“Interesting offer.” He glances over at the bar. “Is your friend Mr. Mitchell from class?”
“Yes,” I answer, not knowing if it’s a good or a bad thing.
He shakes his head, letting out a breathy laugh. “That guy is too smart for his own good. He could use a little cosmic karma.”
I take a step back. “I’m sorry, did you just saycosmic karma?”
He gives me an exasperated look before finishing his beer and pushing himself to his feet, completely towering over me.
Okay, he is way taller than six feet.
“Alright, Miss Nyx, you have yourself a deal, one game.”
I nudge him with my elbow as we make our way over to the table. “You can call me Summer, you know… if you want.”
“I don’t,” he says quickly. “Want,” he clears his throat. “Miss Nyx is fine.”
“Ooookay, Asher,” I snicker as we reach the pool table. He looks at me, startled. I grab two cue sticks off the wall. “It’s on the school’s website,” I say in way of explanation.
“I think it’d be best if you called me Mr. Stirling,” he grumbles as he starts racking.
“I’ve had plenty of professors go by their first names.” I shrug.
“It’s a personal preference,” he states as he finishes racking. “And I would prefer it if you called me Mr. Stirling.”
“Okay, Mr. Stirling,” I say as I make my way around the table and hand him his cue stick. My fingers accidentally brush his, and I watch as his hand tightens on the stick to the point that his knuckles turn white. “Do you want to break, or shall I?”
“Please,” he says, nodding his head and taking a step back. “Ladies first.”
I lean over to break, and I hear him take in a startled breath. The cue ball cracks off the others as I look back at him. He’s intently studying the beer list and doesn’t look at me until I’ve stood upright again.
He takes in the table and notices that three balls have already been sunk. That earns me another eyebrow raise.
“I think I’ll take stripes,” I say smugly as I walk around to take another shot.
“You never said what you got if you won,” he says quietly.
“You’re right,” I agree before making another shot. “I didn’t.” He waits expectantly for me to say something. “If I win, you give me an A on my next paper.” He gives me a flabbergasted look, which makes me laugh. “Kidding,” I chuckle before missing my next shot. “How about a drink?”
“Your friend is already paying for your drinks,” he murmurs with a smile, taking his first shot.
“A drink at a later date, then.” I smirk, leaning up against the table. “I’m a poor graduate student, and inflation is a bitch.”
He misses his next shot and sighs. “This is the only bar I go to,” he says, like this will be the last time I ever set foot in this bar.
“The only bar?” I ask dubiously. “Why?”
“It rarely has students,” he says, repeating what he’d said to me in class a while ago.
“Oddly enough, that is exactly why I come to this bar. God forbid I run into my peers.” I dramatically shiver as if trying to shake something off. “I also come so that I don’t get cabin fever in my studio apartment.” I try to line up my next shot while continuing to talk. “I can only be so productive locked up in that small of a space, no matter how cute my cat is.” He chuckles. “This is my favorite bar. It’s the only place I’m a regular at.”
He rubs his hand along the back of his neck. “I come to this bar pretty often, to grade, relax, read…” He gestures to his forgotten book, resting on the edge of the pool table. “I’m sure I’ve seen you before the semester started. I’m surprised I didn’t recognize you.”
His honesty startles me, and I miss my shot. “Hmm,” I muse before I finish off my drink as he lines up his next shot.
“You’re hard to miss,” he mumbles.
I can’t help it; my heart skips a beat.
