But restraint had never felt this heavy. Because I missed her. I missed our rhythm, the banter, the way she teased when I botched a shot, the heat of her leaning into me when nobody was looking. I missed us.
The tournament kicked off. My first rack was smooth, muscle memory carrying me while my head stayed stuck on her. Every time I chalked the cue, I saw her—hips brushing mine when she lined up a shot, that smirk when she called a pocket no one thought she could sink.
The tease of her smile. That fat ass bent just right, showing the room what this game was really about—control, angles, patience, the kind of seduction youcouldn’t fake. She bent physics to her will, turned geometry into desire.
Without her, the table felt wrong. Empty. Like lining up a break with no cue ball. Like momentum with nothing to carry forward.
She should’ve been here.
Between matches, I leaned on the bar, my bottle of water sweating in my hand. That’s when I saw the stick in my craw.
She walked in like the room belonged to her—pencil skirt, blouse tucked sharp, heels clicking like punctuation. Not trying to be sexy, but every step said she knew eyes followed anyway.
And mine didn’t want to.
I cursed myself. I’d mentioned the tournament in passing last week—filler talk while she hovered. She’d gone on about a charity walk with her sorors, wine in Shadyside after. Nothing about The Green Room. But here she was anyway.
“Quentin.” Her smile was warm, too warm. Her hand brushed my arm like she had the right and I fought to shake the feeling she left off. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”
I arched a brow. “It’s a tournament, Ms. Coleman. I’m always here.”
She laughed softly and leaned in. “Guess I wanted to see what all the hype was about. You and these pool tables.” Her voice dipped like an invitation. “I was curious.”
And there it was—her angle. Always circling, always pushing past the line I’d drawn. My patience was thinning fast. The only thing keeping me from telling her to leave methe hell alone was the fact we worked under the same roof. I wasn’t about to risk my job over her bullshit.
I opened my mouth to cut it clean, to put it where it belonged?—
But then I heard?—
“Well, it’s funny running into you here.”
Chapter 27
Collision Course
Uncle Leon clocked me the second I crossed the threshold. He wiped the same clean spot with a bar rag and lifted his brows.
“Stay cool, Sparky,” he murmured when I kissed his cheek.
“About what?—”
And then I sawher.
Ms. Big Head in a pencil skirt. The history teacher—Carver’s lot last week, and before that The Loupe—eyeing Quentin like he’d been labeled “for faculty use only.” Nia. Tonight the wrap dress was retired for “I’m at work but still thick” realness, blouse tucked neat, skirt hugging thigh, that body doing violence to department-store neutrals. A small necklace. Gold studs. Tapered cut gleaming.
Her hand sat on Quentin’s forearm. Not a passing touch. A linger. Her smile said I know exactly who I’m standing with.
My man. My baby’s father.
The words were so loud in my head I almost turned to check if anyone else had heard. Maybe it was hormones. Maybe it was the ghost of fluorescent light, paper gown, and Dr. Rutman’s even voice.
“Congratulations, Rayna. You’re pregnant.”
She’d pushed her glasses up on the chain and waited—no rush, no verdict—while I sat there blinking like my eyelashes could redraw the world.
“How far?” My throat worked around it.
“Based on your LMP and urine test, about five and a half weeks. We’ll confirm with bloodwork and schedule an early ultrasound. Any pain? Spotting?”
