“I should warn you, I’m pretty good.”
“Don’t feel like you need to go easy on me.” His tone is amiable but his gaze could cut steel. My dick takes it the wrong way and starts to stiffen.
For most of the first game I think I’m not drunk enough for peak performance, and I rectify that by adding copious amounts of vodka to the equation. For most of the second game I suspect I might be a little too drunk to let my raw talent shine through.
Luke starts making helpful suggestions, saying things like, “try this line” and “would you like to take that shot again?”
I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me. I meant what I said. I’m usually pretty lethal with a cue in my hand.
Jesus. Why am I letting this guy affect me like this?
I find my stride in the third game but before I can get cocky about it, Luke leans over the table, taking his time to line the shot up. He holds the cue lightly, even so, his biceps bulge and indent a lot more than my dick considers ideal. When he takes the shot, he looks away before the cue ball connects with his target.
Holy shit.
Is he letting me win?
I refuse his offer of a fourth game to even things out. I take a seat on a barstool. I sit down a little more heavily than I usually would. My lips feel warm and my head spins from the quick change in altitude. “Wanna drink?”
“No thanks, I don’t drink hard liquor.”
I’d like to rip him to shreds for that. Ordinarily I definitely would. I’d love to mock him. God knows he leaves himself open to it. Ordinarily I’d enjoy seeing the flash of hurt in his eyes. I don’t know why I let it go. I hope it doesn’t have anything to do with the way he’s looking at me right now. He’s a few feet away from me. One knee is bent, and that hip is cocked at me. He has his eyes on my face, studying me like he’s looking for evidence or proof of something. Most of me hates it, but part of me doesn’t. His eyes wander down. His lids lower as his gaze travels down my neck and then down my chest. He gets stuck at a certain point and seems unable to move on.
“What?” I demand.
“Nothing.” I glare at him and a tense, uncomfortable silence takes hold. I’m determined to ignore it, but he can’t seem to do the same. “Can I ask you a question?”
“You kind of just did, but sure, ask away.”
“What made you decide to come and live here?”
“Ha! An excellent question, Pookie. An excellent question.” Oh shit. The alcohol is loosening my tongue. “The answer is threefold. Firstly, I needed a change of scene.” Those were my mom’s words, not mine. “And secondly, I did it ‘cause my mom wanted to stick it to my dad. He pays for my education and tuition fees here are around five or six times the cost of tuition in Australia.”
Holy shit. Did I just say that out loud?
Luke nods thoughtfully. He doesn’t seem remotely surprised by my admission. “What’s the third reason?”
“Third reason?”
“Yeah, you said ‘The answer is threefold.’”
God, there’s nothing worse than sober people when you have shit for brains.
I wave dismissively. “Can’t remember the third reason.”
The third reason is that I can’t stand my mom’s new boyfriend and she can’t stand having me around cramping her style. She said she was sad to see me go, but she drove me to the airport and then went straight out to meet Neil and his mates. The memory of her all but shooing me out of the car at International Departures makes vodka and a cocktail of emotion spin in my gut like ice and booze in a blender.
“I have a question for you, too.” I’m surprised to hear myself say it. I don’t have a clue what I’m going to ask. It’s one of those instances where it feels like I’m going to be just as surprised as anyone else by the next words that come out of my mouth, and that’s always a worry.
“Shoot.”
“Were you just looking at my nipples?” My voice is louder than normal and I can hear the effect of the vodka in my speech.
Why the hell am I asking him something like that?
Ugh.I think when it dawns on me.Just what I need. Shit-faced Jessie has made an appearance.
“Yeah.”
