Page 163 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

I stand by the door, every set of eyes turned my way, guys in Yankees caps hunched over the bar near the lotto machine, twenty-somethings in Chucks and backward caps, chewing toothpicks around cocky grins.

My eyes skip over bodies until I spot Andrew in the back corner, alone.

His head lifts, feeling me near—navy eyes finding mine through chalk dust and smoke, cue stick riding his shoulder. His chest rises with that doomed stare as I cross the room.

He’s in black jeans that ride his hips.

Plaid unbuttoned over a white tee.

Sleeves rolled up,

his arms making my pulse sprint.

Bright white Nikes

flashing under the shadows.

He stands tall,

beautiful,

and heartbreak-still.

Not the same man who walked out of my penthouse six nights ago.

Girls hover near him, probably been circling long before I walked in.

They watch him watching me.

Then they’re watching me.

Crossing the pool hall feels longer than it should under their gazes.

This is his turf. Hoboken knows Andrew Harding, and I can’t help but wonder if every smirking stare has already seen him on his knees.

When I stop in front of him,

he abandons the cue against the wall.

There’s one second when I’m not sure if he’s about to break my heart, or take me up against the pool table and break my back.

But then his hand slides under my hair,

to the back of my neck,

the other at my hip,

pulling me close

until our foreheads meet,

and our hips lock together.

His cologne wraps around me—the scent of stormclouds raining deep amber.

His mouth presses between my brows, then drags to my temple, next to my ear, breathing me in, staying a second longer for someone who left me like he did.

They’re not kisses.