A low whistle cut through the haze.“Jesus Christ, just fuck already!”
The noise came roaring back, and Cassie, cursing, jerked her hand free, shoulder-checking Nash as she shoved past him and through the ring of bodies.The front door slammed behind her, muting the roar of laughter that followed her exit.
Out back, she hit the wall hard, sagging against it.Her breath caught, broke, and caught again.
She pressed her hand to her stomach, trying to pull herself together.
That look of his, that mouth of his—that smirk, that smile, that no-good drawl still curling through her like a live wire, pulsing hotter with each breath.
She dragged a palm down her face and cursed.
She was so damn screwed.
The rack hung loose in Nash’s hand, the cue still in the other.He stood there, pulse hammering, Cassie’s shove still burning through him.
Sally’s had already moved on—laughter fading as boots scuffed and chairs scraped.Someone called for shots; the jukebox kicked up another rowdy tune.
But around the pool table, it stayed quiet until a local let out a low whistle.“Well, shit.That went down ’bout as smooth as rocks.”
A patch leaned against the next table, smirking.“Shoulda pushed for five outta five, man.Might’ve had a shot at gettin’ laid before she near took your hand off.”
“She didn’t take his hand,” Snake sneered.“Just his balls.”
The cue creaked in Nash’s grip.
Twelve years gone.Connor dead.Cassie back in town.Both Berrys spinning his whole goddamn world again.
The funeral.Cassie’s hand in his.Cassie on his goddamn bike.Cassie at the pool table.
That look on her face when he mentioned Wytheville—she damn well remembered.But it wasn’t just memory standing between them.It was heat.Old and dangerous and still very fucking alive.
He slammed the cue against the table, snapping it clean in two, then hurled one half at Snake.Snake ducked, and the broken shaft smacked the guy behind him square in the chest.The rack went next, whipped across the room like a Frisbee.
“Anybody else?”Nash thundered.
Sally’s went dead quiet—the kind of silence that follows a gunshot.Nash’s jaw flexed once, then he turned on his heel and stalked for the door, boots thudding, the crowd splitting wide to give him space.
He shoved through the door, the night hitting him cool and sharp after the sweat and smoke inside.He stood there a beat, chest heaving, throat working around a curse he didn’t bother saying.When he didn’t see Cassie, he started moving—following the edge of the building until the light fell away, the noise behind him fading to crickets and the faint thrum of bass through the walls.
He found her out back, pressed to the siding, head tipped against it, eyes closed.Her eyes flicked open as he stepped closer—then shut again, like maybe she could wish him gone.
Fuck that.
He stopped beside her, leaned a shoulder to the wall, and looked.The sleek slope of her throat.The rise and fall of her chest.Silk clinging to the soft curves of her breasts, her nipples tight against the fabric.His gaze drifted lower—to the subtle dip of her stomach, the dangerous flare of her hips—
His fingers twitched, curling into fists before they did something stupid.The air between them grew hot and close, humming with leftover adrenaline.
“Since when do you run from winning?”he muttered, voice rough.
She huffed, nostrils flaring, chest lifting higher.“The game was over,” she ground out softly.
“Was it?”He leaned in before he could stop himself, mouth brushing her ear, feeling her breath hitch.“You don’t look done, Cas.”
Her eyes flew open and she spun—whether to slap him or grab him, he didn’t wait to find out.He caught her wrist mid-motion and pinned her back to the wall.Her free hand hit his chest, twisting in his shirt—
“Fuck you,” she bit out.
“You got it,” he bit back.
