“Lucky shot,” I murmured.
“Just like the last three, huh?”
I waved his comment off.
“What’s this one?” he quickly asked.
I paused before lining up for my next shot to listen to the new song that someone had put on. I frowned.
“Elvis Presley, ‘Anyway You Want Me’. Recorded in 1956,” I said, but wishing the song would quickly end.
“Not a fan of The King?”
“Elvis?” I asked. “He’s good enough, I suppose. Though there’s the complicated history of him stealing moves and music from lesser known Black artists,” I explained. “But I digress.
“It’s not him so much. It’s the song. It’s supposed to be a love song, but his voice.” I paused to listen. I swayed a little to the melody. “It’s so haunting.”
I felt heat cloud my backside. Gabe moved in closer. He swayed in time with my body, his hands going to my hips.
“Then there’re the words,” I continued, trying to explain my feelings for this particular song.
“What about them?”
His breath brushed over the back of my shoulder, feathering the tiny hairs at the back of my neck.
I let out a sigh.
“Any way you want me, he says. He says all of the ways he’ll contort himself.” I took a minute, feeling a soreness in my chest that I thought I’d successfully suppressed months earlier.
“You shouldn’t have to bend yourself so much to be acceptable. Not for someone who loves you.” I hated not only that I’d said those words out loud but at how heavy they felt. “Real love is accepting someone for who they are. All of them.”
The song ended, and it was right on time. I stepped out of Gabe’s hold and inhaled, forcing myself to pull it together.
“I need to take my next shot.”
He stood back, granting me enough space to aim my cue. I was already behind, and the shakiness of my hands wasn’t helping my chances any. On a wing and a prayer, I took my shot and missed.
Gabe didn’t gloat. He didn’t yelp or laugh. He stared me in the eyes and, in that deep bravado of his, said, “You’ve got yourself a muse, Cin.”
A muse.
I didn’t believe in them. I’d never needed someone or something special in my life before to be able to write. I’d tried my best throughout this game to win, and yet, I’d lost.
I could go back on my word and tell Gabe to screw off anyway. But when I tried, the words wouldn’t form in my mouth. The only thing left was to see where this venture took me.
Chapter 9
Gabriel
“What do you do when you need to provide someone with inspiration?” I asked Preston a few days after my night out with Lena while we tossed a football back and forth in his office.
He sat with his legs crossed on his desk, and I sat across from him in one of the low-sitting, black leather armchairs.
He stopped, his arm mid-toss. “Which one of our athletes are you trying to inspire?”
“None of ’em,” I admitted.
“Then who do you need to find inspiration for?”
