs pointing to a silent auction room led in one direction, but I didn’t follow them. I headed toward the tables to watch and teach myself how to play blackjack.

The annoyance and unease I’d felt earlier in the evening fell away as excitement bubbled up. I’d never been inside a casino before, so every part of this experience was new and different. I could see how people would be drawn to the lights and sounds of the slots. They seemed so cheerful and fun. I thought of the fifty dollars in my purse and wondered if I should just stop and try one . . .

No. I was going to the main event. I had a purpose.

Men in tuxes and women in evening gowns were scattered around the giant room in stark contrast to the little blue-haired ladies and people in jeans. I caught sight of Con and his brother, Lord, at a table on the opposite side of the slot machines, but didn’t head in their direction.