Free My Stubborn Heart by Becky Wade Page A

her skeptically.
    â€œHe’s a nice-looking man,” Kate said. If you like really old Elvises.
    â€œNice-looking?” Velma grunted. “In what way?”
    â€œAh . . .” Kate put her hands in her pockets and thought ferociously. “He’s a masculine sort of guy, large, but not too large. And he has an interesting face. Strong. And,” with a surge of triumph, “he has lots of hair.”
    â€œThe hair is a problem for me.”
    â€œHow so?”
    â€œThat black color. It reminds me of a greased-up car tire. You know what I’m talking about? What your tires look like right after you pay extra to get them cleaned?”
    â€œI do know.” And Kate had to admit, Morty’s hair was bad. “What if he did something about his hair? Would you reconsider?”
    Velma’s mascara-clad eyes studied her without blinking. “Have you appointed yourself his pimp?”
    â€œNo! I’m just trying to help him out, I guess.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI have my reasons. Now, about the hair. If he fixed it, would you go on a date with him?”
    â€œProbably not.”
    â€œBut maybe?” Kate pressed. “All that admiration has to be flattering, doesn’t it, Velma?”
    Velma pushed her glasses up her nose, blew out an impatient breath, and turned to saunter down the hall. The rhinestones stuck to her banana clip glittered in the dull light. “I’ll think about it.”

    â€œRaise,” Matt said, and idly thumbed the edges of his two cards before tossing a few chips forward.
    William folded. When it came to Kate she again consulted the little piece of paper Morty had given her. It listed the pictures and names of all the different poker hands from best to worst.
    â€œI’ll . . . reraise?” She looked to Morty and lifted a brow for confirmation that she’d used the right term.
    Morty nodded.
    Kate pushed a stack of chips to the center of the table.
    Matt frowned. He had two pair, but he didn’t know if they would hold up against her beginner’s luck. Kate knew nothing about poker, but impossibly had maintained the chip lead almost from the time they’d started.
    Matt was no serious poker player. But like all self-respecting men, he knew enough about the game to get by. And like all competitive athletes, he didn’t like to lose. Especially against a total rookie who kept consulting her cheat sheet and throwing down her cards and saying, “Nothing there!” each time she had a weak hand. It made him pretty darn sure that she had a good hand whenever she started raising like this.
    He suspected his hand was better, though. This time. He pushed enough chips forward to equal hers.
    The remaining players folded. Morty turned over the fifth card.
    Matt checked. Kate peeked at her hand and smiled with transparent excitement. She shoved another tower of chips forward. “Raise.”
    She must have a royal flush. If he lost this hand, he’d be all but dead. He looked down at the table, scratched the side of his forehead. He should probably fold. At least he could safeguard the chips he had left. And yet . . . stubborn confidence in his cards tugged at him.
    What the heck. He met her bet and then some.
    She raised again.
    To meet her this time would take all he had, and only empty her down to half her chips. He’d be out of the game and forced to go hang out in the kitchen with the other early losers—Beverly and Velma.
    What was he, a pansy?
    He slid his remaining chips to the center. “I call.”
    Kate’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
    â€œLet’s see what you’ve got.”
    She wrinkled her nose and revealed her hand. He, too, turned over his cards.
    She had . . . She had nothing. He furrowed his brow, trying to understand what she’d been thinking.
    Morty leaned toward her. “Now, Kate, you shouldn’t have bet on this hand.