“Why do you wear gloves?”

“My hands get cold,” says Annamarie.

He quirks an eyebrow. “In Mississippi? In July?”

“Why do you wear yours?” she counters. “They’re stupid.”

Remy’s wounded. “They’re for tricks,” he says, wiggling his fingers: ring and middle covered, index and pinky exposed. “Otherwise you have to wrinkle your cards to palm them easily.”

“Well, exactly. Might as well shout ‘something up my sleeve!'”

“So you’d keep your eyes on my hands, neh?”

“Damn straight.”

“Which one?” he asks, and spreads them apart, and when her eyes flick left his right hand plucks a quarter from her lips.