physical labor to create calluses, which was certainly odd. It was possible he’d spent a lifetime gambling, but then, if that were the case, why was he dressed as a fieldhand or cowboy?
The smooth hands, the poncho, the way the stranger sat, and most importantly, the way the stranger moved…it hit Andrew all at once, and his grin was slow, certain.
O’Hare was a woman.
“What did you say your name was?” He didn’t let her answer. “Chris? What’s Chris short for?”
She tugged again, her eyes going wide, and this time, he let her go, but kept his gaze on her, still amused.
“Christopher?” he prodded.
When she realized he wasn’t going to drop the subject, her tongue darted out over her lips. “Just—just Chris.”
Andrew hummed in a way which told both his companions he didn’t believe her, and Max shifted in his seat.
“Andrew?” he questioned.
And Andrew, taking pity on her, shook his head. “My apologies, gentlemen. The trip has made me weary. One more game?”
The way her shoulders slouched as she exhaled showed her relief he was willing to keep her secret. Is that what she thought? Well, it was true; he’d not reveal her to Max, but Andrew had no intention of forgetting what he now knew.
She kept her eyes on him as she hesitantly reached for the cards again. “One more game,” she agreed, and now that he was listening for it, he recognized her husky voice as a woman lowering her tone. She wasn’t young, but she wasn’t old either.
Andrew suddenly realized he’d very much like to know all about his enigmatic poker companion.
But after the game was over—she’d folded early, likely as a way to escape—she stacked up her chips, pocketed the cash from the pot, and stood. Offering a quick nod to both of them, during which Andrew noticed she avoided his eyes, she then headed for the door.
Amused, he watched her leave, noticing the tell-tale sway of her hips she couldn’t quite hide. Or could he only see it because he was looking for it? Max didn’t seem to notice though.
“Everything alright, Andrew?” he asked, reaching for a glass to pour himself some scotch.
Grinning, Andrew nodded his head and toasted the younger man. “Just fine.” Except the most intriguing person he’d met in a long while had just walked out of the building, and he wasn’t certain he’d see her again. “Is Mr. O’Hare staying in town? I’d like the chance to play against him again.”
Max shrugged as he sniffed the liquor. “He said maybe. I’d like a chance to recoup my losses too.”
Is that what Max assumed Andrew meant? Well, let him think that.
Lifting his glass to his lips, Andrew’s attention drifted back to the door.
Before she left Everland, Andrew was determined he’d track her down again.
Chapter 2
Number thirteen Perrault Street looked fairly normal, where “normal” was a relative term in Everland. It had as many wooden curlicues and fiddly bits around the eaves as every other building in town—which, despite being a little silly, made the whole place look like a Bavarian village—but was painted a garish purple.
Christa gathered her skirts around her and cocked her head, staring up at the building, which had a sign over the door declaring it to be “Guild Boardinghouse, No Vacancies.” The fact the “No Vacancies” part was permanent, she suspected the home’s existence as a boardinghouse was more of a cover than anything else.
Still, it looked cheerful with the snow clinging to the roof and the garlands festooning the porch. There was a big cheerful wreath on the front door, and Christa decided it was now or never.
Straightening her back—and her gumption—she marched up the steps and knocked on the door, which was pulled open almost before she was finished.
“No vacan—” the grumpy-looking woman with the short red hair snapped, before swallowing down her words and peering at Christa.
Christa blinked back.
The woman hummed, then asked, “You’re here for the job?”
“I’m Christa Harrington.”
Another glare, then the woman sighed and stepped back, as much of an invite as Christa expected she’d receive. “You’d better come meet everyone then. Doc,” she bellowed, as she turned down the hall, “your new project is here!”
New project? That didn’t sound particularly promising.
From somewhere overhead came the sound of a bell ringing, and then a strangely automated voice boomed, “Emergency meeting! This is not a drill! Get a move on, you mothers! Go go go!”
The red-headed woman grumbled something under her breath. “I’m Grunhilda. I’d better take you to the kitchen.”
Bemused, Christa followed her down