See Me After Class(19)

“I do.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Do you really believe reverse psychology is going to work on me?”

She glances to the side, her teeth pulling on her bottom lip. My eyes immediately fixate on that little movement. Her white ivories tugging carefully, rolling, enticing me . . .

“I was kind of hoping that it would. Hoping that maybe you know English but not other things.”

“I know everything.”

“Yeah, sure. Bet you don’t know how to play pool,” she says, egging me on.

“Told you that wasn’t going to work.”

“Yeah, you don’t know how to play. Instead of using the pool cue, you like to stick it up your ass to make sure you stay uptight at all times.”

My eyes narrow.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” She nods toward me. “There’s one up there right now.”

“Are you always this childish?”

“Are you always this soul-sucking?” she counters, crossing her arms over her chest.

I contemplate leaving, not giving her the pleasure of goading me, but then I think about how good it’ll feel to destroy her on the pool table. Especially an overly confident athlete like her, now that would be soul-sucking.

Without a word, I push past her and head to the empty pool tables. I can practically feel her “winning” grin behind me. She thinks she bested me. She didn’t. I’m just back here to teach her a lesson.

Catching up to me, she asks, “So . . . are you any good?”

“Yes.”

“You are?”

When we reach the pool cues, I hand her one and grab one myself, then chalk the tip. “Yes.” I rack the balls, place the cue ball in the head spot and say, “You break.”

“You know, you don’t have to snap orders at me. You can be pleasant.”

“I know.”

Her eyes flatten into small slits. “But you choose not to be.”

“Precisely.”

“Well . . . aren’t you a ball of fun?”

She finishes chalking her cue and then walks around the pool table, her manicured fingers dragging along the siderails. Even though I don’t care for her unflattering shirt, when she leans over the table, I catch a small glimpse of her ass in those leggings and, hell . . . that’s not a bad view.

Her arm cocks back and she pushes the cue into the cue ball, sending it straight into the racked triangle with enough power to scatter the balls across the table, immediately sending a striped ball into the left corner pocket.

When she looks up at me and smiles, she says, “My dad taught me how to play.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re better than me.”

“Aren’t you acting a little too cocky?”

“I thought you were an athlete; didn’t know you couldn’t take it.”

Her eyes narrow again. “I can take it.” I shrug and wait my turn. “God, you’re infuriating.”

She moves around the table and angles herself for another shot. She sinks two more balls before missing on the right-side pocket.

I observe the placement of the solids taking in the angles, where I could possibly shoot them. And after a few short minutes, I move to the cue ball and get to work. I feel her eyes trained on me when I lean down, my hand stabilizing the cue as I push it through the cue ball, sending ball after ball into their respective pockets. She doesn’t move, only observes, and every time I walk past her, I move closer and closer until my shoulder lightly brushes against hers and I catch her quick intake of breath. I bend in front of her, look over my shoulder and say, “A little room.”

She backs up, and I call the eight ball in the corner pocket, before sending it careening inside. Standing straight, I turn toward her and say, “Are you good? Or do you need to play more?”

Her lips twist to the side in consternation. “You’re a prick.”

I hold back my chuckle. “I had you pegged for a sore loser.”

“I’m not a sore loser.”

“You just called me a prick after I beat you in pool.”

“I called you a prick because you’re acting like an arrogant asshole. I’d have been more than happy to accept defeat and praise you on your obvious ability to play pool, but not when you showboat and—”

“How did I showboat?”

She points to the corner of my lip. “Your smug smirk.”

“A smirk, that’s showboating?” I grip the back of my neck and glance around. “Hell, and I thought showboating would be me flapping my arms around, trying to get the entire bar involved in a chant that praises me and makes you look like a fool. I passed up that idea, trying to save you the humiliation.”

Her jaw tightens, and before I know what’s happening, she’s pushing at my chest. “What is wrong with you?” She pushes me again, but I go nowhere. She might be strong, but not strong enough. Giving up, she tosses the cue stick on the table and says, “God, you’re the most infuriating man I’ve ever met and we’ve barely shared six words. She grips the edge of the pool table, anger rolling off her in almost visible waves. “Four interactions to be precise—my interview, the party, first day of school, and today. Four interactions and I already hate you. Despise you, actually. What does that say for you?”