“Well,” she scoffs, her ponytail flapping behind her, “maybe I wouldn’t ask so many questions, if you’d just answer them the first time.”
“Fine,” I concede on a giant breath. “I needed to get out of the house and this seemed like a good place to do it. Happy?”
“Very.” She rests her cheek on my shoulder. A minute later, her warm breath coasts over my ear. “I’m glad you’re here.”
I’m unable to reply because my own breath catches in my throat. The feel of her this close to me is pretty fucking amazing. My body wants to gravitate to hers, push closer, but I resist. Straining behind my zipper is a massive hard-on that I’m trying to conceal. I don’t want her thinking that’s what this is about—because it’s not. If it was, I could easily find someone to relieve it. Whatever this is, I don’t want to destroy it—because it already means something to me.
Wisps of fine hair brush against my chin as we sway back and forth, our bodies completely in sync. Another slow song plays and we continue to hold each other, neither of us anxious to let go. At one point Ember leans back, her eyes focused on mine. Her full lips too close, but not close enough.
“So, sex in the bathroom, huh? And a Hooters girl no less.”
“Jesus.” I look up at the grimy ceiling, grasping for a nonexistent defense to the truth. My gaze floats back down. “That was a few years ago.”
“Yes. So I’ve been told.” Her cheeks tinge pink and a burst of laughter flies from her mouth. I decide that might be my favorite sound.
“What about you? No sexual escapades of any kind?”
“Not really.” Her shoulders stiffen and she loses eye contact, staring at a spot beyond my shoulder. I wonder then if she’s a virgin, but decide it’s none of my damn business and change the subject.
“Do you play pool?”
Any previous tension dissolves on a quiet breath and she gives me her eyes again.
“I’ve played. But I’m not that good. Julian and I played two games before you got here. He was trying to give me pointers.” She laughs. “But they didn’t take.”
“That’s because you didn’t have the right teacher. Come on.” She follows me off the dance floor, continuing to clutch my hand as we navigate our way toward the pool tables.
Several heads turn when we walk in the room, though Ember seems oblivious to it. I tamp down the way it makes my chest tighten and focus on her. A game is ending at one of the tables and we hover in the back for a few minutes until they finish up.
“Okay,” I begin, picking up two pool sticks and holding one out in front of her. “This is a cue stick.”
Amusement erupts from her throat and she points behind me. “And that’s a table, right?”
“Yeah.” I pin her with a narrowed grin. “Keep laughing, Mickey.”
“Okay, okay.” She clears the happiness from her face. My heart inflates because it occurs to me that I like her happy—that I like her period. “I’m ready.”
“All right. So you’re going to break.” I grab her gently by the shoulders and move her to the head of the table. “Making sure your body is in line with the ball is key to acing the shot.” She bends over to get in position and my eyes fall to her ass. I remove them quickly and remind myself to focus. “Now in order to give you good control, cup your hand on the table and place the top of the cue stick in the groove between your thumb and index finger.”
“Vance?” She glances back at me, all rosy cheeks and bright eyes. I don’t think she realizes how sexy she looks right now. I’m certainly not going to be the one to tell her.
“Yeah?”
“Um, I kind of already know this part. Can we move along?” She shows her full set of teeth and I fight the urge to smack her across her cute little ass.
“Okay, Miss smart-aleck. What do you do next?”
She refocuses on the solids and stripes, setting up to break. In a flash, the white ball sails into the air before it skips along the table.
I tap my pool cue against the wood floor, smirking. “What was that you were saying?”
“I was saying—”
All traces of her smile disappear, replaced with a tiny furrow between her brows. She rights herself and stands tall, shoulders high, almost as if she’s gearing up for a fight. I shift to my right to stare at the person who seems to have riled her—tall, dark, and seriously preppy. Tan khaki pants, a light yellow polo shirt and short, cropped hair. He looks like he stepped out of a catalogue and carries himself with a sense of bullshit entitlement. Something is definitely off about him, making the hairs at the back of my neck stand on end.
“Connor,” she greets him, her tone flat. And shit, the name suits him perfectly. It screams asshole.