She handed it to him. “Here you go, Truck.”
Truck took it from her. His hand briefly covered Britt’s hand when she reached for his money.
Her smile froze again and J. T. could see that she was struggling not to snatch her hand away.
A surge of black temper made every single one of his muscles go rigid.
He didn’t have a claim on Britt. But if Truck pulled that crap again J. T. would be in the headlines for the wrong reason again.
Truck knew exactly the effect he was having on him, too.
Because he gave J. T. a little smile.
“You play pool, McCord?”
“Oh, sure. Some.” J. T.’s voice had gotten soft. Abstracted.
Anyone who knew him well would have worried about it. It meant he was furious.
In that significant divot of time between when his last rom-com had tanked and the relative triumph that wasAgapé—during which his phone got almost eerily quiet and the scripts dwindled—the first thing J.T. could think to do was play pool against himself. It had helped channel the mounting panic.
To this day thatpockof a cue striking a ball felt like his personal soundtrack to failure.
Which was ironic, given that he’d become agreatpool player.
“You should come on back and play some pool later.” Truck made that friendly invitation sound somewhat sinister. “I’m going back there now.”
“Just might.” And J. T. made that sound just a little bit like a threat.
Truck nodded, satisfied that the two of them understood each other, hoisted himself out of his chair and turned it around again. They returned to where they were sitting originally.
“Homeroticsubtext?” Britt murmured as she handed him the beer. “That was inspired.”
He would have ridden into battle on a charger for the chance to see her smile the way she did now: slow, soft, thoroughly amused and impressed.
“I’ve heard Truck can really stomp a guy,” she added.
“You worried about me, sweetheart?”
She grinned. “Not in theleast.”
She slipped away again.
He had just about finished half of his second beer when Mike McShane ceded the stage to a skinny guy with a big drooping red mustache.
“Let’s hear it for Mikey McShane! Next up: Dan Ludlow, ladies and gentlemen!” Glenn announced.
Mickey McShane left the stage to a scattering of indifferent applause and one loud belch.
Dan Ludlow was carrying a square case. He carefully lowered it to the stage, flipped up the latches, and to J. T.’s horror, lifted out an accordion.
J. T.’s policy had always been to head in the opposite direction of any given accordion. It occupied the same musical strata as kazoos, as far as he was concerned, and he would almost rather listen to fingernails dragged down a chalkboard.
He got up casually, aware of eyes on him and strolled to the bathroom, where he had an interesting view of the stage through the high little window.
That guy was really jamming on accordion.
And then he finished up and slipped out of the bathroom into the poolroom.
