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Emma’s shot isn’t successful, but I can tell she’s determined to do better. After my turn, where I sink two more balls, she spends a few minutes walking around the table, analyzing her options.
“There are so many, I can’t decide.”
“Do you need help?” I ask.
“No, I think I can manage.” Finally, she settles into position. It’s not the easiest shot on the table, not the one I would have gone for, but she sinks two of her balls in the corner pocket.
“Nice work.” I notice her form has improved greatly from her first attempt.
“Thanks.” She smiles.
She moves into position and sinks another ball, while banking one off the side and setting herself up for her next shot. Emma makes the shot easily, then sinks another ball in the side pocket. I watch confused at her sudden skill and honestly, I’m turned on by the way she closes one eye and bites her lip in concentration before each shot.
Another ball falls in the corner pocket. It’s clear she’s played before, and didn’t need any pointers on setting up a shot.
“You’re a ringer.”
“Maybe you’re just a superior teacher.” She smirks. “I’m sure it was that one long stroke technique you were mentioning earlier.”
“I’m sure.” She lines up for another shot. “How did you learn?”
“My dad was a pool shark in his twenties, before he got into photography. He bought his first camera with profits from his pool playing. He taught me how to play, but it’s been a long time since I played.”
A few minutes later, Emma has cleared the table, and I’m officially hard beneath my zipper. Watching her beat me at pool is doing nothing to keep my attraction for her at bay.
“Should we play again?” she asks. “I can shoot with my left hand.”
I laugh at her offer to give herself a handicap. “No, I think we should call it a night.”
She nods, but I can see the disappointment in her eyes. That look makes my stomach drop and my chest tighten. While I’m used to giving one hundred percent to everything I do, I can’t do that with Emma. I need to stay on the surface, not dive too deep. It’s the reason why we shouldn’t play another game. It’s self-preservation.
Later, as I lay on the floor beside Emma’s bed, I think about what is to come in the weeks ahead. And for the first time, I’m nervous. Not because I’ll be meeting Emma’s friends, or we’ll be trying to pass as a real couple in front of a famed magazine editor. It’s because I’m realizing that spending time with Emma, getting to know her better is far riskier than I anticipated. Ilikeher.
It feels too early to admit that, but I married the woman hours after I met her, so it’s fair to say everything with Emma is moving at hyper speed. And admitting that to myself will only make me more vigilant in my interactions with her. More aware of my need to stay indifferent.
I roll over and adjust the pillow under my head, hoping the image of Emma leaning over the pool table, her heart shaped ass pressing backward as the hem of her dress crept up the back of her legs, won’t haunt my dreams tonight.
* * *
The next morning, after I finish my workout at the building’s gym, I find Emma standing in front of the pile of gifts still stacked in her parents’ living room. I ignore the way my body responds to seeing her there in her white pajama set with tiny pink flowers on it. How my eyes immediately drop to take in the way the soft cotton hugs the curve of her ass.
“Good morning,” I say, while mentally chastising myself for checking her out.
“Oh, hey.” She turns, her eyes giving my sweaty shirt and shorts a once over before turning back toward the gifts.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I’m imagining all the wonderful things in these boxes.”
“Did you want to stop imagining and open them?”
“No. We can’t possibly keep them. It feels wrong.” Her usually upbeat tone missing. She picks up a light blue box with a white ribbon tied around it. “If I know this is the Elsa Peretti thumbprint bowl, I won’t be able to part with it.” She shakes her head. “No, it’s best that we don’t open them.”
“How did people know what to get us? We weren’t registered.”
Emma’s silent, but when I catch her eyes, I see the guilt there.
“You were registered with Alec?” I ask. They were never engaged, but I know they were close to it. It’s what Emma said she wanted.
