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Right with the Divine, I roll, and the damn planet stops spinning on its axis. The casino goes silent, not a slot singing or a body breathing as the dice slam against the table edge. My eyes follow their trajectory toward what can only be my demise.

The dealer shakes his head, chuckling and eyeing me with admiration. “Seven wins!”

Cheers fill the casino, former critics turning into avid admirers. It’s the kind of win that’ll have casino security swarming me for a behind-closed-doors interview and a swap of the dice to make sure no hanky-panky’s going on.

“Thank you, Angel!” I yell, fisting my lucky hand in the air.

The dealer eyes me with a huge smile, suddenly ready to be my best friend. But I’m not falling for that.

I collect my chips post-haste, frantic to cash out. I’ll be happy if I never see another casino. I might be on a lucky streak, but I’m not about to test it.

Chapter Two

ESMERALDA

“Thank you, Angel!”

The casino roars with applause as a deep male voice screams above the din. The chaos stops me and everyone else in the Heirloom Rose dead in our tracks. After all, it’s seven in the morning on a Friday. There’s no reason for folks to be hollering.

I stand at the counter of the only Starbucks I’ve encountered in over two hundred and fifty miles—thank you, Nevada, for your stark desolation—weighing my options. I can finally get the coveted quadruple shot Americano with two pumps of vanilla and two pumps of caramel finished with cream. Or I can investigate the outbreak of chaos in an otherwise quiet casino.

Something tells me, despite my caffeine craving, that I need to see this. Raising a finger to the green apron-clad barista, I say, “Hold that thought for a moment. I’ll be right back.”

“Yes, but if anyone else comes, you’ll have to get back in line,” he calls after me.

I wend through the crowd, weaving my way to the noise. The auditory trail leads me right back to the Craps table and the handsome cowboy whose dice I blew on. He fists the air, his faceelated as the crowd around him cheers. The dealer looks hellbent on finding ways to get him to sit back down.

“No way, Cowboy. Don’t even think about it,” I mutter under my breath, keenly aware half of the pot he’s holding belongs to me. After all, his luck clearly began with my breath.

How do I know this? Because I stood behind him for a good thirty minutes, watching him slowly lose his ass. I also listened to the gossip at the table, talking about how he’d been there all night, caught in the worst losing streak in Heirloom Rose history.

Such a shame because the inauspicious Craps player is otherwise gorgeous. From his towering frame and muscular build to his tanned skin, dark blond hair and beard, and rugged face. He’s got the square jawline of a man who should know what he wants in life. Not one losing it all at the tables. But I suppose it takes all kinds to keep a casino rolling.

Before I can say a thing, the man shoves his chips into racks provided by the dealer, stacking the clear plastic holders high and beelining for the cashier. I can only estimate, but his winnings have to be significant, maybe up to half a million dollars, with a handful of chips like that. The sudden appearance of security escort to the cage underscores this. I follow behind, trying to work out my next move.

In reality, I understand that he owes me nothing. But where would he be without my intervention? My argument’s tenuous at best, but I learned a long time ago to let the Universe do its thing and enjoy the ride. That ride includes half this man’s jackpot.

Lord knows I could use some money. Treasure hunting is no cheap venture, and this one has already taken me across multiple states. I started in Oklahoma in a beat-up Chevy Silverado that needed work in nearly every state I chugged through.

Leaks here. Bad tires there. Issues with the odometer, the engine light, you name it. I even had a daunting experience with the brakes that had me at the mechanics in Salt Lake City. To say it’s a miracle I made it to Nevada is an understatement.

So, whatever it takes, I need to get this man to shower a little of the good luck I bestowed on him back on me.

I draw a little closer, pretending to loiter by some of the slot machines. The man’s far too busy, his voice loud and elated as he relays everything to the cashier, to pay attention to me.

“Very nice, Mr. Gunner. What fantastic wins! Are you planning on spending any of your winnings with us here at the Heirloom Rose? You know, we treat our VIP players to free rooms, comped dinners, discounted shows with extra perks, the works.”

Mr. Gunner?I lean forward, unable to believe my ears.

“Call me Reese,” he flirts with the cashier.

Reese Gunner? There’s no way.

“Alright,” the cashier giggles as she starts counting out stacks of cash. She’s a middle-aged lady with blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail.

My heart races as I scrutinize the man. I had no idea he’d be this good-looking.Or this foolhardy.

He has no social media presence, apart from owning Gunner Ridge Ranch. No photos in newspapers, either. Although I didn’t do an exhaustive search. Instead, I’ve spent the last four years learning everything I can about the treasure hidden on his property. Maybe I should’ve spent more time on the sexy man.