by Shae Ross
“Hey, Ry,” Devi calls. “The guys have a table in the back. They’ve saved seats for us. Wanna join them?” I look up at Ben’s wide smile. I can’t say what I’m really thinking.
“Sure, I’m just gonna head to the bathroom and then I’ll make my way over in a few.” A few hours, that is. I watch them bounce off and wonder how long I can hide without it being completely obvious I’m avoiding him.
After an hour of mingling with random strangers, I’m exhausted. I consider my options. I could leave and head back to the hotel, or I could join my friends and face Jett. Maybe I’ll get lucky and he won’t be with them. I see Vaughn on the other side of the bar, standing by the Jersey guys. He nods to me as he’s waiting for the bartender. I decide to order one more San Pellegrino and then join my friends, reasoning I’ll just ignore Jett if he’s there.
I tap my fingers on the sticky bar and watch the bartender ignore me for the third pass. At this rate, my friends will be ready to leave before I make it over to them. Something presses into the back of my thigh, and I turn to see the guy who had blocked my way to the bathroom earlier. He’s standing so close to me I have to lean back against the bar to avoid touching any part of his body.
“Hey, been looking for you,” he says.
“Hey,” I say in a tone of non-commitment. He takes the spot next to me and tries to strike up a conversation. If I could get a word in between this creep telling me about his accomplishments and some business he’s running, I could politely excuse myself.
“It’s a modeling business,” he says. I pin him with a flat stare. Is he seriously going to try this on me?
“I’m sure you’ve modeled before, right?”
Time to go.
“We could really use your look. I could give you a screen test. My apartment is just down the block.” His eyes blacken and channel reptilian in front of me. “Want to go?”
My shoulders tighten, and I feel as if a millipede has just crawled down my spine. The thought seizes my mind: I’m talking to some kind of predator. He stares expectantly back at me, and I envision his face on the front page of the local paper. My flight instinct kicks in.
“I’m really not interested,” I say as calmly as I can.
“No pressure,” he says. “I could just show you the studio. It’s really cool.” His tongue skims over his thin lips.
With as cold an expression as I can muster, I say to him, “No thanks.” He lifts the side of his mouth into a smirk and slithers off.
Thank God, I think to myself, but when I look up Jett is filling the space in front of me. His black hair looks glossy in the bar’s heat, curling just over the side of his forehead. He’s wearing dark jeans and a charcoal gray T-shirt that matches a shade in his eyes. I steady my jaw against the blast of raw sex appeal. He gives me a quick glance and signals the bartender with two raised fingers.
I look back to the TV monitor hanging over the bar, pretending to ignore him as he orders a Heineken and a gin and tonic.
“Is avoiding me worth subjecting yourself to guys like that?” he asks, his gaze still following the bartender.
“Do you really want me to answer that?” I ask, watching the muscles in his chest move under his shirt as he exchanges his credit card for the drinks.
“No,” he says, returning my smartass smile.
“What’s this?” I ask as he’s handing me a lime-garnished glass.
“Another drink.”
“I’m not drinking. This is San Pellegrino.”
“No wonder you’re so uptight.” He says under his breath, taking a swig from his beer.
My mouth drops open. He looks at me as if he didn’t mean to say that out loud. I close my mouth and inspect my glass. His hand closes around mine, and he takes the drink back. I drop my arms to my sides. I watch him tip his beer back. He wipes his upper lip with the back of his thumb and looks at me. I wish I could hide my wounded expression, and maybe if he wasn’t channeling the hotness of a shirtless GQ model I wouldn’t think twice about the dig. I lift my chin but my eyes feel heavy. The truth is I’m not used to fighting with anyone the way I’ve been going at it with him and it’s emotionally exhausting.
“Why would you say that to me?” I ask, my voice sounding smaller than I intend. He lets out a prolonged sigh. “I think you should apologize for calling me uptight.”
He sets his beer down on the bar and leans closer to me. “All right. I’m sorry.”
I nod my head and look away.
He cracks a half smile. “I was coming over here to make you a deal.”
