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“Me too.”
Our server, who’s dressed like a medieval barmaid, takes our order, and she can carry more beers on one tray than anyone I’ve ever seen. She’s quick to return, and after we down a pint and finish our filling stew—which tasted like it was fresh from the earth and made with spices to die for—Maddox says, “The pool table is open.”
“I don’t wanna play.” I slump in the booth because I’m so full, I might perish right where I sit.
“Why? Are you afraid of thrusting sticks?” Maddox’s brow ticks up.
“Wouldn’t you like to find out.” Hmm. Iceman made a corny, dirty joke. I smirk but stand. “Fine. I’ll do it, but only because if I keep sitting, I’ll explode.”
Sticks in hand, we approach the pool table that sits in the darkest corner of the pub. Maddox says, “Do you need a lesson?” He rubs the cube on the end of his pool cue. “Because I can give you a lesson.”
“I’ll pass.” I eye him as I walk around the table. “For now.”
Something flickers in his eyes, and I think it’s flirtation—genuineflirtation.
I bend over, line up my stick, then with razor precision, whack the white ball. It sinks the solid blue ball into the corner pocket, easy peasy. I look at Maddox and blow off the cue of my stick.
He cocks his head. “I thought you couldn’t play.”
“I didn’t say I couldn’t play. I said I didn’twantto.“ I shrug. “I grew up with a pool table, and in college, I sandbagged swaths of cocky man-boys, just like you.” I hit my next shot, and the burgundy ball goes straight into the corner pocket.
Maddox whistles, and when I miss my third shot by a hair, he lines up to take his turn. It’s a gimme, and I’m sure he’ll sink it. But he whiffs the stick, and the white ball inches along the table, stopping in the middle of nowhere.
My face scrunches. “You’re terrible!”
“I didn’t say I could play. I said Iwantedto.”
“Touché.” I’m smiling, but I’m puzzled as I cue up my stick for my next shot. “I thought you only played games you can win.”
He walks up behind me and I feel the heat of him on my back. Then he touches my hip and slides his hand up to my waist. He whispers in my ear. “Oh, I’m definitely winning.”
Numerous parts of me are tingling, as he’s not even trying to be subtle with his flirting tonight.
I step away and pick up my goblet to take a sip. I need to get my head on straight before my next shot. But the break works against me because I end up eyeing Maddox, and he looks so good. All relaxed in a T-shirt and jeans, his hair tousled. And him thinking I’m hot makes him even hotter.
Sure enough, I miss my next shot because I’m completely distracted. “You’re up,” I croak.
He nods but then puts the end of the stick on the ground and leans on it. “Tell me, Rook. Why did you get into acting?”
“Now that was an abrupt topic shift.”
“I like to get down to business.” That twinkle in his eye is back.
I fight off a smile, then hesitate, looking up, thinking of how to put the reason I act into words. I can’t, so I say, “The costumes.”
“Uh, huh.” He comes closer. “Give me the real reason.”
“That is a real reason. Costumes rock.”
“Bullshit. I can read you.” His lips curve. “And you glance sideways when you lie.”
“I don’t have a lying glance.”
He’s close enough to me now that he towers over me. “You glanced sideways when you said that. Just now.”
I’m equal parts impressed and uncomfortable. I shift on my feet and realize they’re stuck to the sticky floor. “Fine. I act because I get to be someone else. To escape. I have the control to make an interaction go just how I want it.”
“Unlike in real life,” he says, his voice throaty.
