Chapter 447

• Ridge slaps his cards to the table with a triumphant grin. “Royal flush.”
• We’re on his back patio sitting in mismatched plastic chairs, a pile of crumpled twenties in the center of the table and a cooler between us. It’s Montana summer—lush, green, hotter than a Sunday in hell. I’ve got my bare feet propped up on the cooler, which is a few degrees cooler than the lava in the concrete. The kitchen window is open behind me, and I can hear Sable cooing at the baby and talking to Trystan as they start dinner together.
• I stare at Ridge’s winning hand fanned out atop the glass tabletop, then at my own, still in my fingers. Raising an eyebrow, I wrinkle my nose at him. “You’re cheating.”