She squinted. “I thought you had company.”
“Got rid of her.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you ditch your date?” The confusion on her face melted as a realization of some sort seemed to hit her. “Oh.”
My brows drew down. “Oh what?”
“You’re done with your date.”
“I was far from done,” I grumbled, then nodded my head toward the street. “Come on. You deserve a nice night out on your birthday. That dumb putz has no idea what he’s missing. Let’s go get shitfaced.”
She smiled from ear to ear. “That sounds awesome.”
“I’m never getting my balls in.”
“Maybe that’s why you’re so uptight. You haven’t been laid in so long, you forgot it’s not the balls that go inside.” I smirked at Emerie as the five ball rolled into the left corner pocket. It was our first game of pool, and I’d just banked in my fifth ball in a row. She was right. I might clear the table before she chalked up her stick.
She narrowed her eyes. “How do you know how long it’s been since I’ve gotten laid?”
“You’re wound a little tight.”
I expected her to go off on me, but instead she surprised me. Literally. Just as I was about to take my sixth shot, she yelled, “Watch it!” My hand veered mid-shot, and the two ball landed nowhere near the pocket I’d intended.
She sported a smug smile, all proud of herself.
“Is that how we’re going to play this?”
“What? I’m so uptight, I can’t help myself. Sometimes words get bottled up, and they just pop out of my mouth like a cork from champagne.”
“Your shot.” I extended my hand toward the felt. As she positioned herself, I rounded the table, moving closer until I stood directly behind her. She attempted to pretend it didn’t bother her, but eventually she turned around.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m watching you take the shot.”
“From behind?”
I grinned. “It gives me the best view.”
“Go back to where you were standing.” She waved her hand to the other side of the pool table. “I think your view is clearer from over there.”
She bent again, attempting to line up her shot. My eyes dropped to her amazing ass. “That depends on what I’m looking at.”
When she finally took the shot, her cue scraped along the felt and completely missed the ball.
“I thought you knew how to play.”
“I do.”
“Doesn’t look that way.”
“You’re making me nervous standing behind me.”
I leaned down next to her and showed her how to position her hand to cradle the stick so it would at least be easier to connect with the ball. After she got the hang of it, I went back to the other side of the table. My intentions that time had been truly altruistic—at least until her shirt gapped open, and I was staring straight down at her tits.