She tried to ignore the fact that her bottom was snug against him and, following his guiding hands, struck the cue ball.
“Nice,” he murmured. “You’ve got good form. And great ears.” He nipped at one before she straightened. But when she turned, rather than backing away, he set his hands comfortably on her hips. “Why don’t we pretend we played and just go neck?”
“A bet’s a bet. Back off, farm boy.”
“I can wait,” he said cheerfully. He could already imagine wrapping himself around her and steaming up the windows in the truck. “You want to break?”
“I’ll leave that to you.” She stepped away, chalked her cue as he did.
The rules were simple enough, she mused. You were either solid or striped, depending on which type of ball you managed to sink first. Then you just kept sinking them, avoiding the black eight ball. If you hit that in before the rest were dispatched—unless you struck it with another ball first—you lost.
Otherwise, whoever sank all their balls first, then the eight, won.
She watched Shane lean over the table, long legs, long arms, big hands. The look of him distracted her enough that she didn’t see how he broke the triangle of balls, but she did see the results. Three balls thumped into pockets, and he called solids.
Lips pursed, she studied his technique, the speed and direction of balls rolling over the green felt. She’d seen the game played, of course. There was a billiard table in the country club where her parents had a membership. But she’d never paid much attention.
It was obviously simple geometry and applied physics, she decided. Quick calculations, a steady hand and a good eye were all that was required.
Shane pocketed another two balls before he glanced at her. Her brow was furrowed, her head cocked. It was interesting to watch her think, he mused. It would be even more interesting to watch her feel. But it wasn’t quite fair to run the table on her when she hadn’t even had a chance to shoot.
To balance the scales a bit, he attempted a nearly impossible shot. He nearly made it, but his ball kissed the corner of the pocket and rolled clear.
“You’re up, Doc.”
He moved around the table to help her with her stance, but she shrugged him away. “I’d rather do it myself.”
“Fine.” He smiled at her with affection, and superiority. “You should go for the one with the yellow stripe. It’s a clean shot into the side pocket.”
“I see it.” Muttering to herself, she leaned over the table, took careful aim, squinting a bit to keep the balls in focus, and sent it in.
“Nice.” Genuinely pleased, he walked back to their table to fetch the beer. “You even left your cue ball in good position for the next shot. If you—”
She lifted her head, aimed a bland look in his direction. “Do you mind?”
“Hey.” He lifted a hand, palm out. “Just trying to help. You go on ahead.”
He did cluck his tongue a bit as she set up for a bank shot. Couldn’t the woman see her three ball was clear? He lifted his beer to hide his grin. At this rate, he was going to have her exactly where he wanted in five minutes.
Then his mouth dropped open. She banked the ball against the side and sent it at a clean angle into the corner pocket. She didn’t so much as smile, never glanced up, but went directly back to work.
A few customers roused themselves to wander over to watch, and to kibitz. They might have been as invisible as her ghosts.
She played systematically, pausing only briefly between shots, with her brows knit and her eyes unfocused, as she circled the table. He forgot the beer that was dangling from his fingers, suffered the elbow nudges and comments from onlookers as she quickly, quietly, and without a hitch, cleaned house.
To add insult to injury, she used one of his own balls, the one he could—and should—have sent home when he was feeling sorry for her, to knock the eight ball into the pocket and trounce him at his own game.
Lips pursed, she straightened, scanned the table. “Is that it?”
There were hoots of laughter. Several men patted her shoulder and offered to buy her a beer. Shane merely propped his cue on the table.
“Is this how you worked your way through college? Hustling pool?”
Flushed with success now that the work was done, she beamed at him. “No, I had numerous scholarships, and a generous college fund. I’ve never played pool before in my life.”
“I’ll be damned.” He dipped his hands in his pockets, studying her. “You ran the table. That wasn’t luck, beginner’s or otherwise.”
“No, it wasn’t. It was science. The game is based on angles and velocity, isn’t it?” Delighted with the fresh knowledge, she ran a hand through her hair. “Want to play again? I could spot you two balls this time.”