the worst possible match—totally 180 degrees on the zodiac wheel. He was precise, where I was artistic. He was dedicated, where I was … all over the place. He was peanut butter, where I was … jelly?
Okay, so astrology wasn’t, like, an exact science, but it had served me well in life thus far.
“This is … nice,” Elliot ventured, sounding as though he really thought anything but.
We were out by the pool of my father’s hotel, having parted ways with him upon arrival. I’d say that Dad was cool and didn’t mind giving me my space, but this wentbeyond space—I’d venture that my father was seriously psyched to find me spending the afternoon with, in his parlance, “a young man.”
Little did he know that this young man could never be a contender.
I mean, really—an Aries?
And then there was that whole socially-awkward, school-nerd aspect of Elliot. Adorable though he was, that simply could not be ignored. Besides—I was still nursing a broken heart.
“Well, I mean, I like hanging out here,” I said, taking a long sip of my Diet Coke.
We were perched at two adjacent lounge chairs tilted toward each other, a small glass-top table between us. We’d each ordered sodas and were splitting an order of French fries. To the casual observer, the only indication of any illicit activity was the deck of cards set just next to the plate of fries.
“We can move, you know … out of the sun,” I offered weakly, not really meaning it. February in Vegas is downright balmy—perfect weather for working on your tan. Moving out of the sun? Madness.
“I’m fine,” Elliot insisted, squintingfrom behind his glasses. I’d been somewhat horrified to discover that his everyday reading glasses were actually made of that chemically treated glass that tints in sunlight. Instant sunglasses. Cool. Not. Elliot was just lucky that his nerdiness was so acute as to actually be somewhat endearing.
“I used SPF 45,” he went on, “so I should be good for another”—he glanced at his watch—“three hours and twenty minutes.” He had one of those crazy plastic diver’s watches that calculated the time in, like, six different zones and had a stopwatch that ran down to the millisecond. It was at least three times the size of his wrist.
“But who’s counting?” I teased. Poor Elliot. At least geek chic is coming back in.
“All right,” I said, pushing my soda aside and drawing myself up in my seat. “If we’ve only got three hours and twenty minutes, we’d better make them count.”
“I can always reapply the sunscreen,” he pointed out reasonably.
I groaned. “Not the point.” I pushed the deck of cards across the table toward him. “Come on. Make me a ringer.”
He looked at me doubtfully.
“A competitor?”
He raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“A player?”
“That I can probably do.”
Two hours and sixteen minutes later (not that anyone was counting, of course) and my head was swimming.
Ace high, active player, early position, flop, forced bet, full house …
Living in Vegas, I’d heard all of these terms before, of course. Like I said, my ex-boyfriend was a huge card player. So even if I’d always abstained, I knew the terms, their meanings, and I knew the basic rules of poker. But I’d always assumed that one’s success mostly depended on—yes, you guessed it—luck.
“It’s got nothing to do with luck,” Elliot corrected me, his hazel-brown eyes flashing intensely even through the tint of his now-darkened glasses.
“Why, because you can bluff?” I asked, slurping away at my third soda. It was hot out, and the fries had pretty much sucked any moisture out of me. I didn’t want to dehydrate. Elliot didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d be able to take that in stride.
“Well, pretty much, yeah,” he said. “The thing is that it’s not just what you’ve got in your hand, but also what your opponent has in his.”
“Which, unless you’re Rain Man, there’s no way of
Okay, so astrology wasn’t, like, an exact science, but it had served me well in life thus far.
“This is … nice,” Elliot ventured, sounding as though he really thought anything but.
We were out by the pool of my father’s hotel, having parted ways with him upon arrival. I’d say that Dad was cool and didn’t mind giving me my space, but this wentbeyond space—I’d venture that my father was seriously psyched to find me spending the afternoon with, in his parlance, “a young man.”
Little did he know that this young man could never be a contender.
I mean, really—an Aries?
And then there was that whole socially-awkward, school-nerd aspect of Elliot. Adorable though he was, that simply could not be ignored. Besides—I was still nursing a broken heart.
“Well, I mean, I like hanging out here,” I said, taking a long sip of my Diet Coke.
We were perched at two adjacent lounge chairs tilted toward each other, a small glass-top table between us. We’d each ordered sodas and were splitting an order of French fries. To the casual observer, the only indication of any illicit activity was the deck of cards set just next to the plate of fries.
“We can move, you know … out of the sun,” I offered weakly, not really meaning it. February in Vegas is downright balmy—perfect weather for working on your tan. Moving out of the sun? Madness.
“I’m fine,” Elliot insisted, squintingfrom behind his glasses. I’d been somewhat horrified to discover that his everyday reading glasses were actually made of that chemically treated glass that tints in sunlight. Instant sunglasses. Cool. Not. Elliot was just lucky that his nerdiness was so acute as to actually be somewhat endearing.
“I used SPF 45,” he went on, “so I should be good for another”—he glanced at his watch—“three hours and twenty minutes.” He had one of those crazy plastic diver’s watches that calculated the time in, like, six different zones and had a stopwatch that ran down to the millisecond. It was at least three times the size of his wrist.
“But who’s counting?” I teased. Poor Elliot. At least geek chic is coming back in.
“All right,” I said, pushing my soda aside and drawing myself up in my seat. “If we’ve only got three hours and twenty minutes, we’d better make them count.”
“I can always reapply the sunscreen,” he pointed out reasonably.
I groaned. “Not the point.” I pushed the deck of cards across the table toward him. “Come on. Make me a ringer.”
He looked at me doubtfully.
“A competitor?”
He raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“A player?”
“That I can probably do.”
Two hours and sixteen minutes later (not that anyone was counting, of course) and my head was swimming.
Ace high, active player, early position, flop, forced bet, full house …
Living in Vegas, I’d heard all of these terms before, of course. Like I said, my ex-boyfriend was a huge card player. So even if I’d always abstained, I knew the terms, their meanings, and I knew the basic rules of poker. But I’d always assumed that one’s success mostly depended on—yes, you guessed it—luck.
“It’s got nothing to do with luck,” Elliot corrected me, his hazel-brown eyes flashing intensely even through the tint of his now-darkened glasses.
“Why, because you can bluff?” I asked, slurping away at my third soda. It was hot out, and the fries had pretty much sucked any moisture out of me. I didn’t want to dehydrate. Elliot didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d be able to take that in stride.
“Well, pretty much, yeah,” he said. “The thing is that it’s not just what you’ve got in your hand, but also what your opponent has in his.”
“Which, unless you’re Rain Man, there’s no way of
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