“Why don’t we make this game worth our while?”
I lifted an eyebrow, silently asking what he had in mind. Though, it was against my better judgment. My gut instinct was to run as far away from Gabe as I could get. But the much less rational side of me kept me in place.
“We’ll play for me to be your muse.”
“My muse,” I repeated.
“Yeah. You need a muse, whether you care to admit it or not.” He spread his arms wide. “I’m offering myself as your sacrificial lamb.”
I snorted. Lamb, this guy was not.
“But you’re reluctant,” he continued.
“Because it’s not a real thing.”
“So you say,” he quickly replied. “Either way, I’m showing up for the job. We’re playing for it. Let’s go.”
He left no room for added discussion.
I shook my head, but then thought about it. Maybe if I won this game, that would be an opportunity to get him to back off. If I won, I could refuse his silly idea of being my inspiration for writing, maintain distance between us, and write my album in peace.
That was my hope anyway. I wouldn’t get into the details about how I hadn’t written a new line in months.
“Wait,” I said with my hand raised. “If you win, then you get to be my muse.” I rolled my eyes. “ButwhenI win, you have to promise to back off.”
He tilted his head to the side and stared.
“Seriously. I need to focus on work right now. Not …” I gestured up and down the length of his body. “So, I need you to stop popping up at my door and being all …”
He stepped closer, leaning down until his face hovered a mere few inches above mine. “All what?”
“All you.” I sounded flustered.
He was silent, but his eyes squinted and darkened, and a slow, dark smile crossed his lips.
My heart kicked against my ribcage, and I got the deepest, sneaking suspicion that I’d just let the wolf into the hen house.
“You’re that confident you can beat me?”
Despite my doubt, I looked him in the eyes and nodded.
“Okay, then.” He nodded. “It’s a deal.”
I exhaled. “All right, let’s do this,” I said like I had all the confidence in the world.
What Gabriel didn’t know about me was that I grew up playing pool. My parents had me singing in lounges and bars since I was ten. In between sets, I was often exposed to the games played at the bar, pool being one of the most popular.
“Ladies first,” he said, holding his hand out.
“Is that the Southern hospitality that I hear so much about?”
“That, and I want to stand behind you as you bend over to make your first shot.”
His honesty and the deep rumble in his voice sent me off kilter. My confidence in winning this game waned.
Fifteen minutes later, I stood there frowning as the ball Gabe had aimed at went into the corner pocket.
My stomach plummeted.
