Confusion fills his expression.
“I can help if you’re okay with me touching you.”
The way his pale cheeks go red this time leaves no doubts whatsoever that he’s blushing, prettily staining the soft skinunder his dark eyes. It does something deep, deep in my gut, and when Ziggy nods, it’s a relief to stop looking at his face.
I move beside him and press my hand between his shoulder blades, guiding him forward. Slutty, slutty images fill my brain, and I have to remind myself to be good andnotlook at his ass as I reach around him to fix his grip on the cue.
“Like this,” I murmur by his ear. We’re side by side, my right hand closed over his on the stick, and his left hand hovering over mine on the table. I’ve never been this close to him before, his hair tickling my cheek, his soft fingers brushing the backs of mine, the lemony scent of soap filling my nose in a way that’s warming me to a fruit I’ve always hated.
“Then you pull back,” I rasp, guiding his hand. “And because the one we’re aiming for is close to the pocket, you don’t want to use too much force. Like this.” We give the white ball a smooth tap, and his red one drops into the side.
Ziggy’s smile stretches wide, and we break apart as we straighten, the connection gone but still haunting me.
I drain my glass, then take my shot as he finishes his own drink. “I’ll get us another beer.”
I don’t wait for his reply because I’m worried that if I stay, I’ll help him again, and there’s no way I can go through that twice. I’m tempted to polish off my second drink at the bar and buy a third, but I still need to drive us back tonight, and three drinks is pushing things.
Like Mother Nature can hear me, there’s a loud rumble outside, and droplets start to hit the windows.
Who knows how quickly this will pass.
Double fisting the beers, I head back through to the pool tables and find Ziggy hovering awkwardly by ours as a group of people set up next to us. I guess there goes our private little bubble, which is a good thing. Definitely a good thing.
“How did you do?” I ask, handing over his glass.
Ziggy reaches into the pocket closest to him and pulls out his blue ball.
“You got it?” The excitement on his face boosts my mood. “How do I know you didn’t cheat?”
He rolls his eyes, but his smile doesn’t drop. Ziggy returns the ball to the hole he sunk it in.
“Okay, guess I need to step it up.” And by stepping it up, I mean sinking three balls one after the other. Sure, Icouldtake it easy on Ziggy, but I have a healthy competitive streak—and I say healthy because it’s nothing like Hudson’s—plus, I have the feeling Ziggy wouldn’t like me letting him win. He has a stubborn independent streak that I like.
“I think you’ve been hustled,” one of the guys beside us leans over to say.
Ziggy doesn’t answer him, just studies the man like he’s spoken another language.
I laugh to distract from the awkwardness. “It’s his first game. I’m teaching him how to play.”
“Teaching? Looks more to me like you’re wiping the floor with him.”
From an outsider’s point of view, I can understand why. “The harder he has to work for it, the better he’ll get.”
“That’s the truth. My dad never let me win anything, God rest his soul.”
I wish my dad had focused on us kids long enough to not let us win. “You’ve gotta be taught resilience.” I’m pretty sure that’s the thing Hudson, Hart, and I all lost out on. Hudson, because he hates being told no. Me, because every relationship ending feels like a personal failure of mine. And Hart, because he’s stopped trying when it comes to anything.
“Haven’t seen you around here before,” the man says. “You new?”
“From Wilde’s End. It’s a few hours away.”
“Never heard of it.”
That’s not surprising. “It’s an abandoned town. My brothers and I bought it.”
He points back Ziggy’s way. “That your brother?”
“Nah, he’s a friend.”
