I swear I can smell him before I see him. He smells like spiced bergamot, all fresh and woody. Evan looks pleased when he sees me, his long shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, his tieloose around his neck like always. The first few buttons of his shirt are undone, exposing a sliver of skin that somehow makes me want to tilt my head to test how much I can see from here.
“Evan,” I greet, swallowing the sudden dryness in my throat.
“Scarlett.” His smile slowly descends across his face and a little piece of me dies inside. I wish I didn’t know how good he looks when he really smiles. With those dimples, and that— No. Nope. We’re not doing that. He might’ve been so gracious in offering to help me with my list, but he’s Public Enemy No. 1 today. “Are you sure you’re up for this? Given the whole out-of-breath-I-don’t-exercise-enough thing.”
I scowl, annoyed that he even remembers that. “This is different.”
“Uh huh, sure,” he deadpans, before placing his elbow on the table and flexing his hand. “Let’s go then.”
I place my arm in position too, and for asecondI’m slightly intimidated. His hand is huge. Like, could-probably-cover-my-entire-face kind of huge. My hands match the rest of my body, a regular size for my five-seven frame. I would’ve even considered my hands pretty big until right now.
Still, I don’t let my nerves show. My knee slides past his, as I get my elbow comfortable on the table, finally clasping his hand with mine. One of the guys from the hockey team is beside us with a timer and a whistle, and I lock eyes with Evan just as the whistle blows.
He brings on all his strength at once, his fingers practically crushing the bone in my hand. I’m momentarily frozen before I regain my strength, pushing back hard with all my strength until our hands are shaking together.
I glance up at him and his expression makes me falter. He’s so focused. So concentrated on winning. His eyes narrow with it, all serious and dedicated. He looks . . . good. Hot, even.
I slip for just a second before I’m pushing back again.
“Are you going to back down?” Evan grits out.
He squeezes my hand harder, and I bite back the pain. “No.”
“You really should. It would be a shame to hurt you, angel.”
A weird spark of desire ignites in my stomach. “Don’t go easy on me,” I say. “I like my pleasure mixed with pain.”
“Pleasure? What about this is pleasurable to you?”
“Everything. I really wouldn’t want to hurt your piano fingers.” I can tell my words get to him because his grip loosens, just for a second, and it gives me just enough time and strength to push his hand all the way back down and slam it against the table. The girls cheer behind me and I’m up out of my seat, as Evan blinks up at me in shock. “I win; you lose!”
I have the urge to stick my tongue out like an immature child, but I rein it in. Barely.
Evan stands from the table, rolling his sleeves back down and he holds out his hand for me to shake it. “Well played.”
I shake his hand firmly, gripping it extra tight. “I’d say the same, but you lost, so . . .”
I grin proudly, spinning back around to my friends. They run toward me like I just won gold at the Olympics, squeezing me in a tight, perfect hug.
“You fucking crushed that, babe,” Kennedy squeals, pulling apart from me to shake my shoulders. “Literally!”
“Thanks,” I say breathlessly.
We have a couple minutes before our next game, so I make my way over to the pool table at the other end of the room. The balls are all set with the triangle thingy around them in the middle of the table and I lift it off carefully, putting it to the side. I’m buzzing with the energy of just winning the game against Evan, the feeling surging through my veins and exploding in my throat.
I’m too busy studying the pool table that I almost don’t see Evan lurking behind me. “Are you following me now, Branson?”
“Just checking out the competition.” He picks up one of the pool cues, standing it upright on the ground. He nods to the table. “Do you know how to play?”
I flick my hair over my shoulder. “Of course I do. You just . . . hit the balls and cheer. It’s not hard.”
“Wow. You almost sound like an expert.” I roll my eyes, snatching the cue off him and lining it up on the table, leaning down and getting ready to hit whichever ball I feel like. I take my shot and Evan lets out a frustrated breath when the blue ball bounces against the side. “You’re holding it wrong. Let me show you.”
I cast a look at him over my shoulder, kind of revelling in how irritated he looks. His hands are shoved into his pockets, his head tilting slightly to the side, like he has no idea what to do. I’ve seen him give me that look so many times over the last few months working on the project, and it’s never made me feel so . . . torn up inside. It makes my chest tighten in a way it hasn’t done before, heat and annoyance swirling together in a foreign and perfect symphony.
I smile smugly, brushing whateverthatwas aside. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m—”
He steps in behind me, caging me in with his chest and his arms, and I forget what I was about to say. I can smell him everywhere, feel the heat of his body against mine. It makes my nerves sing, my body fighting between tensing up and relaxing under his touch in a way I definitely shouldn’t be enjoying.