“Really?” I say, feigning disinterest. “What sort of deal?”
“I’ll stop with the rude comments and you can join your friends.”
“Do you think you can manage?”
He arches an eyebrow. “Only one way to find out.”
I consider my options. All in all I would rather be with my friends.
“I’ll follow you.” He steps away from the bar and starts for the back room. I set my empty glass down and see the discarded gin and tonic he ordered for me. On second thought… I grab the straw from my empty glass, plop it in the gin and tonic, and turn to follow him.
I’m steps behind him and the mass of people around us is expanding and contracting as we push through. My eyes follow his shoulder. I’m trying to stay close without actually touching him. We come to an impasse, bodies pressed six deep, and I’m jostled back. The gin and tonic sloshes over my wrist. Shit. I switch it to my other hand and flick sticky liquid off my fingers. When I look up, I’ve lost Jett. I can’t see above the cloud of people that surround me, all several inches taller and mostly men.
A hand closes over mine—it’s Jett. He pulls me to him, clearing a path with his body. He holds my hand against his back and walks us through the crowd. We turn into the back room, and I move my hand away. I fall into the seat beside Jade. Jett pulls out the chair and sits across from me.
“Ryan!” Devi cheers. I lift my glass and tip a toast against her bottle.
Minutes pass and Ben, Devi, Jade, and Vaughn gravitate back into muffled conversations with one another. Jett and I haven’t said a word to each other since we sat down.
He nods toward the pool tables. “You play?”
I study the green felt as if it looks foreign to me.
“Once or twice.” Or hundreds of times.
“Care to make a wager? Best two out of three games wins.”
I sip to mask my smile and nod my acknowledgment, trying to look like I couldn’t care less that I’m going to whip his butt.
“If I win,” he says, “you let me run with you tomorrow morning.”
It’s impossible to hide my surprise at this request. Why would he want to run with me? But it’s an easy thing to give up, and I don’t ask questions. “And if I win?”
“Yours truly for the taking.” He spreads his arms as if he’s Elvis reincarnated.
I smirk and roll my eyes. “If I win you stop making party-girl comments entirely, not just tonight.”
“Deal.”
I’m shocked. He’s agreed much too quickly, which means I’ve underbid. “And you bring my roommates and me coffee.”
“Deal.” Still too quick.
“Every morning for the rest of the competition.”
He takes another swallow of his beer, still looking at me. He sets the bottle on the table and extends a hand. We shake. I start to pull back but his grip lingers and his index finger moves slowly over my knuckles. “Final answer: deal,” he says in a low, smiling voice.
I stand up, take off my jacket, and drop it in the booth. I stop in front of him and put my hands on my hips, ready for business. “Eight ball, nine ball, one pocket, or continuous?” A brief moment of shock registers on his face. His eyes smile as he takes another sip of his beer and nods. I’ve called out the different kind of billiards we can play and I think he just realized he’s lost.
“Lady’s choice,” he says smoothly.
“One pocket,” I say
, showing no mercy. If he’s faking it, he’ll not know how to play at all. And even if he does, having to sink eight out of fifteen balls in the same pocket should be enough to take him down.
I cross over to the tables, grab a cue, then return to him with the white plastic rack dangling off my finger. “Would you like to break…your balls…or should I?” He smirks at me, sets his beer down, and comes to stand by the side of the table.
“I’ll just watch and learn.” He crosses his arms over his broad chest and rubs his jaw. I rack the balls and lean, pulling my cue through my fingers—once, twice, and crack. The sharp sound echoes with a brilliant snap as the balls erupt and scatter. Love that sound. I circle the table, inspecting the landing position of each ball. I reach my cue out and point to the pocket closest to where he stands.
“One pocket,” I say with a knowing smile. I sink the easy balls first, four total. I’m halfway to winning. My next three shots are a little more challenging, but I make them by connecting with other balls on the table. On my last shot, I reposition for my final ball. It rims the pocket with dizzying delayed spins then sinks. Boom. I look up at Jett with a calm smile.
