His eyes, an amber brown, narrow at me. “I’m on the team,” he says, his smirk softening into an assessing smile as he takes me in shamelessly. I can tell by the heated glint in his eyes that he appreciates my red cowboy boots, the black miniskirt wrapped tightly around my hips, the sliver of skin left exposed by my crop top despite the oversized bomber jacket I have on.
There’s this unspoken dialogue that happens in the space after this question. It happens when he lets my gaze rest on him, when he doesn’t look away, and it’s full of recognition. Like, this could easily happen and, under other circumstances, it would.
I pull my bottom lip through my teeth, letting my head roll before leveling him with a knowing look. “So you play ball.” I glance at him sideways, through my lashes, and lean across the edge of the pool table, lining up my first shot. “Point guard?”
“Yeah,” he says, surprised. “You play?” I’m tall, and Grant’s my twin, so it’s not a crazy assumption, but there was only one athletic gene to spare when we were in the womb. It went solely to him.
“No,” I laugh, wiggling my fingers as I hold up my hand. “I paint.”
“She paints,” he murmurs, his gaze casting downward like he’s mulling something over. “Why haven’t I seen you before?”When his gaze pulls back up, his eyes are filled with subtle intensity, like we’re the only people in the room.
“I only visit when I have to.”
“So you’re visiting?” he pries, and I hate the blush that gives me away.
“Visiting…for the foreseeable future,” I laugh, and the white ball violently shatters the careful pyramid. “I was in San Francisco.”
“And you left?” he asks, watching the balls scatter. “I grew up in Huntington Beach, but we made our way up north at least once a year.”
Warmth emerges in his tone when he talks about it, and I immediately know he loved it there. That he, like me, wouldn’t be here if he didn’t have to be.
“You miss it?” The balls roll to a slow stop.
“Everyday,” he says, like it’s the only right answer. “Why’d you leave?” he asks, the sound softly brushing against my skin, and my stomach dips. Somewhere in this bar is that handsome stranger who wouldn’t have asked any questions, but I ended up here. He takes his shot, sinking a solid ball in with ease.
“Are you always this nosy when you meet someone new?” I plant a hand on my hip, cognizant of the way Andrew watches the lazy swing of my long hair.
His throat bobs as he steps forward, shaking his head. “No. But it isn’t everyday that a woman like you walks into a bar.” Thinly veiled lust burns in the back of his gaze, and I laugh.
I roll my eyes, wondering how often that line gets used. He starts to say something, but I cut him off, deciding to save him the effort. “Andy—” my head dips “—this isn’t gonna happen.”
His eyes narrow in amusement, his lips tugging up as he huffs a laugh. “Because…of your brother?”
“That’s honestly insultin’,” I say instead ofyes, because I hate that I’m having to tip toe around his irrationality. “And makes this even more of no.” Another lie, because I’ve always loved an arrogant man.
See: Elliot.
Stop thinking about Elliot.
He steps toward me, a smile playing at the corners of his eyes. “Can I at least plead my case?” he asks in a low murmur that feels like he’s wrapping his arms around my waist. He’s not touching me, though. He’s good at this.
“For what? I know who you are, Andrew,” I say on a breathy laugh, fidgeting with the blue chalk.
“And who am I, exactly?” he says, and when I look up I really notice the gorgeously hard lines and muscle subtly rippling beneath his calm exterior. I notice the perceptiveness that probably makes him a superior point guard, because underneath all of that cool exterior, beneath the cocky confidence and charm, he’s calculating, reading the room, readingme.I hate that he’s trying to see anything at all, when I just want to disappear.
Hands firmly planted on the velvet edge of the table, I lean forward, pinning him with my gaze, and try to rattle him.
“A fuck boy, for one.” That barely amuses him, so I try harder. “Deceptively laidback. No strings attached, agood time.” I cock my head to the side, smirking as his jaw twitches. “I bet you make girls feelrealspecial.” He winces and I catch it before I take my shot. “And when you let them down, no one can really blame you, because you’re just notthatserious. Except you are.” I see his throat bob. “You’re way too determined to be that superficial. I know your playbook,” I tell him, flicking my gaze down. “Your turn.”
Andrew sidles up beside me, closer than he needs to, andsinks one of his solids with barely any force, watching as the other balls ricochet across the table, unbothered.Fucker.
“Then you know.” Any trace of that over confident smile is gone. In its place is a quiet one—overwhelming and intoxicating. It pins me in place.
“Know what?” I turn my head to face him, only to find we’re closer than I expected. He’s surveying every inch of my face, until his gaze lands on my lips.
“Exactly what you’d get,” he tells me, wetting his lips as the hint of a smirk travels from the corners of his mouth to his eyes and it’s like I can see it in the dark pools of his irises—the tension. It’s palpable—feels easily combustible—and I could lean just an inch forward and take it, no questions asked.
I know it, and he knows that I know it, and that is exactly the kind of power I refuse to hand a man ever again, even for just one night. This already feels lopsided, like the beginnings of a power struggle.
