“Did you take a minute to consider what the rest of the night would have been like for Zack if I struck him out? You saw my uncle out there. Imagine that at home, where there is no place to run off to.” His eyes pierce mine, a penetrating stare that challenges me, and my stomach churns at his point.
“That why you’re here? Hiding from your uncle?” I change the subject and shove a cue at his chest.
“Something like that,” he says, his voice low, words trailing off as if he just realized we’re close enough to share each other’s breaths. He wraps his hand around the stick I gave him and his eyes flit to my mouth then back up to my gaze.
“You any good?” His head tilts with his question, but I think maybe he’s challenging me as an excuse to put distance between us. The break is welcome. When he’s close, I don’t think clearly.
“I’m all right.” I shrug and face the table to properly rack the balls. I’m being coy. My family has a pool table. Or rather, we did. When I was old enough to hold the stick right, my dad put me up on a bar stool and let me play. I’m not a shark or anything, but I know my way around a game of nine-ball.
Cannon meanders to the opposite end of the table, working the chalk cube at the end of his stick.
“What’s the wager?” he says, glancing up at me before tossing the chalk in my direction. I catch it in my palm and squeeze it tight while I hold his stare for a beat. I could play this two ways. It could be a game, for fun, for something silly or maybe even slightly flirtatious. Lord knows there’s a thousand butterflies beating in my chest rooting for me to take that route. But the tiger in my soul is even more demanding and pushes me to make a point while I still can.
My tongue gently tastes my upper lip before I suck in and grab hold of it with my teeth, locking in the nervous laugh that’s dying to escape my throat. I’m going to make a business deal. The most gorgeous guy I’ve ever met is daring me to change the course of our relationship over a game of pool I have a really good chance at winning, and I’m going to instead opt to teach him a lesson.
My God, what is wrong with me?
He’s literally my kryptonite right now, black long-sleeved shirt with three open buttons at the top, dark fitted jeans that rest low on his hips and show off that tempting bit of skin just above the band of his boxer briefs. His feet are stuffed into unlaced white Vans, and damn it all to hell, even his ankles are cute. Unlike me, he’s taken a shower since that shit-show of a practice. His hair is damp, curling into loose waves that he keeps brushing away from his eyes. All of that is enough to make me get all stupid with my choices, but it’s whatever that smell is that accompanies him most of the time that’s thick and fresh and alluring as fuck right now.
Good thing I’m as close to repulsive looking right now as I can get. I’m still wearing dad’s sweatpants rolled down to fit my waist and my Yankees World Series sweatshirt. That knot that Cannon likes to affectionately tease me about is a doozy right now, to the point it’s going to take a bottle of conditioner to work it out. I did wash my face, though, so there’s that.
Tongue in my cheek, a little amused by my own gall, I let a short, airy laugh slip through my nostrils and dig in.
“What do you want if you win?” I need him invested for this to work. He props his stick up against the side of the table, folding his arm and leaning into the edge right next to his cue.
“Hmm, I mean . . . there are so many options.” His voice is definitely indicative of a guy taking the bait, despite my super grungy look.
I’m really about to ruin this. Damn me and my morals.
“What if . . .” I let my words linger in the air and haze my eyes just enough to tempt him, draw him in. When his lip ticks up, I go for the kill.
“If you can beat me, I’ll let you name your terms at any time you wish.” It dawns on me as I say this to him that I must feel a decent level of trust when it comes to Cannon Jennings. An open-ended bet like this, especially given my past, is normally way outside my comfort zone. Yet, there’s a little fire in my belly at the thought of losing and Cannon coming to collect. And the way he’s looking at me, chewing at the inside of his cheek while he considers my offer, that fire is getting . . . hotter.
“Any terms,” he reiterates.
I nod but hold up a palm in pause, hedging my offer just a little.
“Within reason,” I add, one eyebrow raised.
Cannon’s chest lifts with an amused laugh. I lock in on his blue eyes and will myself not to blink, even while he does, once . . . twice. His lashes are so long for a guy, like tools used to put whomever is looking at them under a spell. It’s close to working on me. I’m a little jealous because mine are so blonde that sometimes they’re hard to see except in the sun. Not his—his are all I see right now.
“I accept,” he says, stepping back and spinning his cue over his wrist a few times.
I point my finger in a circle to mock his circus trick.
“I’m a little worried if that’s how you think this game is done,” I say.
He shoots me a tight-lipped
