“What was that about?” Kate asked.
“Who knows?” Claire turned back to choose the final song. “Maybe she doesn’t like the way he discards his cigarettes, like another monkey I know who goes ape-shit about littering.”
She felt Kate’s glare on her. “Lit cigarette butts start fires every year, cheese-dick. And for your information, Mississippi is trying to quit smoking.”
“No shit?” That wasn’t an easy habit to break. Claire still craved cigarettes periodically, especially when she had a violent killer hunting her for some diamonds that she wished she’d never found. So much for bumming a cigarette from Mississippi later when she was drunk and looking to sneak a quick hit.
“Help me pick the last song, Fire Marshal Kate.” Claire hooked her arm through Kate’s.
Kate scanned the songs, giggling. “Natalie’s going to kill us for doing this.”
“I know.” Claire chuckled.
“Oh!” Kate touched the glass. “How about this one?”
“Perfect!” Claire punched in “Fire” by the Pointer Sisters. “Mark my words, Natalie is going down tonight.”
“Are we still talking about that O-ring zipper on my shirt or something else?” Kate pretended to hold a cigar and wiggled her eyebrows, looking like a mix of Groucho Marx and Chester.
Claire laughed. “You’re a bad influence, Porn Star.”
“Takes one to know one, Daisy Duke.”
* * *
“Heads or tails?” Natalie asked Coop, flipping a quarter in the air. She caught it and smacked it onto the back of her hand, hiding the coin under her palm as she waited for his call.
He stared at her across the pool table, his gray eyes hooded in the dim light. Dressed in jeans, boots, and a black shirt, he looked like a fatal case of heartbreak in one hot-to-the-touch package. A rush of lust rolled through her, making her skin steam.
Hell’s bells! They hadn’t even started playing yet and she was already melting.
You’re on sabbatical, the left side of her brain reminded her. Don’t play with fire.
Right. Don’t touch. She needed another shot of tequila.
No, bad idea. Tequila made clothes fall off.
The jukebox kicked to life. Mick Jagger belted out “Start Me Up.” Natalie shot a frown toward the dance floor. Even the Rolling Stones were working against her tonight.
“Lady’s choice,” Coop said, trailing his fingers along the edge of the corner pocket as he rounded the pool table.
“Stop being a gentleman and call it.” Natalie’s pulse revved as he closed the distance between them. “Tonight we’re going to play a square game from start to finish.” She gave him a mock squint. “No letting me win this time so you might get some back alley action.”
“I didn’t let you win that time.”
“You sank the eight ball in the wrong pocket on purpose.”
“That wasn’t on purpose. You distracted me.” He leaned on the table’s side rail, his body only inches away.
Dear Lord, he smelled like sex and spice and everything nice. Really, brain? Nursery rhymes about sex? She snorted. She probably shouldn’t have had that shot of tequila. Or the one before that. History had shown that mixing alcohol and Coop made a highly combustible fuel that rocketed her common sense to Jupiter.
She swayed to the Stones’ beat, playing it cool, pretending she wasn’t fighting the urge to lean forward and lick Coop’s neck. “I don’t remember doing any such thing.”
His gaze dipped to the O-ring zipper at her chest. “You bent over the table in my line of sight when I was trying to shoot. I could see down your shirt clear to your navel.”
Natalie pursed her lips. Okay, that was entirely possible, especially with tequila playing puppet master. But … “I was wearing a bra that night.”
“I remember. It was black lace with a pink polka dot satin edge and a little pink bow right here.” He pointed to a spot below the O-ring.
“You remember that?”
Coop bent closer, whispering in her ear, “Your panties matched.” His breath warmed her neck, and his words made her unmentionables smolder.
A delicious shiver rippled down her back, leaving goose bumps in its wake. “Wow.” She tried to laugh, but it came out raspy. “Well, at least I made sure to coordinate that night.” Most mornings she threw on whatever was clean and called it good.
Coop leaned back, one eyebrow raised as his gaze moved over her, dipping clear to her boots. “I’m curious.”
“About what?” she asked. What she was wearing under her clothes tonight? A flare of heat burned its way up her neck. Sweet Jane almighty, he could flirt the bloomers off a preacher’s wife.
“About what’s under your hand.” He cocked his head to the side. “I call tails.”
She tried to ignore the deep throb going on in her southern hemisphere and lifted her palm. “Tails it is. Name your game.”
“Nine ball.” He took the quarter from where it sat on the back of her hand, his fingers lingering on her skin. “And this time, don’t let me win to try to soften me up so that I won’t arrest you for vandalizing a vehicle.”
The second time they’d played, she’d been doing her best to distract Cooper. He’d caught her red-handed with the windshield wipers—blades and all—from the Jaguar belonging to the asshole sperm donor who’d impregnated her best friend a decade ago … and then scuttled away from all child-rearing responsibilities.
She shrugged. “A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. Besides, if memory serves me right, you called that game a draw.”
He shrugged back at her. “A guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do. Rack ’em, Beals.”
Natalie grabbed the ball rack from the wall and set up the game. She could feel his eyes on her and did her best to keep her hands steady, trying not to let him see