“Once or twice, huh?” He smirks at me.
I grab the rack and turn back to him with an innocent expression.
“Is that what I said?”
“Yeah. That’s what you said.” He hesitates and then walks to me. “I believe if I’m going to have a shot, I’d better break.” He lifts the rack off my finger and moves to the table.
Chapter Six
Jett
“Loser’s choice,” she says to me as I lift the rack from her finger.
“Traditional Eight Ball.” I rack and break. The balls scatter, and miraculously, I sink four.
“Solids,” I say, keeping my eyes on the table.
“Lucky break,” she says under her breath.
I move to the other side of the table, passing around her. “Luck has nothing to do with it, Ryan.” Without her business woman heels, she’s more petite than anyone I’ve ever dated—and, ironically, more sassy. Every time I get close to her I feel like a complete bully for throwing down with her this morning. For now, at least, it appears we’ve moved our relationship out of the verbal wrestling ring.
“Excuse me,” I say with a smile. “You’re blocking my shot.” She smirks and steps back.
I miss.
I count the remaining solids on the table, and she moves beside me. “You’re right, luck has nothing to do with it.” She crowds into my space and bats long lashes up at me. “Excuse me,” she says, as if it’s an afterthought. I step aside and watch her pocket four stripes in less than a minute. There’s a better-than-good chance I am going to lose this bet. I take another sip of my beer. She’s dragging her fingertips along the green felt edge as she stalks out her next ball, casting a taunting look back at me, enjoying every second.
I saw the wicked glint in her eye when I asked her if she played. Once or twice, my ass. I can’t say I’m disappointed, though. As I promised my teammates, my strategy has shifted and my goal now is to thaw the polar vortex that swirls in her eyes every time she looks at me. Engaging her in a game of pool has at least begun a slow drip of conversation between us, and if she wins, I suspect she’ll feel a little better toward me. Either way, I’m feeling a little better about myself.
She sets a leg on the table and leans into the shot. The pool cue stabs forward, and her shirt gapes open. I catch a flash of perfection cradled in cream lace. Damn. She’s gorgeous. And sexy. And apparently qualified to be a semi-professional pool player. She sinks the ball and flips her eyes up to me with enthusiasm.
“Nice,” I say, raising my eyebrows. She smiles a genuine, happy smile.
“Nervous?”
“Never.”
“You should be,” she says, chalking up her cue.
The only thing that’s making me nervous right now is her catching me while I’m watching the loose flow of her shirt every time she leans over the table. It’s distracting as hell. She shoots and misses. I’m up. I flex my grip around the cue and take a last swallow from my beer. I better put this down if I’m going to show up at all for this game. “So what do you think about this shot?” I ask, in an attempt to engage her.
She looks at me with a small smile. “I don’t think you have a chance.”
She’s right. I move to the other side of the table and choose another shot. I limp my game along, taking every piece of advice Ryan is willing to part with. Somehow I manage to clear the solids. I’m circling the eight ball, watching her for some indication of my best angle. Our friends abandon the booth and pull up barstools to watch the show. Apparently they want to see her finish me off.
“What are you playing for?” Devi shouts.
“Jett’s going to bring coffee to our room every morning this week.”
“Awesome!” Devi shouts back.
“Gotta love a girl with confidence, even if it is misplaced.” I extend my pool cue like a sword and point it toward the corner pocket in front of Ryan.
“Eight ball comin’ your way.” It sinks. Yes. I’ve managed to tie it up.
The “Living in America” ringtone blares in an unexpected burst from someone’s cell phone. We all look to Jade as she scrambles off her perch. She presses her phone to her ear and shouts something in a foreign language. I catch the exchanged solemn glance between Devi and Ryan, and recall Jade’s exit from the Trott building this morning.
“So what gives with all the calls?” I nod my head toward Jade’s exit as I rack the balls for Ryan. She looks at me as if she’d like to tell me to mind my own business, but I’ve broken through a little chip of the Ice Princess’s exterior, and instead of a wiseass remark, she takes another drink and ignores my question all together.
