Ziggy gives me his snarky smile and tugs my sleeve, the way I’m starting to pick up he does whenever I’m being too fussy over him. I don’t want to handle Ziggy with kid gloves because he’s more than capable of a lot of things, but without that chance to know him better, I’m constantly on the back foot.
I don’t know what he likes. I don’t know what offends him. I’m left to guess at everything, and thankfully, he doesn’t mind when I fuck up—or at least, like the other day with Rooney, he doesn’t hold it against me—but I am determined to figure out the person he keeps locked inside.
We enter the Wayward Traveler, and since it’s late afternoon, there are a few people in here, but it’s not overly busy.
“You know how to play pool?” I ask, pointing toward the tables in the back.
Ziggy shakes his head.
“Awesome. I’ll teach you.” I lead the way to the bar and hover for a second, debating whether I should bring up the drinking thing again or suggest a Coke. Ziggy preempts me, like he’s plucking the thoughts from my mind, and reaches over to tap the top of one of the beer logos.
That makes it easy. I pay for our order, and he follows me toward the back, where two of the pool tables sit empty.
Ziggy sips his drink while I rack up, then chalk two sticks and hand him one.
“The whole point of the game is to get your balls into the holes.”
His eyes flick to me, and I just make out the way he pumps his eyebrows under the thick hair hanging over his face.
“Who knew you had such a dirty mind?” I step closer and untangle the metal headband from his hair. Then I slide it back in, making sure to catch all the hair I’m able to. “Idoknow you like to hide, but being able to see is important in this game.”
In the dim lighting, his brown eyes look bottomless, and it’s hard to tell if he’s blushing again or if it’s the lighting in the bar. Either way, I’m definitely doing the staring thing again and have to bite down on my cheek and make myself step away. I told myself that checking out friends was a totally normal thing to do, except now that I’ve started, I’m finding it hard to stop.
Ziggy is … mesmerizing. There’s no other way to put it. His face is so expressive, and I have a hard time not watching it because the smallest twitches give away what he’s thinking, and I don’t want to miss a thing.
It also doesn’t help that having his ass so close to my face at the river literally rearranged brain cells. With how baggy his clothes are, I never would have guessed at the mouthwatering body he’s hiding.
He tilts his head, clearly asking me what I’m doing, and I switch to joking mode so he doesn’t know what’s going through my mind.
“Hey, if you want to give me the advantage, that’s cool too. But I’m basically a professional at this, so you need all the advantages you can get.”
He laughs, but it’s silent, and I wish I could bring out the one that bursts from him when he’s not thinking about it.
Pool.Focus.
“The full-color balls are called solids, and the ones with white on them are stripes. I’ll break, and whichever I sink is the one I am. You’re the opposite. To get the balls in the holes—” I pauseto share a smirk with him this time. “—you have to hit the white ball into them.”
I set up and take the first shot, showing him what I mean. The triangle flies apart, and at least two balls drop into the pockets.
“I’m stripes.”
He’s assessing the table, sizing up the layout, and then he takes a long drink of his beer. Ziggy walks over and tries to mimic the way I was standing, but it’s way off. He’s standing too tall, his arms too straight.
A stray thought to help him flitters through my mind, and my pulse kicks up a notch. How would Ziggy react to that? To standing close and taking his hand, guiding him through his first shot.
I shouldn’t.
Maybe if I weren’t aching to touch him, it wouldn’t be an issue, but the thought of curling over his body is almost too hard to resist. I’d like to think it’s because I’m a helpful guy, but there’s nothing altruistic about my thoughts.
He takes a shot while I’m still debating with myself, and it’s so bad I can’tnothelp him.
It would be cruel to let him suffer.
“Like this,” I say, vowing to behave as I lean down toward the table and show Ziggy how to stand. He eyes me, then moves into position. It’s better, but still not great. “Lower so you can aim properly.”
He tries again, and it’s like hewantsme to touch him with how awkward he looks. The universe is killing me.
I swallow roughly and move closer. “Can I?”
