My grin breaks free before I can stop it. Michaels’s stare drops to it, and it’s like his face freezes. His mouth moves, and no words surface before?—
“Something that makes you happy,” he blurts.
“Winning.” I can’t keep the whine from my voice. “I’m so tired of losing.”
“I feel that, but you can’t pick winning.”
“Why not? What’s wrong with liking to win?”
“Nothing, but I don’t know, bro. If that’s what you need to be happy…that’s kind of sad, no?”
I blink at him. Yeah, I guess it is. This conversation has been enlightening.
“Plus, it’s more supposed to be something small.It’s the little thingsin lifekind of deal.” He leans on the cue stick, rocking back and forth, his Golden Retriever tail-wag energy buzzing from him.
“Like for me, it’s quirky things. I know you said you’re not into woo-woo, but I think it’s fun to learn about those kinds of things. Like the wild things some of the greats have done to improve their game or get out of a slump. The guy’s name is totally escaping me right now, but there was that outfielder who used to piss on his hands to toughen them up. He didn’t wear batting gloves, and he swore it helped him with better bat control.”
My mouth tightens against a smile. Shit, he’s right. I forgot about that.
“Oh! Another one. Pedro Martinez used to wear a uniform that was a size too small. Said it made him more aerodynamic.”
“Turk Wendell used to brush his teeth between every inning,” I add mid-laugh. “Oh, and there was Chicken Man!”
“Yes! See? You can’t help but smile learning about these things. Even you, Mr. Grumpy Wumpy.”
“You got me,” I say and don’t try to put away my smile. “All right. Something that makes me happy—that’s not winning.” I take my turn and sink one ball. One left. “Craft beers. Does that count? I love trying small breweries and discovering new favorite IPAs.”
“Totally counts.” He sinks a ball. “Last question. Something that drives you.” He lines up for his next shot.
“My dad.”
Those blue eyes meet mine for a heartbeat, a wealth of understanding in that one look, before his attention is back on the table. He sinks his final ball. Just the eight ball left. He walks around the table, brows in a concentration line as he weighs his options.
“You?”
His gaze flicks up to mine. “My momma. Everything I do, I do for her.”
Huh. I think that might be respect I feel growing for the flippant, forever joking guy in front of me.
He calls his pocket, but misses, so I’m up.
“I’ll hand it to you, Michaels. Your five-finger game was a good one.” I sink my ball, then glance back at him. “Even if it’s not my favorite version.” I wink, and he bursts out laughing.
The sound fills me, lights me up. The man’s joy is infectious. It’s been so long since I’ve been around joy. Warmth. He’s like a walking ray of sunshine, and it’s not just his blinding smile.
I call the right pocket for the eight ball. I bend low over the table and line up my shot. I glance at Michaels, a chirp on the tip of my tongue, but I completely forget what it was. Because his attention is locked on my ass, and his shiny white teeth are digging into his pink bottom lip.
I quickly turn back to the table and take my shot. But confusion makes my movements sluggish and uncoordinated. I hit the completely wrong side of the ball and send it into the left pocket.
“Wrong hole,” I say gruffly.
Michaels sidles up to me, his arm brushing against mineand his citrus scent washing over me in a wave. His dark blue gaze locks on mine. “Looks like the right hole to me.” His voice is lower than normal, thicker, his words heavy with a meaning I doubt he intended.
“You win,” I murmur.
“Time for me to claim my prize.”
Those words skate over me, and I shiver. Because Michaels looking at me like that? Makes it feel like he’s talking about me.
