Our eyes meet, and my lips tip up. “Though Grayson could probably go viral if he was willing to get down.” Dark, salty hair curls around his baseball cap, while the bill shadows his face and the scruff running along his jaw.
There are women who’d go wild to see that shadowed face attached to some shaking hips on their phone screen.
His lips flatten. “Absolutely not.”
“Are you self-conscious about your dancing?”
“I just have self-respect.”
“Your dancing must bereallybad.” I bet he’s starting to regret taking my burger captive, and I revel in it. “It’s all in the loose hips, you know.”
He inclines his head, something sparking in his eyes. “My hips are plenty loose. That’s not the problem.”
His double meaning isn’t lost on me. “Then it must be a grumpiness thing. Too busy scowling to let loose and have fun.”
“Grumpy?” Darian cuts in. His face scrunches in disbelief. “Nah, that’s more Anson. Gray’s the happy one.”
So people keep saying.
“And he’s the one who’s about to veryhappilykick your ass at pool,” Grayson says, the game behind him ending. “We’re up.”
My cheerful teasing disappears. I didn’t think his invitation to play was serious. I expected a stand-here-and-watch, jump-in-if-you-want sort of thing. But Grayson has already claimed a cue and is extending the other toward me.
Shit.
“I need to finish my meal.” It isn’t a total fib. Two bites of burger and a few fries are growing cold on my plate.
Grayson shakes his head, one side of his mouth slowly hitching. “Scared I’ll win?”
I snort. “I’m scared you’ll throw another tantrum when you lose.”
That one is acompletefib. I’ve never played pool a day in my life.
“I don’t think we need to worry about that, Boston.”
“That is not my name,” I grind out.
“And you’re not stalling as subtly as you think you are.” The half-grin hitches higher, flashing a row of white, straight teeth I’m close to knocking from his mouth.
“Not stalling,” I lie again. “Just giving you the chance to change your mind.” Before I can overthink the ramifications, I snatch the cue out of hishands.
He nods at the neat triangle of balls arranged at one end of the table. “Ladies get to break.”
I stare at the rack, feeling the weight of eyes on me. Not everyone in this corner of the tavern is watching our game, but a handful of people are paying attention, including Darian and Bob.
Which means my utter failure is about to be a show.
Bluffing my way through challenges is nothing new. My career path has practically ingrained it in me. When competition is high and impressing your superiors is tantamount to success, you never say “no” to unfamiliar tasks—you say “sure thing,” then stay awake until two in the morning figuring out how to get it done.
The problem here is I havenotime to figure it out.
But it’s just hitting some balls with a stick and trying to get them in a hole. Can’t be that hard, right? I’ve watched people play pool before—in shows and in movies. I’ve got this. I just need…a quick refresher.
“Now you’re chivalrous?” I point out, squinting in confusion. “Not buying it. You break the rack.”
One of the bystanders whistles, but Grayson just shrugs. “You can still back out, Boston.” The words come out a little tight, his torso stretching as he leans over the table and sets his free hand on the edge. The narrow end of the cue is tucked under his pointer finger and braced on his thumb, like some sort of kickstand.
I watch as he pulses the tip toward the lone white ball in front of it, and my eyes trace his thick forearm up to the shirt sleeve wrapped tightly around a bulging shoulder. The entire display is a tapestry of veins, lean muscle, and tanned skin dusted with dark hair.
