27
“Thanks,” I uttered. What the hell is Caleb doing here? My Monet painting exploded into a Picasso. I had hoped he would follow me, but I had given up hoping after the first couple of weeks.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he said just as softly.
“I was in Italy.”
“I know. I read the news that you won. Are you playing the whole tour?”
“Yes. Are you?”
“It depends.”
“On what?”
He tossed a chip in the pot and then leaned back to look at me. “You.”
I took a breath and focused my attention on the table. “I have a tournament to play.”
“And I have a favor to grant.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I do. Although it’s not what you originally requested.”
My eyes slid to him. “You won’t forgive me?” I asked, as my breath lodged in my throat.
“I was upset. It had nothing to do with forgiveness. Yo
