Reagan’s dark eyes widened. This was exactly the game she was hoping for, and Libby was playing right into her trap. She was a mouse too drawn in by the cheese to care about the metal spring aching to let loose and snap her neck. “If this is not the best Old Fashioned you’ve ever had, then you set your terms. It’s your wager.” Accepting the glass, Libby didn’t break eye contact. They were locked in a game of chicken, but she didn’t know what the stakes were. “Okay, then. If I win, you have to give me a pottery lesson. On the house.”
