“Bullshit,” I call out with a laugh. “Have you forgotten that I’ve seen you with your dad? You are definitely not the type of girl with daddy issues.”
Her smile only grows.
“Speaking of daddy issues,”she says, leaning in, making it a little hard to concentrate as I force my eyes to stay on hersinstead of drifting toward those perfectly plump lips that I already know taste incredible. “If he only knew how much you were flirting with me, it wouldn’t be HR you’d need to worry about—it'd be him. His nickname back in the day was JC Smash for a reason.”
Her tone may have been light, but I’m also not an idiot. I’d heard the warning in there, too. Still, I’ve come too damn far to back off now.
“For you? I’ll take my chances.”
“Remind me again when you were going to stop being so flirty?”
“Oops. My bad. I’ll stop now.”
“Looks like it’s my turn to call bullshit,” she says, leaning back.
“Okay, fine. You got me,” I say, holding up my hands. “But when it’s just the two of us sitting here all cozy, I can’t help it,” I complain, and it’s true. With our bodies close and our knees constantly touching, I can’t help but want to flirt with her. It’s somehow turned into a reflex I can’t quite control. “What would really help is having some kind of buffer or distraction.”
“And what would you suggest?” she asks, tilting her head in mock innocence. “Were you wanting me to be your wingman? I mean, now that I know your type and all,” she teases, nodding her head in the direction of the older woman near the pool tables. “She’d make an excellent buffer, and the two of you together? It just feels like a match made in heaven.”
I chuckle and glance back toward the people playing pool. “That’s a tempting offer, but I think I’ll pass,” I say, turning back to face her. “But I wouldn’t be opposed tousplaying a round of pool. What do you say?”
Yes, grandma and her friends have clearly claimed one of the tables, but the other is completely free for the taking.
She wrinkles her nose. “Pool? I don’t know... I’m not sure I’d be any good.”
I perk up. Did Christmas just come early? Because what guy doesn’t want a chance to play hero-slash-teacher to a beautiful woman who’s never held a cue before?
So maybe this isn’t the best distraction, since I can already picture myself sliding up behind her as we line up a shot, because why wouldn’t my mind go there?
“Oh, come on. I can teach you. I’m practically a professional,” I beam, sliding off my stool to coax her along.
I’m obviously not actually a professional. Far from it, but I’ve played enough late-night games to fake it—or at least enough to get by and perhaps teach her a trick or two along the way.
“You’re not just trying to get me to play so you can pull that whole rom-com move where you slide up behind me as you ‘teach me’ something, but really it’s just an excuse to grind yourself against my ass?” she asks, already seeing right through me.
Damn. How is she so good at that?
“If I was, could you blame me?”
“No. I guess not,” she sighs, sliding off her stool. “But what the hell? Why not?”
I gesture toward the back of the bar with a sweep of my arm. “Ladies first.”
So maybe I only wanted to follow after her so I could check her out from behind. In my defense, she has a really nice ass. It doesn’t matter that she’s not all dressed up like she was last night. Even in the red Honky Tonk T-shirt and well-worn cutoff jean shorts, she looks fantastic.
Getting to the table, I grab the triangle and rack up the balls while she pulls down two cues from the wall rack.
“Do you want to break, or should I?” I ask as she passes over my cue.
She tilts her lips to the side, looking uncertain before shrugging. “I guess I could give it a shot. I just stand over here, right?” she asks, glancing between me and the table.
I nod. “Yep, right there.”
She strolls closer to the table, and leans forward, lining up her shot. I open my mouth to ask if she needs help, aka, an excuse to slide up behind her and offer some expert guidance, but before I can get a word out she pulls back her cue and takes the shot.
The cue ball barrels forward with perfect accuracy and hits the racked balls with a loud crack as they disperse across the green top. I watch, mouth wide open, as the yellow-striped ball drops into the corner pocket.
“Holy Shit!” I exclaim, reaching up as I place my hands on the sides of my hat. “Am I about to get hustled?”