But I’m not ready to give up yet. “What was she saying?” I ask, removing the plastic triangle from the felt.
Even more unexpected than the interruption of the “Living in America” song, Vaughn answers the question Ryan and Devi are purposefully avoiding.
“Mom,” he says with his eyes on the exit. “She was saying, ‘Are you there, Mom?’” I know Vaughn’s right by the expressions on Ryan and Devi’s faces. They look like they’re wondering if Jade told him something or if he just speaks Chinese. Vaughn stands and heads out of the room, leaving us all in calm silence.
“That girl’s a spy for the Chinese mafia,” Ben says, pointing his beer toward the exit. “Had my eye on her the minute I stepped into that limo.”
Devi swipes her hand through the air. “She’s the Emperor of China’s daughter and we’ve kidnapped her for spring break so she can get out and have some fun,” she says. Ben and Devi continue their conversation based more in amusement than sense. Ryan’s smiling a soft smile as she eases around the table.
She throws me a bone and calls traditional eight ball for our last game. She breaks and sinks two balls. “Stripes.” She hits her target four balls in a row before finally missing. She bites the side of her lip and looks up at me. Any mediocre player could clear the rest of the shots left on the table, and I’m not mediocre at anything.
“It would appear we’re even now, Rose… Well, at least in the game of pool. Your break.”
“Pressure’s on, Trebuchet,” Ben heckles.
I make my way around the table, looking up at her after every successful shot. She shifts her weight back and forth in her boots. Just as I’m ready to take my last shot, Jade reappears in the room. I miss my shot, Ryan jumps, and her mouth forms a silent “Yes!” She takes position for her last shot, raises a “kiss your ass good-bye” look to me, and shoots.
In the background, I see Devi whispering with Jade and collecting their purses. Jade looks exhausted, distracted, and miserable. Ryan sinks her last shot then catwalks over to me, swaying her hips as if she’s on a runway. She leans her pool stick into my hand.
“Black with a shot of hot water, seven a.m. sharp.” My hands lock around her warm fingers.
Devi and Jade appear behind her. They whisper something I assume along the lines of indicating they are ready to leave.
Devi steps up next. “Nonfat latte with two shots of sugar-free vanilla syrup, no whip, three packets of Splenda.” She holds Ryan’s coat out to her.
“Chai latte,” Jade whispers as she slips by. The girls leave and the air around us seems to deflate. I console myself by reasoning it would have put me in a bind to run with Ryan in the mornings because I would have had to give up the only time I have to review the Jett Industries ledgers.
“Dude, you suck at pool,” Ben says.
“I know. I’m much better at drinking,” I say, tipping back the fresh beer he’s brought me.
Vaughn has come to stand beside us. “I figured out where I know her from,” he says.
“Know who?”
“Ryan.”
I vaguely recall him saying she looked familiar after the limo ride.
“She used to date Phil.”
I stare at him for a moment and wrack my brain. “Phil who?” And then it hits me. “Derringer?”
“Yeah. She’s Crazy Rose.”
“No way.” I think about it for a moment. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. I was there that night it went down.”
“I understand it was quite a scene.”
“It was not pretty. That’s why I remember her.”
We all heard the stories of Phil’s Michigan State Girl. I let my mind picture Ryan standing next to Phil, and the thought stirs my stomach. Phil’s never been my favorite person, but he does have his cronies at the frat house and he is a brother.
“Interesting,” I say, tucking that information in the back of my weary brain. It’s been a long day and my hotel bed is calling my name.
Chapter Seven
Ryan Rose
“It’s a new day,” I tell myself as we file into the boardroom and line up across from the guys. I exchange a quick look with Jett. I’m still smiling inside over his expression when Devi complained he didn’t bring her enough Splenda packets—and surprised he actually went back for her. He drew the line when she asked him to put the packets in her latte, tapping her fingertips against her thumbs, telling him her nails were wet. I had to turn away to keep from laughing, but I heard his poignant remark, “I’m not Ben, Devi,” before he walked away.