Page 31 of His Last Shot
Whatever. It’s none of my business. Even though I desperately want it to be my business.
All I want to do is leave this place, but I won’t do that before I help her first. As I brush the table, footsteps approach from behind me.
“I’m not dating Drew,” she blurts out. Before I know it, she’s standing on the opposite end of the table, waiting for me to respond, her eyes pinching with concern.
Why does she care?Why is she standing here telling me this, as if it matters?
For the last two months, I have tried to get this incredible woman to notice me. Yet, trying not to pressure her. We have spent so much time together here at Dexter’s while closing the bar. And nothing beats the time spent in my truck over the past few weeks, talking and stargazing. I see the heated stares, the way her cheeks blush when I wink at her from across the bar, how her breathing increases when I help her out of the truck.
Every time I touch her, there’s a current of desire that fills my bones. It’s maddening. Granted, I have felt attracted to women before. But this … this urge I get when I’m with her, it’s unlike anything I have ever experienced.
I know this isn’t one-sided. Yet, she is keeping me at arm’s length. So, it must be this Drew guy. They may not be dating, but something is going on. And she never mentions him when we are in the truck. I’ve brought his name up a time or two, hoping it will prompt her to talk about him, but she always redirects the conversation.
The rhythmic scrape of the brush against the table is all I attempt to concentrate on; I don’t look up. “It’s none of my business who you date, Rachel. Drew or otherwise,” I state without emotion. Because it’s true. As much as I want to care, and do care, Rachel can date whomever she wants.
She slowly saunters over closer to me, running her fingertips along the side rail until she is right next to me, leaning against the table. “Maybe I want it to be your business,” she purrs.
Well, well, well.
Finally, she is showing some interest!
I chuck the brush onto the table and round the side, standing right in front of her. She steps back, resting her backside and hands on the table, taking me in. I lean forward; my hands land on either side of her, caging her in. “Is that so?”
She nods. Our eyes lock. The air crackles with anticipation as we stare, the electric current in the room so strong, my skin comes alive. With ourfaces millimeters apart and her warm breath skating over my skin, I zero in on her lips. The desire I have to pull them to mine washes over me like a waterfall.
“Why did you feel the need to tell me that?”
She lifts her chin in defiance. “Tell you what?”
“That you and Drew aren’t a thing.”
She shrugs, unblinking.
The weight of her stare, how close we are standing and yet not touching, and just …her. All of it is causing me to lose my freaking mind.
I’m about to snap. In a good way. The best way.
Even though my heart is ready to explode out of my chest, something is gnawing at me, and it’s this … I can’t rush anything with her.
For one thing, she’s special. For another, I am putting the ball squarely in her court. I mean, great, we’ve established that it isn’t Drew holding her back.
Thank the good Lord.
Then that leaves her RA. I am about ninety-nine percent sure her reluctance is due to that and what it does to her self-confidence. And for that reason alone, I will wait for her to make the first move.
Which means, right now, I need to create some distance, because …GOD. This is intense.A swift subject change is in order. And there’s no better subject than my favorite. Pool.
But I don’t back away. Not yet. “Do you play?” She answers with a slight shake of her head, our noses grazing slightly. “Wanna learn?”
“Will you teach me?” she whispers and arches her back slightly.
I grin. “Gladly.” Pushing off the table, I grab the brush and place it back on the shelf. Rachel takes a few deep breaths to compose herself before heading to the door. She flips the lock, and it clicks into place, echoing throughout the empty bar. She glances at me as I take her in. No one, and I mean no one, makes jeans and a tank top look as good as she does. Mesmerized, I watch as she effortlessly piles her hair atop her head before making her way to the jukebox; the rhythmic clinking of her bracelets shoots straight through me.
I’m staring.
And ogling.
I have no shame at this point.
