B00AAOCX2E EBOK (24 page)

I laughed. “Done.”

Ian crossed the room to go to the cue rack. While waiting for his return, I pulled some quarters out of my purse and deposited them into the table to release the balls. I put them on the table, then walked around to the end to get the triangle and started racking them.

“You’re doing that wrong,” Ian said, coming up behind me with a cue stick in each hand.

They looked fine to me. “What do you mean?”

“There’s an order to it. Here.” He handed me the pool cues.

Blowing out a slightly annoyed breath, I stepped back and let him go to work.

“Look,” he explained, “the 1-ball goes at the apex, the 8-ball goes in the middle, one striped ball goes in the left foot, and a solid goes in the right. Then, just alternate as best you can, stripes and solids. Got it?”

I didn’t see what the big deal was, but he was well-versed in pool. I’d only played twice in my life. “Yes, sir.” I gave him a perfunctory salute.

He tightened the balls and flipped the rack back. “And we’re ready. You wanna break?”

“No, it’s all you.” I turned as I saw C.J. come up with my drink.

“I had to track you down,” C.J. said, placing a napkin on the table and the drink on the napkin.

“Sorry about that. Tensions got a little steep over there.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” C.J. said sarcastically. She flicked a neon green fingernail between Ian and me. “You guys need anything else?”

“How about some shots?” Ian said. “Whatever she likes.”

“Are you drinking?” I asked. He really didn’t drink much.

“One or two won’t kill me.”

I turned back to C.J. “How about two Liquid Viagras? Might as well start a tab.” I pulled my credit card out of my purse and handed it over.

“You got it.” C.J. winked and spun on her heel as she went off to fill our order.

I leaned down on one of the barstools against the wall and sipped my Vodka-cranberry. I shuddered as the alcohol burned my throat. After taking another drink, I returned my gaze to where Ian rubbed the tip of his stick with the cube of blue chalk. I looked him up and down, then bit my lip down on the smile that spread across my face when I thought about some of the things Garrett and I discussed on our pseudo-date.

Garrett hadn’t been the only one to open up during dinner. I found myself in safe enough company to share the recent changes in my relationship with Ian. It was nice to talk to an outsider, someone beyond my circle of friends who could give me an unbiased point of view.

With a teasing grin, he told me he sensed the tension the moment I opened the door, and there were major sparks between Ian and me. Part of me was pleased to hear this. The other part was mortified to think it was so obvious. I wanted to keep everything under wraps until Ian and I decided what to do about it.

Garrett’s advice? “Go for it, sweetheart.” When I shared my reservations, explaining how much we both stood to lose if things didn’t work out – our friendship, our radio program, and our mutual support system - he came back at me with some very familiar words: “What’s life without a little risk? Sometimes you have to gamble to achieve greatness, and it’s stupid to let fear of the unknown stop you from achieving your maximum potential.”

Sound advice from a business major.

By the time Garrett dropped me off, I made the decision to at least nudge at the line we both seemed hesitant to cross and see what path it led us down.

I just had to look for my opening.

Ian leaned over and struck the cue-ball with his stick. The balls scattered in all directions with a loud clack. Several smaller knocks followed as the balls ricocheted against the edges and each other. The solid red ball went into the left-corner pocket.

I leaned against a stool and studied him as he walked a slow circle around the table with his cue in hand. His steps were easy and confident, but his eyes were sharp and intense as he assessed the table for the best angle from which to take his shot. He tapped the right middle pocket with his stick, then bent forward. The outline of his shoulders strained against the fabric of his black shirt. His stance emphasized the slimness of his hips and the curve of his ass. And forgive me, I took advantage of the opportunity to look.

As if sensing my eyes on him, he looked up. His eyes maintained that same intense focus that he had for the table.

A hot shiver rushed up my spine and my knees felt a bit like jelly. I shrugged and smiled, letting him know that, yes, I was checking him out and, no, I wasn’t embarrassed about it. Call it nudge #1.

A slow smile spread over his face. He took his shot without looking away. He missed. “Aww, man, that would have been so cool if I made that shot.” He laughed at himself and I joined in. “You’re up.”

