For the first time since he’d marched into her room like an avenging ghost, he smiled, and it transformed his entire face and was like catching a glimpse of a happy oasis in a desert of grump. “Slap Jack.”

She snorted. “Yeah right.”

“What?” He crossed his arms over his chest, the uh-huh-that’s-right look on his face showing that he knew exactly how good his arms looked at the moment. “It’s fun and fast.”

“Your thumb.” She pointed at his hand. “The one that you had surgery on? The one that’s the reason why you aren’t playing right now even though the team needs you?”

He shrugged. “I’ll use my other hand.”

“That doesn’t seem like the best idea.”

He grunted—of course—which she most definitely wasn’t beginning to find amusing. She was just getting used to it so it annoyed her less, that was all. And the butterflies bouncing around in her stomach? It had to be steak-related. Who could afford a thick, juicy piece of meat that size on her salary? And yes, she was talking about the steak and not the man, thank you very much.

She cut the deck in half, sliding one stack over to him and keeping one for herself. “You’re going down, Petrov.”

“Not gonna happen. I have professional-grade reflexes.”

That might be true, but she had three-fourths of the deck within minutes. If he had been someone else, she just might be thinking that he was hesitating so he didn’t smack her hand into a pancake—but this was Ian Petrov. He’d growled at her earlier today. Literally growled. Plus, if he even made eye contact with her, he was scowling half a heartbeat later. That whole don’t-hate-the-messenger thing was definitely not part of his personal philosophy. So the game continued as the fire crackled and the wind howled outside. King of hearts. Two of spades. Nine of spades. Four of diamonds. Jack of—

Shelby slammed her hand down on the pile a fraction of a second too late, landing on Ian’s hand with a resounding thwack. His eyes went wide and he sucked in a quick breath before looking down. He’d used the hand with his injured thumb.

“Oh hell, I’m sorry.” She shot up from where she sat crosslegged and nearly collapsed back down as invisible pins and needles jabbed at her because she’d sat in the circulation-destroying position for so long. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he said before he even looked down to make sure his stitches were still in place. “It was my fault.” He glared at her. “I got distracted.”

Okay, she wasn’t exactly a fan of losing, either, but what the hell was with all the dirty looks? She hadn’t meant to whack him. He was the one who used his injured hand and suggested Slap Jack.

“Do you need me to look at it?”