“He’s not my boyfriend, Stiles. He’s a man from a club. I couldn’t call him, if I wanted to.”

“Okay, no,” Pooch says, holding up his hands, “there is no way I’m gambling for money against you and Cougar.” Jensen frowns, leaning across the table to make wide, concerned eyes at Pooch. “Is it because we’re just that fucking good?” he asks. “No.” Pooch knocks the edge of the pack once, twice against the table. “It’s because I’m pretty sure you can read each other’s damn minds.”