You Bet And I Survived
Language: en
My relationship with Rhett began with a wager. They assumed I had no idea. Except that night, the heavy oak door to the private VIP lounge hadn't clicked shut. I was standing in the corridor holding a silver tray with a crock of French onion soup, waiting for the bartender to sign my slip, when a ripple of laughter drifted through the crack. "Ninety days," a voice drawled, punctuated by the clink of crystal tumblers. "A hundred grand says you can't make that pathetic little busser fall hopelessly in love with you." Then came Rhett’s voice—lazy, textured with that careless, silver-spoon…