Taking in the position of the striped balls, I decided to go for what appeared to be the easiest shot: the orange-striped thirteen rested only two-inches from the middle left pocket, at almost a perfect diagonal.

Circling around to the right side, I stopped at what looked to be the best position to shoot. I placed my hand flat on the table and lowered the tip of my cue to the fleshy web of skin between my index and middle fingers.

“You’re doing that wrong,” he said for the second time that night.

“This is the way I like to do it.”

Ian lifted his hands in a defensive position. “Okay. Go ahead and do it your way. I was just trying to help.”

I looked back at the ball, concentrating really hard. Remembering the way Ian had slid the cue stick back twice, I imitated his motions before striking the cue ball. I watched in anticipation as the white ball sped across the table. My face fell as it easily slipped right past the striped orange ball and into the pocket. “Crap.”

“Wait. Stay right there,” Ian instructed just as I stood upright. He retrieved the cue ball from its slot and joined my side, putting the cue ball back on the table. “I want you to try again, but I’m going to show you a different way to do it, okay?”

“I told you, I—”

“Like to do it your way,” he finished for me. “But just try my way once. If you don’t like it, you can do it whatever way you want. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“Okay, so your first problem is your bridge. You were putting it between your knuckles, but that doesn’t give you enough control of the stick. It’s better, when you’re starting, to try a closed bridge.” Did he really expect me to know what he meant? “Watch.” He placed his hand on the table, fingers slightly lifted, and positioned his stick between his index finger and thumb. Then, he wrapped his index finger around the stick, creating a circle. “When you do it this way,” he explained, “you have more control. Now, try it.”

I followed his instructions and looked up for approval.

He nodded. “That’s good, but you want to balance the stick right over your middle finger.” He repositioned the stick. “Now, slide it back and forth, but don’t hit the ball yet.” I did as instructed. “Do you feel like you have more control?” he asked.

“I guess.”

“Okay, before you shoot, you need to line up your shot. If you’re going for the thirteen, you need to find out where the best place to hit your cue ball is. Make your bridge, again, and lean down.”

I set my bridge, bent my knees and leaned forward.

“No. Keep your legs apart and lean down at the waist. Your eyes need to be a few inches above the table. Watch.”

He demonstrated how to do it. “Now, you try.”

I followed his lead the best I could. “Like this?”

“Almost,” he said. He walked around behind me and placed his hands on my hips, urging me to move. “You need to be back here,” he said, “and you need to put your weaker leg forward.” He nudged my right foot forward with his knee. “Spread your legs.”

I snickered.

“What?” Ian asked.

“Spread my legs?”

After a second, the left side of his mouth curved.

Considering our position, I made nudge #2. “You know, you’ve got me in a rather compromising position.”

His eyes flashed. “No,” he argued, the smirk blossoming into a full smile. He yanked my hips all the way back so that my backside was against the cradle of his hips. “
This
would be a compromising position.”

“Hey,” I half-cried, half-laughed as I rebounded from his hips. He chuckled at my mock-haughty expression. “Do you mind? I’m trying to shoot pool.”

It came as no surprise when I lost the game. The second game wasn’t looking promising, either. Although, it seemed the more I drank, the better I played.

“Excuse me,” I sang, bumping my hips against Ian’s to get him to move out of my way.

He moved back a step and waved his hands forward. “It’s all yours.”

I leaned down. Just as I was about to make my shot, I felt something tickling the back of my neck. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Ian whipping his hand back quickly and staring at the ceiling.

“I saw that.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. You’re not allowed to distract the… pooler.”

“Shooter.”

“That, too. Now, do you think you can keep your hands to yourself so I can shoot?” I asked.

“Do you
really
want me to keep my hands to myself?”

I shrugged, then leaned down to take my shot. And missed.

The noise level in the room suddenly increased as a huge group of fifty-or-so students entered. Recalling what C.J. said, I figured they must be the houses doing the pub crawl.

The newcomers were all dressed alike. The girls wore short skirts, knee-socks, and argyle vests. The guys wore polos and some even had ridiculous hats with pom-poms.

