Page 28 of All In

“You got robbed,” Juniper tells me afterward, trophy still in hand, grinning so hard it’s contagious. “Categorically robbed.”

“I’m aware.”

“There is no possible way the judges could have known going in that the Iron Man guy would have functional repulsors.”

“It’s witchcraft,” I say. “I’m fairly certain it’s witchcraft. No human being builds working anti-gravity tech for a costume contest.”

“Maybe he’s secretly Tony Stark.”

“If he’s secretly Tony Stark, I have several follow-up questions about why he entered a regional con instead of, you know. Saving the world.”

“Maybe he’s on a break.”

“A costume-contest-shaped sabbatical.”

“Sure. Very relatable, actually.” She bumps her shoulder against mine, trophy still clutched to her chest like she might lose custody of it if she sets it down. “You did good, though. Second place is genuinely respectable.”

“Coming from the woman who won outright.”

“I worked very hard for this.” She holds the trophy up, admiring it in the hallway light. “Don’t make me feel guilty about my excellence.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” And without a thought to what I’m doing or why, I pull her close and kiss her head.

We’re in the vendor hall an hour later, deep in a debate over a hand-painted print that Juniper’s decided she needs. The debate isn’t about whether or not she should buy it, but rather whether or not she’ll let me buy it for her.

Then I feel the air around us change before I see why.

Eric.

He’s not in the Klingon getup today—instead, he’s wearing street clothes, a con badge on a lanyard, the kind of casual that reads less like off duty and more like gave up. I’m fairly certain he’s been watching us for a few seconds before either of us notices, because by the time Juniper turns and sees him, his expression’s already arranged into something deliberate. He saunters over to us.

“Leo,” he says, like we’re old friends. “Funny running into you again.”

“Eric.” I keep my voice easy, unbothered, the same register I’d use with anyone. No reason to give him more than that.

“You know, you looked familiar yesterday,” he says, keeping his eyes on me. “It bugged me all night, trying to place you. Took me a while.” He smiles and it’s smarmy like a cartoon villain. “Then I remembered. Forbes did a profile a few months back. Young founders, under-thirty types. You were in the header photo, actually. Pretty memorable, once I made the connection.”

Something in my chest drops, fast and cold, the floor of the conversation tilting under me before I’ve even processed where it’s headed.

He’s not wrong. I know exactly which profile he means.

“Small world,” I say, because it’s the only thing I can get out fast enough, and I’m aware, distantly, that it’s the same thing I said to him yesterday and it sounds considerably less casual the second time.

Eric’s gaze slides over to Juniper, and something in his smile sharpens.

“Guess I just didn’t realize,” he says, “what it took to get your attention. Should’ve led with the net worth.”

The words land in the space between us like something physically dropped.

Juniper’s whole face does something complicated—confusion first, fast and genuine, like she’s trying to locate the joke, but doesn’t find one—and then something colder settles into her features. She aims her hardened features squarely at Eric.

“Excuse me?” she says.

“I’m just saying.” Eric shrugs, the picture of innocence.

I want to punch him in his smug face. Creepy asshole.

“Apparently I should’ve mentioned my trust fund. Might’ve gotten somewhere.”