I glanced at Rayna. She smirked when I shared her message. “I don’t even know her yet, but you talk about her so much it feels like I do.”
“She already thinks you’re trouble,” I said.
“I am,” she grinned. “Tell her I’m busy being useful. Let’s get through Saturday first.”
But my chest was already tight, because the truth was clear: I wanted more than Saturday. I wanted her at every table, every morning, every night. And I was one heartbeat away from saying it out loud.
“Want to play later?” I asked, blurting it out. The truth was, I just couldn’t stomach letting her go yet.
She grinned—sharp, devastating—completely unaware of how far gone I was. “You think you can handle losing two nights in a row?”
“You didn’t win the other night.”
“I won your mouth on my?—”
“Okay,” I choked, laughing, already hard at the memory. “We’re playing tonight.”
She smirked. “Thought so.”
We napped first. She curled against me like she belonged there, and that was the danger—how natural it felt. I counted my way through it—four beats in, three beats out—but it didn’t keep me from wanting.
I took her home so she could change, figuring she’d throw on her usual tomboy gear—cargos, a hoodie, something easy. But when she stepped back out, my whole chest tightened.
A sweater dress. Soft, fitted, hugging every line my hands and mouth had already memorized in pieces but wanted whole. Her thighs teased above thigh-high boots, thick and smooth, making my palms itch just to hold them open. She didn’t say a word, didn’t need to. The look on her face said she knew exactly what she was doing to me.
Chapter 10
Don’t Force It
By eight, we were at The Green Room. The place gave her back like it missed her. Tino lifted his chin in approval, and Uncle Leon eyed me like I was a test he wasn’t sure I’d pass.
We took her favorite corner table. She leaned on the rail, chalked her cue, and told me, “This angle makes men honest.”
“And women?” I asked.
She gave me that half-smile, wicked and sweet. “We’re already honest.”
She broke clean—two balls down, cue ball kissing deadcenter. Show-off. Every time I bent over a shot, I could feel her eyes on my glasses like a dare. I kept them on because she told me to. She rewarded me with a whisper that wrecked my concentration:Good boy.
No money on the line. Stakes were obvious without it. Every rack was foreplay. Every brush of her hand over the felt had me thinking about the way she’d brushed my jaw hours earlier when I was buried inside her.
Leon drifted by, tapped the rail, and muttered to her, “Don’t let him get cute.”
“Too late,” she shot back, eyes never leaving mine.
Between games, I caught her by the hip, pulled her close so only she could hear. “Friday was the first time in a long time I didn’t care what time was doing.”
Her chin tipped, eyes softened in a way that hit harder than the dress she wore. “You always care what time’s doing?”
“I teach to bells for a living,” I said. “My whole life’s run on starts and stops. But you—” I brushed my mouth against her ear. “You made me forget the bell.”
Her smile turned lethal. “Then we should keep you truant.”
We didn’t last long after that.
In my truck, she threw her feet on the dash like she owned the ride. My hand slid to her thigh on instinct, palm heavy on warm skin. She caught my wrist, held it there, and whispered, “Don’t get yourself in trouble.”
But her eyes dared me to.
