Page 36 of Not Exactly a Small-Town Romance

But I’ve had it with his commentary.

“Get over here and beat him for me, then,” I tell Gaston.

Khaki Pants elbows Gaston. “Go do it.”

But Gaston frowns. “Nah. It’s his date.”

Grant leans on his cue stick. “It’s all right, Kelsey.”

“No, I want to see him play. See if he can use his stick at all or if it’s as ineffective as I think it will be.”

That does it. The couples turn to look. Probably, like my ill-ordered espresso at Good Brew, I’ve outed myself as “not from around here.” It doesn’t matter. I’ve met plenty of Gastons in Hollywood, and I know exactly how to tweak their egos.

Gaston sets his beer stein on the counter. “I guess I’ve been called out.” He leaves the bar to select a cue stick from the rack.

“I guess I’m the third wheel,” Gaston says, cutting his eyes at me. “Sure didn’t expect the lady to ask me to join. Maybe she likes it better with two at a time.”

Everyone in the room goes still, like Gaston has drawn a pistol in a dusty one-horse town.

I should walk away. I really should. Gaston is bad news.

But bullies are the worst. And I’m all the way back in my Alabama days, watching boys like Gaston try to make themselves feel big by picking on the kinder, gentler kids.

Screw that.

“I’m stripes, in case your memory is as weak as your game,” I say.

“Now this is fun,” Khaki Pants says.

“Shut up,” Gaston snarls.

And I start to wonder. Maybe he’s not very good at pool.

Gaston takes his time rubbing a cube of chalk over the end of the stick. He waits, then Grant reminds him, “It’s your turn.”

Gaston frowns in concentration. He leans over the table at all the wrong angles. His grip is poor. He doesn’t have control of the stick.

He spends a ridiculous amount of time lining up an attempt that is doomed. And then, when he finally takes the shot, he doesn’t even get a clean crack at the cue ball, skidding it sideways.

I bite my lip.

“Take another,” Grant says. “You probably need more chalk.”

Interesting. Grant is trying to bolster this jerk.

Gaston rubs the stick against the chalk again before lining up another try. This time, he cleanly strikes the cue.

But it doesn’t hit another thing other than the side rail, a real feat given that only three balls have come off the table.

The game is mercifully short, with Grant cleaning up the entire rest of the solids as well as the eight ball without giving Gaston another turn.

Gaston shrugs as he tosses his stick on the table. “Everyone knows Grant is a pool shark.”

I poke Gaston’s chest. “Then next time, don’t be a jerk. Show some damn respect.”

“You have no idea what you’ve stepped into,” Gaston says. “Waltzing in here with your California attitude.”

“I’m from Alabama!” I argue, once again annoyed that someone has pegged me so easily.

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