Page 18 of Every Broken Thing

I plucked the picture from its cubbyhole and glanced Ben’s way. “You look like her.”

He nodded, his face blank as he avoided my gaze. When neither of us spoke, I returned the picture frame to its place and sauntered back to the pool table, running my fingertips over the wooden edge.

“Are you hurt?” he finally asked, and I rapped my knuckles on the table with a shake of my head.

“Like I said, it’s not the first time he’s thrown his weight around like he’s someone important, and it won’t be the last. It’ll be fine. Just forget about it.”

His scowl darkened, and he kicked at his carpet with his socked toes. “You play?” Ben nodded toward the pool table, and I plucked the plain white ball from the felt surface with a shake of my head.

“No. But I know it involves playing with rods and sinking balls.” I expected my innuendo to embarrass him, but he smirked through his responding flush.

“I’m sure you’re a natural.”

I burst into laughter at his deadpan delivery, and he smiled big enough for his dimple to wave hello. “Did you just make a gay joke?”

“Are you offended?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Then, yes I did.”

“Bravo, Benjamin.” I clapped sarcastically as he snatched two pool cues from the wooden rack beside the bathroom door. “I’m impressed.”

He fitted the balls in the black plastic triangle before offering me the milky-white one. “You wanna break?”

I snatched it from his hand. “I don’t make a habit of breaking balls. They’re much more fun whole.” His good-natured chuckle was rich and smooth, and I allowed the sound to slide over my skin as I lined up my shot.

“I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

“Maybe.” His gaze weighed on my shoulders, twisting my gut into nervous knots, and I peeked at him from the corner of my eye. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

A playful grin teased his mouth, his eyes riveted on mine. “I don’t plan to.”

My stomach clenched. Was he flirting with me? No, no way. He was just fucking around.

“Is this where I prove my ball-handling expertise?” I sassed as I slid the wooden stick between my fingers.

Dark waves crashed in his irises as he leaned against the back of the couch. “Impress me.”

Rolling my eyes, I focused on the triangle of stripes and solids, then rammed my pool stick into the cue ball, sending it cracking into the group. The balls scattered but none dropped, and I shrugged at my failure.

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Maybe you just need more practice.”

We both cackled, and I bit my tongue to keep from asking if he was offering assistance. That would be a step too far, I decided, and I shoved the temptation from my mind. I didn’t want to flirt with Ben, and he wasn’t interested either since he was straight and may or may not have a girlfriend.

Ben wiped the floor with me as he shot solid after solid into the pockets while I tried and failed to sink even one stripe. It was the first time I’d ever played, but self-conscious annoyance built in my gut at my pathetic performance.

“You need to aim,” he instructed for the millionth time as I lined up the red-striped fifteen ball for the corner pocket.

“What? Aim? I had no idea!” I mocked before flipping him off.

“Just trying to be helpful,” he said.

“Then maybe stop staring at me. It’s distracting.”

Ben smiled at his pool stick, biting his bottom lip before meeting my challenging stare. “I didn’t realize you hadperformance anxiety.” My jaw dropped, and he smothered a snicker behind his palm.

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