“Bold,” Nash muttered.
“Calculated,” she corrected.
She dropped low again—and found Nash had shifted into her line of sight.Not blocking her.Just there.She ran through a litany of quiet curses—he’d always known exactly how to piss her off—how to bend her emotions to his will, whether through pride, provocation, or those long looks and crooked grins that still—stupidly—made her pulse stammer.
“You tryin’ to psyche me out?”she ground out.
“Is it working?”
“Nope,” she lied, and shot.
It dropped.The cue spun back clean, leaving her lined up perfect for the eight.
“You remember Wytheville?”Nash asked, his body suddenly angled toward her like he might very well close the distance if she said yes.
Her grip on the stick tightened.The rally in Wytheville came back in flashes—bikes lined up for blocks, bands on every corner, her and Nash running wild.
“I remember gettin' six hundred off those dentists,” she muttered, not looking up.
“Did we?I only remember that dress.”
“What dress?”
But the memory was already there.
Red.Too short, too tight, bought with half a case of Maverick’s moonshine.She’d let every man in the place see the dress and not the table, and by the time the bets got high enough, she and Nash had cleaned them out.
Then Nash’s laughter.Her hands in his hair, the sting of brick at her back, bills fluttering into the dirt.The two of them half drunk, half victorious, not caring who saw.
Cassie exhaled hard through her nose, her hand trembling just enough as she lined up the shot.The ball kissed the rail before dropping—a shaky clean.Groans and cheers rippled through the crowd.
“Corner pocket,” she said, leveling her cue.
Nash stepped closer, still crowding the space around her like he owned it.
“Side’s cleaner.”
“I said corner.”
“Still stubborn as shit,” he replied—and this time it almost sounded like respect.
Behind them, Snake crowed, “Ten bucks says they don’t make it to game three before he’s got her bent over the table.”
Another voice answered, “You’re on, brother.”
Heat crawled up Cassie’s neck.She bent for the final shot, nostrils flaring—and sank the eight.
The room went wild—cheers and laughter amid bills changing hands.Somewhere in the din, Crusher hollered, “That’s two down!Y’all wanna give her the crown now or later?”
Cassie didn’t hear the rest.Her eyes were on Nash—brow cocked.
His expression remained infuriatingly unchanged.He took a slow step closer, the corner of his mouth kicking up like he already knew the answer.“Unless you’re scared.”
“Scared?”She huffed a laugh.“Of you?”She stepped in and slapped the rack hard against his chest.“Not a chance.”
He caught it—caught her hand, too.His grip was warm, calloused, far too sure of itself.“Hell, Strawberry, I might be the only thing you’ve ever been scared of,” he murmured, his thumb dragging rough over her knuckles.
Her first instinct was to rip her hand back and make a joke.Instead, she stayed put, watching his pupils blow wide, feeling her whole body reply in kind.The noise around them winked out, the air between them thickening with need so naked it nearly liquefied her.
