“She’s selfish, weak, and a poor mother,” I supply.
“You’ve read the book.” She breathes a sigh of relief, but then lasers her eyes in my direction. “I’m not sure Jay’s any better, though.”
“Did you spot me across the room?”
She laughs lightly as if that’s the silliest thing. “No. That would imply I was looking. I only noticed you when you made a beeline for me.” And I’m getting hot under the collar from her dressing down. “Then, I could tell instantly.”
With a hum of appraisal, but definitely not approval, she lifts a hand and runs her finger down the front of my jacket. I’d like her to keep that up even as she takes me apart. “The suit is exactly like Leonardo DiCaprio’s in the movie. You’ve even got his smirky grin down. Though you have dark hair, you’re otherwise a dead ringer. I bet you even left behind a coupe glass at the bar.”
My God, sharp women rev my engine. “Some costumes call for accessories.”
She lifts her cigarette holder, showing off her cherry-red nails. “They do.”
The woman talks like sex, looks like a dirty dream, and fires barbs like she’s in a darts championship.
It seems so wrong to take my friends’ money when I win this wager. Because, mark my words, she will be mine.
“But,” she adds, taking her time with that word, like a cat stretching in the sun, “the costume, like Gatsby, has its flaws.”
Fine. I’ll bite. “Tell me what’s missing, then.”
“The flaw is thinking you can have it all,” she says, coolly and in control.
Time for me to take the wheel. “Now that you’ve psychoanalyzed my costume, I’ve got a theory about yours.” With a nod, I indicate her enticing get-up.
“Go on,” she says, sensual and inviting, playing with her kill.
“A woman who chooses a costume so open to interpretation likes a little bit of mystery,” I say. “Maybe, even, she doesn’t want to be . . . known.”
The flapper arches a brow. “Hmmm. Perhaps you should have dressed as Freud.”
I offer a satisfied smile. “I’d even go so far as to say a woman with multiple interpretations likes the many versions of her masquerading self.”
“Oh, wow,” she deadpans. “We’re venturing deep into the subconscious, I see.”
“Deep is better than shallow,” I say with gravel in my voice, lingering on the double meaning.
She flicks some strands of her hair. “A woman needs a bit of armor against the Gatsbys of the world. So perhaps you’re not far off in your assessment. You with your tux and your raspy voice and your blue eyes and your cocky attitude.”
Dress me all the way down, Not-Daisy. I like it. You are the most fun I’ve had in ages.
“I like armor. And the idea of mystery. I also don’t mind complicated literary characters. Even selfish ones. Even ones who don’t get a happy ending.” I take a beat, a familiar heaviness weighing on me. “Those are rare in life. And that possibility can keep a man on his toes. I, for one, like being kept on my toes.”
She leans her elbows against the table, takes her time answering. “So you came all the way over here to tell me that love is unpredictable?”
“I have many theories on love, but I didn’t come over to discuss them.”
She lifts her chin. “Then why are you here?”
I don’t want this chance with her to end. I want it to fill up my night, so I gesture to the back room of the bar. “To see if you’d like to play blackjack or pool.”
“Sure. That is, if you like to lose . . .”
“Depends on the game,” I say.
She licks her lush red lips, takes a step closer to me, curls her fingers around my lapel once more. “One hundred bucks says I beat you.”
Her heated gaze could launch a thousand erections, and I would bet a grand that I’ll be hard all night, but I don’t want to reveal all my dirty thoughts so soon. “It’s on, Daisy.”
We head to the games room, weaving through the crowd. No one else is playing now, so I go straight to the cue holder on the wall, select a stick for myself, and offer one to the woman in silver.
“Ladies first.” I lean in close enough to catch a whiff of her scent—a little like honeysuckle, citrusy with hints of something sweet. It weaves into my mind with its promise of nighttime secrets.
“Such a gentleman.” She takes the cue but sets it down to rack the balls on the felt. Then she picks up the stick, breaks, and one by one, lands her first four shots.
I drag a hand down my face. Fuck me. “A flapper and a pool shark,” I say, and I whistle in admiration.
She misses the fifth shot but doesn’t lose her cool. “Your turn, mister.”