Not Your Ex's Hexes (Supernatural Singles, #2)(23)

He took off his leather jacket and tossed it into Bax’s laughing face before taking the stick. His fingers wrapped over hers, and as had happened before, an immediate zing traveled from the point of contact up his arm. Judging by the slight widening of Rose’s eyes, he hadn’t been the only one who’d felt it.

He made sure his palm brushed along her skin as he slowly took the cue. “You should’ve told me you’re a pool shark. I can’t help but feel a little defrauded.”

Her dark eyebrows lifted. “Fraud implies that I told you I’ve never played the game a day in my life, but I didn’t tell you a thing about my abilities. You assumed—probably because I have breasts—that I wouldn’t be familiar with it.”

“That wasn’t it at all,” he said truthfully. “I was just confident of my own prowess.”

Keeping an eye on Rose, he leaned over the table and took the breaking shot. Balls scattered in every direction, at least four—three solids and a stripe—sinking into various pockets. “I guess I’ll take solids.”

He shifted around the table for his next turn, picking off two more balls and feeling pretty damn good about himself until Rose walked behind him, her arm barely brushing his back. That zap returned, and he jolted, the cue ball sinking into a side pocket in a disappointing scratch.

He cursed, while she and their friends chuckled.

“Prowess, you said?” Smirking, Rose flicked her gaze from him to the table as she debated her strategy. “Do you want to know how I got so good at pool, doc?”

Sending him a heated look that had his cock twitching in his jeans, she leaned over and drew back her cue. Without taking her eyes off him, she snapped it forward and three of her stripes dropped into pockets with a fourth hovering an inch away from the corner pocket.

“How?” he heard himself ask.

“My sisters and I played every weekend with our grandfather, from the time we were big enough to hold a stick until he passed. Watching us beat his old Army friends was practically his favorite pastime.”

“Hear-hear,” Vi cheered from the table. The Prima Apparent and Olive clinked their glasses, each grinning wide. “Nothing withers overinflated egos better than being defeated by a twelve-year-old with braces.”

Rose took a page from Damian’s own book and leaned close, whispering for his ears only, “If you want your ego to remain intact, we can call this a draw and you can listen to my ideas now. I’m good either way, although part of me was really hoping to beat those pants off you. Are you a boxers or briefs guy?”

He played her coy bluff and stepped close. “If you want my pants off, little witch, all you need to do is ask. And while you’re at it, we should probably add commando as a third option.”

Her cheeks flushed, and damn if he didn’t like it. Playing with fire never felt so damn good. “I think it’s your turn … Ro.”

She gently hip-checked him to the left and lined up a shot, her delectable ass less than an inch away from his hand. He clenched his fingers around his cue to keep himself from reaching out and touching it, and watched as she sunk another two balls.

And these weren’t simple shots. They required a healthy dose of skill he’d only seen on the professional circuit. In one such move, she quickly sunk her last striped ball. “And then there was one.… In which pocket would you like me to sink the eight ball?”

“Back left corner pocket.” Although he didn’t think it mattered which he chose. He was totally losing. “One thing before you beat these jeans off me…”

She paused, her cue poised to take her final turn. “And that is…?”

“Let’s go somewhere private when my pants come off … because I may be into a lot of things, but exhibitionism was never one of them.”

To the sounds of hoots and hollers at the table behind them, Rose took her shot, and sure enough, she banked it effortlessly into the left corner pocket. With a faint smirk, she leaned into his side, her mouth brushing against his ear as she whispered, “In case inquiring minds want to know, I’m a third option girl myself.”

She slowly walked to their table, high-fiving her sisters and Harper.

Game over.

She’d won—both the pool game and the mental warfare.

She’d won it all.

Pants-down.





7





Scrap Metal Jenga


Victory never tasted so sweet. It put a pep in Rose’s step as she all but bounced toward the main barn, her laptop tucked under her arm. Not that she’d enjoyed Damian’s misery for the rest of the night at Potion’s Up, but it hadn’t sucked, either. He’d alternated between grumbling and going silent, even once attempting to renegotiate the terms of her win.

Not. A. Chance. She’d been long overdue for a triumph, and was holding on to this one with both hands and a vat of superglue.

“Hello, fellas!” She waved to Miguel and Terrance, who’d stepped outside, Butternut and Squash attached to leads at their sides. “Girls…” She gave each of the mares a little muzzle-rub.

“You’re here early,” Miguel pointed out. “And rather chipper this morning.”

“And I have every right to be. Is His Royal Grumpiness here yet?”