I snort a laugh. “I’m sure one of the ladies at the bar could be available to stroke your ego.”
The look on his face pulls an even more obnoxious giggle from me as he steps closer, leaning in to whisper.
“I’m fairly certain the one with the gnome leggings winked at me.”
“Oh, she most certainly did.”
He takes another step and leans against his cue, his face even with mine, delight dancing in his eyes as I continue. “I hope it was okay I gave her your number. You should be expecting a call from Sheila. Probably late tonight after her recently divorced, man-hating friend is asleep. Solidarity and all.”
I’m not sure if it’s the beer making our movements soft and sloppy, or if it’s intentional, but our faces are close. Too close. Another half-inch and we’d be kissing.
I step back and narrow my eyes. “You’re trying to throw me off my game.”
“Is it working?”
In lieu of an answer, I lean down and sink the next ball. When I stand up to make a biting remark about his efforts, Noah’s face falls in playful disappointment.
“Damn, I better try a little harder.”
My next shot bounces off the corner and doesn’t land.
“Shit,” I mutter, swiping my beer off the table.
“Oh how the mighty have fallen,” he quips, rounding the table for his first shot.
When he leans down and adjusts his cue, I’m keenly aware of the corded muscles in his forearms, and the delicate hold he has on the stick. The image of him cradling my calf yesterday at the spa flashes as he strikes the white ball. When he grins, my resolve crumbles further and I know without a shadow of a doubt: if this man gives me an inch of interest, I’m going to fall flat on my face into it.
Noah sinks another before scratching. He pulls the white ball out of the pocket and holds it out to me with a defeated expression. “I’m going to have to get you significantly more drunk to win this thing, aren’t I?”
“Unfortunately for you, the more I drink, the better I get. It’s a hidden talent of sorts.” I pluck the ball out of his hand and place it gently on the table.
“Mmmm,” he says. “What other sorts of talents are you hiding?”
“You’ll have to buy me more than beer to find those,” I say, leaning down and sinking two stripes in one go. “Which means you’re trading secrets for being demolished on the billiard top.”
“Come now, I thought we were getting to know each other.”
I laugh, staring at the table and he doubles down.
“If you share yours, I’ll share mine.”
“Shhh. Sheila will hear you. We don’t want her getting jealous.”
“That was never going to work anyway.”
“Why? You have something against gnomes?”
“Terrified of them.”
“Pity.”
“Not really.”
“Oh?”
We’ve stepped closer to each other as words fly between us, the tension growing impossibly tighter. I’m not sure what I’m waiting for him to say, what combination of words will give me the okay to lean into whatever this moment is, but the longer he stands here—practically brushing my chest with his knuckles as he twists his cue stick into the carpet—the less that seems to matter.
His breath is warm on my face, smelling of beer and spearmint. “It would never work with someone like Sheila, because she doesn’t respect me enough to let me lose. I crave the challenge too much.”
