Just Once More.... Mira Lyn Kelly

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       CHAPTER SIX

      NICHOLE SANK THE six and watched the cue ball come to rest neatly behind the four. Nice.

      Across the felt landscape Maeve tapped her foot impatiently against the leg of her stool, watching as Nichole adjusted her stance and lined up her shot.

      “Wow, your form’s really improved.”

      Nichole paused, glanced up. “Huh?”

      “No, really.” All nonchalance, Maeve waved toward the pool cue, the twitch at the corner of her mouth a warning of what was to come.

      Hard to believe it had only been a week with the amount of ribbing she’d taken. But there it was. A week since she’d had the hot press of Garrett’s mouth against hers, the weight of his body—

      “You’ve got a firm grasp on that butt … while the shaft just glides through your fingers. I don’t know … it’s almost like you’ve had some practice with the wood lately.”

      Mouth hanging open, Nichole fought the slow burn spreading across her cheeks and neck … and lost. “Seriously?”

      Maeve smirked. “Ohh, shoot! Your alignment just went to hell.”

      “You wish.”

      Leaning over the table she straightened out the shot, drew back, focused—

      “Gentle with the tip.”

      —and scratched. “Maeve!”

      Her friend looked less than chagrined. “What? This is pool. I was working the lingo. Whatever your depraved mind does with it is on you.” Jumping from the stool, she winked. “Plus, I really want to win!”

      Nichole waited until Maeve was all lined up before settling a hip at the side of the table. “You know, Maeve, there’s more to the game than your stroke. The stick you choose, for example.”

      An expression of horror crept over Maeve’s face. “You wouldn’t.”

      No, she wouldn’t.

      Well, maybe just a little. “I recently had my hands on a nice hard wood. I think I’ll tell you about it. In detail. Let’s start with—”

      “Enough!” Maeve’s frantic squeak was punctuated by the one-two thud of the eight and the cue sinking in short order. “You win! Oh, my God, I feel dirty.”

      Nichole tossed her hair over her shoulder, reveling in the victory. “As you should, cheater.”

      “Yeah, yeah,” Maeve grumbled, too competitive to let any loss go without at least a brief sulk and most likely one more go at retaliation. Only she seemed to shake it off in a blink, her smile returning to full blast. “So, what do you want from the bar?”

      “Whatever. You pick.”

      Maeve leaned in and craned her neck in an exaggerated manner. “Garrett? You want something too?”

      Nichole froze in her spot as the skin across her back began to tingle and burn.

      “Hey, Nikki, maybe Garrett would like to hear what you thought about that stick you were using? How much you liked the feel of that hard wood and all? Heck, maybe he could even help you perfect your hold!” And with that she darted off for the bar.

      He wasn’t there. He couldn’t be.

      And yet even as she turned she knew.

      Her gaze started at the floor and the size-twelve boots planted in a wide stance less than a handful of feet away, crawled up the saddle-brown twill of cargo-style pants and followed the gray long-sleeve tee stretched to perfection over his torso before making the unsettling jump to firm lips slanted in an off-kilter smile and the single raised brow demanding clarification.

      “Maeve just being Maeve?” he asked, and the breath Nichole hadn’t realized she’d been holding rushed out in relief.

      No lie necessary. “Exactly.”

      Only those too intense blue eyes narrowed the slightest bit. “So the wood you guys were talking about was really … wood?”

      She hadn’t believed it was possible to choke on words that weren’t her own, but there she was, sputtering as though she’d swallowed a string of oversized letters cut from rough stone. They blocked the pathway from her lungs to her mouth, making the intake of breath an impossible thing.

      Lie. Simple. Just lie now and everything would be fine.

      Except she could already feel his gaze following the hot path of her heated skin over her cheeks, down her neck … lower.

      Clearing her throat, she dug in the front pocket of her jeans, pulling out a couple of quarters. “We were talking about pool. Sticks. Cues.”

      The corner of his mouth twitched and his eyes flashed back to hers. “Shafts and butts?”

      “Technical terms.”

      Garrett stepped closer, resting his hand at her waist as he bowed his head toward her ear, close enough so she could smell the clean masculine scent of him. Soap and skin and the barest hint of lingering sawdust. Close enough so fingers of warmth from his body could reach out and touch hers. Close enough to send her senses reeling as his breath washed over her ear, carrying his gruff, taunting words. “Yeah? Why don’t you tell me about it?”

      Nichole’s eyes flew wide with her mouth. “No—nothing,” she managed, stumbling back only to be steadied by Garrett’s strong hand.

      “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” he laughed in challenge. Then, with a conspiratorial wink, added, “Red.”

      And with a word she was back to that night.

      To the flirtation, the slow pulling need, the fast-rising hunger. Dim hallways and dark shadows. His mouth, his hands, his body … his name.

       Garrett.

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