“What’s the deal with the clothes?” I said. “It’s Valentine’s Day, not Halloween.”

Ian shrugged. “Who knows, who cares?” His shot rolled expertly into the side pocket.

Deciding I didn’t – care, that was – I hopped on my stool. Again, Ian leaned in front of me to make his shot. Grinning, I waited until he had cocked back the stick, and then lifted my foot and slid my toes up the inseam of his left leg.

He started and jerked away. “Hey, now.”

I giggled. “Oh, I’m sorry. Am I messing with your concentration?”

He hesitated. “Yeah, something like that.”

I tossed my head back and laughed as he walked away, and then clapped my hands as the opening beats of Joan Jett’s “I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll” came on the jukebox. “I love this song!”

I jumped up from my stool and starting dancing, singing along with half the patrons in the bar.

For the second time that night, Ian watched me with a smile of amusement as he leaned his weight on his cue stick. I made an exaggerated kissy face at him as I swayed around. He shook his head, and I could only imagine the number of synonyms for "nuts" he was coming up with in his head.

Gliding forward to the beat of the song, I placed my hands on his hips and tried to get him to move. “Come on, Ian, dance! Move those hips.”

“I don’t dance,” he said in a monotone, refusing to budge.

“Well, you know what they say: bad dancer, bad in bed.” I gave him a saucy wink and pivoted away to grab my drink. I turned back to look at him, wanting to see his reaction, but stepped back in surprise when I realized he was directly behind me. “Whoa. Hello,” I said with a laugh.

With a wicked glint in his eyes, Ian took the drink from my hand and put it on the table.

“Hey! What are you…?”

He grabbed my hips and pulled me back against him, resting his chin against my cheekbone. Then he swayed us from one side to the other, winding us slowly and sinuously toward the ground and back up again in time to the music.

Guh!

“I said I don’t dance,” Ian whispered into my ear. His licorice-tinged breath tickled my cheek like a feather and his whiskers scratched my jaw. “Not that I can’t.” With a playful swat on my behind, he moved away.

I goggled at the wall ahead of me.
Did that just happen?
I wouldn’t have believed it if not for the small sparks arcing back and forth in my nerve endings. I immediately wanted that feeling – whatever it was – back again. I spun to find him leaning against the pool table. His mouth was still pulled into that little smile, but it was missing from his eyes. He actually looked a little uncertain.

Shaking off my lust-induced stupor, I pointed a finger at him. “You’ve been holding out on me.” I marched over and grabbed his hand. “Come on.”

He resisted my pull. “Where are we going?”

“We’re dancing.”

He dug his heels in even deeper and pulled his hand from mine. “No.”

I thrust out my bottom lip.

“No! That was just a…”

“A tease,” I accused. “And it was nice, but the evidence is still inconclusive.”

“Evidence of what?” he asked with an exasperated laugh.

I shrugged. “Of whether you’re a good dancer, and therefore, good in bed.”

His brows lifted in surprise. A second later, though, a very slow smile moved over his face. He leaned forward and dropped his mouth next to my ear. “I can give you proof, but like I said, I don’t dance.”

My stomach somersaulted. That wasn’t a nudge. That was more of a whack upside the head. “Why, Mr. Hollister, are you propositioning me?” I asked in a horrible fake southern drawl.

He assessed me for a moment. “Maybe I am. Would that be so wrong?”

What a frustrating move, turning it around on me. My insides trembled, but a rush of excitement took flight in my bloodstream. I knew I should just laugh it off and get back to the game, but a part of me was itching to see how far he was willing to take this flirtatious banter.

I smiled coyly and shrugged. “Another drink, and I may be propositioning you.”

He stood and grabbed my glass from the table. “Allow me to get you a refill, then.”

Oh. My. God!

A surprised gasp of laughter erupted from my mouth as he spun on his heel and walked to the bar.

I fell back against the table and laughed in disbelief. The night was going in a different direction than I ever thought it would. I wondered how far he would take it.

And if he wants to take it all the way?
Like between-the-sheets all the way? What then?

Ian looked over from where he leaned against the bar and grinned. Almost as if asking me the same question.