Page 5 of Fake It for Christmas

“Fancy.”

“I got one as a joke one night in the city and now they’re all I ever want.”

Used to be my mom’s favorite, too, until she ended up behind bars.

No big deal.

Shane sat on one of the seats near the tall table where I was leaning. “The caffeine doesn’t keep you up all night?”

I shook my head. “I sleep okay.”

“Lucky,” he said.

Christ. I didn’t deserve to be in the same room as someone as sweet and earnest as Shane, let alone hang out with him.

I headed over to the pool table and was able to pocket three solids in a row. I wasn’t all that good at pool, but hanging out around pool tables in bars had become a pretty big part of my life living in New York. Turns out that when the callbacks for auditions stop coming in, you end up spending most of your time waiting tables or drinking.

“Damn. You’re pretty good at that,” Shane said.

He leaned over to set up his next shot and I stayed beside him.

“Here,” I said, putting a hand to his elbow gently. “Lower that arm. Just a little.”

He glanced back at me the moment my hand landed on his skin. My hand felt warmer than his upper arm, but he definitely didn’t seem uncomfortable.

“Thanks,” he said.

“No problem. Now visualize what you want,” I said, near the side of his head. I put a hand on the small of his back, giving a soft downward pressure. “Don’t arch too much. Your bridge looks great.”

He smelled faintly like pine. Almost like aChristmas tree, honestly. Either he had the best body wash on the planet or he’d actually been working with a real pine tree today, because his scent was incredible.

He cracked the ball and took a shot, missing his intended pocket by a few centimeters.

“Shit.”

“Great try,” I said. “Really.”

I didn’t hold back for my next few shots. After Shane and I took two more turns each, I ended up winning the game.

I did a little forward bow for Shane.

“Didn’t know I was up against a master of the game,” Shane said.

“Hey, you could have won,” I told him. “You’re better than you think.”

He shook his head then grabbed his whiskey on the rocks, taking a sip. “Nah. I don’t tend to win much.”

“You do owe me something now, though,” I told him as we both leaned up against the tall table.

I liked this bar a lot—I’d been expecting a typical Tennessee dive when I came in here, but instead I’d found an old bookstore that had been converted to a bar, surrounded by dark wood bookshelves.

In this nook, Shane and I had our own nice view of the rest of the place and the bar a little further away, but we were inour own little space. Dim pendant lights hung from the ceiling, casting us in a glow.

“I do owe you,” he said, his blue eyes meeting mine.

“So,” I said. “What’s got you sad, tonight?”

He shrugged, shaking his head. “Well, I’m sad because of the Fixer Brothers.”

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