“A ring doesn’t prove anything,” Trainor said.

“I’ve spent—what?—half an hour with you gentlemen,” Miller said. “And I am confident you would not put a ring on a woman’s finger unless you believed you would spend the rest of your life with her.” The writer sat back in his chair.

Luke gave Trainor an assessing scan. Miller was right. Something about the CEO said he had integrity. Maybe it was that straight-up posture or his clear gray eyes.

Trainor thought about it before he shook his head. “You’ve had too much to drink. And so have I.”

The two nearly empty bottles on the table suggested that maybe they’d all had too much to drink, but that didn’t change the magnitude of the goal. This was a game changer, so it required a concrete incentive to get everyone’s attention. “I say we make it a bet,” Luke said. “We need to stake something valuable on the outcome.”

“The stakes are our hearts.” Miller sounded depressed.

“We need to bet something more valuable than that,” Trainor said, the edge back in his tone.

“All right, a donation to charity,” Miller said.

Luke shook his head. “Too easy.”

Miller lifted a hand for silence, and Luke caught a spark of slyness in the writer’s eyes. “Not money,” the writer said. “An item to be auctioned off. It must have intrinsic value, but it must also be something irreplaceable, something that would cause each of us pain to lose.”

Now Miller was talking.

“Who chooses this irreplaceable artifact?” Trainor asked.

“You do.” Miller waited for their reaction.

“So this is an honor system,” Luke said as the gears whirred in his brain.

The writer placed his hand over his heart in an exaggerated gesture. “A wager is always a matter of honor between gentlemen.”

Luke snorted. He’d seen plenty of wagers that had nothing to do with honor.

“A secret wager,” Trainor said. “We write down our stakes and seal them in envelopes. Only losers have to reveal their forfeits.”

“I think we require Frankie for this,” Miller said. He turned in his chair to get the bartender’s attention. “Donal, is the boss lady still awake?”

The bartender nodded. “Ms. Hogan never sleeps, sir. I’ll call her.”

“Miller, it’s well after midnight,” Trainor said. “Leave the woman alone.”

Luke nodded his agreement, but Donal was already speaking with his boss. He hung up and said, “She’ll be here in ten minutes.”

Miller asked Donal to bring them some stationery before he swiveled back to face the table. “I’ve done a lot of stupid things when I was drunk, but this may be the most ridiculous one.” He skimmed a glance over Trainor and Luke. “We can cancel this right now before it goes any further.”

“I’m still in,” Trainor said, his voice taut.

“You backing out, Miller?” Luke asked. The writer had started this.

“Pardon my moment of sanity,” Miller said, shaking his head before he drank a slug of bourbon. “Gentlemen, I suggest we ponder our stakes.”

Luke knew exactly what he was going to wager. When you needed the win, you left everything you had on the field.

Trainor sprawled in his chair, frowning as he tapped his fingers on the arm. After a few moments, his expression changed. The CEO had made up his mind.

“That’s a downright unpleasant smile, Trainor.” The writer had also sunk deep into his chair. Luke was ready to catch the glass dangling from Miller’s lax grasp.

“I’ve decided on my wager,” Trainor said, his smile broadening.

“Are you sure it’s something that would draw a high bid?” Miller asked.

“I guarantee it.”

The writer switched his focus to Luke. “Have you made your decision?”

“Made it five minutes ago.” He decided to up the ante to see if Miller would stay in the contest. Pulling a pen out of his pocket, he lifted his glass off its napkin and wrote a large number on it. Spinning the napkin around so his fellow bettors could read it, he said, “Just to sweeten the pot, we should add a significant monetary donation to the charity.”

Trainor raised his eyebrows but said, “Done.”

Luke gave the CEO credit for committing without hesitation. He’d picked a number that could make even a billionaire think about it.

Miller read the number and nodded his agreement.

Luke sat back. He’d made sure they all had their heads in the game.

The big paneled door swung open for a third time, and Frankie Hogan strode into the bar. Her silver hair caught a gleam from the brass chandeliers, and her dark blue blazer and white blouse reminded Luke painfully of the Patriots’ uniform colors. As she approached their table, all three men rose to their feet, dwarfing the tiny Irishwoman. Luke’s knee popped. He winced and hoped no one else had heard the sound.

“Gentlemen, I understand there’s illicit gambling going on in my establishment.” Her rasp of a voice reminded him of a referee at the end of the fourth quarter, except for the Irish accent. “I want a piece of it.”

Miller chuckled. “Frankie, we’re wagering on matters of the heart, and you haven’t got one.”

The Bellwether Club’s founder gave a snort of laughter at the insult. “Clearly, I can feel pity, because I let you join my club.”