“Whatever. I’ll rack.” He sidestepped me and headed to the pool table.
I watched him walk away, wondering if he’d leave his snappy suit jacket on the back of the barstool like a regular joe, or hang it up on the deer antler coatrack I’d never seen anyone use.
Of course he hung it up.
Then Nolan crouched to insert the quarters and push the mechanism that released the balls. I chose my stick, a short one with a heavier bottom.
He sauntered over to pick his own cue. “You want to rack or break?”
“Rack.”
“Fine. I’ll break.” He rolled up his shirtsleeves.
I might’ve made a smarmy remark about him getting serious about beating me, but my gaze had gotten stuck on his forearms. With that kind of muscle definition? The man did more than push pencils all day.
Damn him. I didn’t want to notice that.
The balls cracked and scattered across the green felt as he broke.
We both watched as the 11-ball dropped in the far-left corner. “Looks like I’m stripes.” He moved around for his next shot . . . and the cue ball followed the ball into the side pocket.
I plucked my fresh drink from Rico, keeping my game face on as I snagged the cue ball and positioned it. I sank two balls before I scratched.
Nolan called the 9-ball in the corner and missed.
“Ooh. Almost. Those rebounds are a bitch though.”
Now Nolan didn’t look nearly as out of place with his tie askew, his sleeves rolled up and his hands wrapped around his cue stick as he leaned into it with his feet braced apart.
After sinking three balls, I banked the cue ball off the side rail and it barely tapped the 7-ball, but it somehow dropped in. “Sorry. That was slop. Your turn.”
“I’m not taking a turn out of pity, Coach Welk.”
I shrugged. “Suit yourself.” I focused on the 1-ball and nailed it. Then called the 8-ball in the corner pocket and nailed that one too. I glanced over at Nolan.
He narrowed his eyes at me. “What just happened here?”
“I beat you.” I finally allowed a smirk. “Go ahead and practice since most of your balls are still on the table.”
“Like hell. Let’s go again. I’ll rack ’em this time.”
Like that would make a difference.
I felt Nolan’s eyes on me as I sipped my drink. I wasn’t anywhere near drunk, but I did have “I’m tipsy” talkative tendencies. “What?”
“Is this when you suggest a bet for the next game?”
“If I’d wanted to hustle you, I would’ve let you win the first game. Besides, I’m guessing you’re the one who grew up with a pool table in your house, whereas I didn’t.”
He drained his Coke. “Quit stalling.”
After paying for game two, I sauntered to the opposite end of the table, chalking my cue as I walked.
Before I could line up, two bar regulars showed up. Upon seeing me, they immediately walked over.
“Heya, champ! Long time no see.”
“If it isn’t Matt and Jeff.” I allowed myself to be hugged awkwardly. Then I gave them each a once-over. “All of the hunting seasons must be done if you two are here.”
Jeff shoved his hands in his pockets. “No huntin’, but ice fishin’s been good up until last week.”
His brother Matt added, “Real good.”
Their gazes followed Nolan as he moved to stand beside me. “We still playing?”
“Yes. This is Matt and Jeff, a couple of regulars. They’re brothers—”
“Twins,” they said in tandem.
“I see that,” Nolan said with annoyance.
Then they just stood there and stared at one another.
Which I blamed on Nolan. I smiled at the brothers. “We’ll catch up in a bit, cool?”
“Cool.”
After they were out of earshot, I whirled around. “Asshole much, Lund?”
“What did I do?”
“You were rude.”
“I was rude? They’re the ones who interrupted our pool game. Besides, I wanted to make sure you didn’t invite the regulars to play doubles with us.”
“Aww. How sweet that you want me all to yourself.” I broke, knocking in two stripes and one solid.
Then I ran the table—five shots in a row. Finishing with a hard bank to the 8-ball, neatly putting it into the side pocket without scratching.
A little over the top, but I took a victory lap around the table anyway.
“Now that you’ve thoroughly kicked my ass at pool—twice—tell me how you got to be so good.”
“You’re assuming I spent all my formative years on the ice and had no time to develop other skills?”
“I don’t need to assume anything. My brother was a pro hockey player too, remember?”
“And you consistently beat him at pool?” I prompted.
“Yes.”
“What other games did the little Lund brother win?”
He flashed me a cocky grin. “Most any game where brainpower was involved.”
I snorted.
“On the physical side, I’ve always been able to outrun him—distance and sprints. We’re evenly matched in basketball. Sparring and grappling . . . I’ll admit he usually wins, even now that we’re adults, but it is different when we’re not wrestling because we’re pissed off at each other like when we were kids.”
“At least you got to fight with him. I wasn’t allowed to even look at Dani wrong.” Why had I told him that?
Those baby blues of his turned shrewd. “Is that why you’re not confronting your sister now? Out of habit?”
I returned my pool cue to the rack on the wall, wishing I would’ve kept my mouth shut.
Then Nolan was right there, prodding me. “Gabriella?”
“I don’t want to talk about this, Nolan.”
“I get that. But I think you need to talk about it.”
“Why you gotta be so nosy?” I growled at him. “Can’t I just drink and pretend everything is—”
“Peachy keen, jellybean? Because I’m one hundred percent sure that’s not true.”
The way he studied me had the opposite effect to my usual response of adding another coat of steel to my already tough outer shell. The idea of him chipping away at the chink in my armor didn’t fill me with dread.