Page 26 of Savannah Royals
“Uh…well, the table looks rather full right now,” I answer faintly, still plotting my escape. I spot Daniel and Harry across the room, talking to Florence.
“What about pool?” He moves slowly toward an empty table. Against my better judgment, I fall into step beside him. “Want to give it a try? I can teach you.”
“Sure, why not?” I mentally pause my Harry plan. It can wait until after I’ve wiped the floor with Matthew. Shouldn’t take long. I do love to mix pleasure with business.
A few stray balls are scattered across the table. Matthew grabs a pool cue and bends over the green felt. A lock of blond hair falls over his right eye as he focuses, but he doesn’t flinch. He fires off a clean shot across the length of the table, sinking a ball. It’s an impressive strike, actually. I give him a sidelong glance, recalibrating.
“You’re aiming to get the balls in the pockets,” he explains, handing the stick to me. “On your first turn, you can aim for either stripes or solids…any ball except the black eight. That goes in last.”
I accept the pool cue and place my wineglass down. He moves behind me, showing me how to hold it. His fingers dart skillfully over mine, but there’s nothing lingering or inappropriate in his touch, which surprises me. It’s kind of sexy actually, watching his fingers move so quickly, barely brushing mine.
Wondering what will happen next, I bend over to line up a shot. He follows, but only halfway, gently placing one hand on the outermost edgeof my waist. Light as a feather. He murmurs something in my ear about angles, but I’m not really listening. I focus on the shot I want, not the easy one he recommends. I’ve always had a flair for the dramatic.
“Like this?” I fire off the cue ball, sending it forward in a clear strike. It collides between two striped balls, splitting them into either direction. I smile with satisfaction as they drop into opposite corner pockets. It’s a fantastic shot, one that definitely overestimates my abilities, but it has the effect I want.
Matthew blinks twice, surprised. “You already know how to play?”
“I never said I didn’t.” I lean on the pool cue. “You assumed, so I let you have your little moment. Are you disappointed?”
“Not in the slightest.” His eyes flicker with excitement. “This just got a lot more interesting. Care to raise the stakes?”
“What, like strip pool?” I glance around the crowded room, confused. “I hardly think that’s wise. Too many spectators.”
When I look back, however, his eyes are wide, bursting with shock. Suddenly, I realize I’ve jumped to the wrong conclusion. Theverywrong conclusion. I’m not in the slums of the bayou with the Royals; I’m at the Academy. With the son of our benefactress. For the first time in recent history, I fight a blush.
“Um. No,” he finally manages. “My intentions were not nearly so bold.”
“Indeed not. I was merely jesting. Perchance you’ll enlighten me?” I tilt my chin up, trying to salvage whatever dignity I have left. Per usual, it seems buried deep in the Catacombs, exactly where I left it.
“For every ball I sink, you have to answer a question. And youhaveto answer. Honestly. No more of the dodging nonsense you pulled the other day.”
“And ifIsink a ball?”
“You get to askmesomething. Tit for tat.”
I bite my lip. There’s not an awful lot for me to gain in this game.
“What’s the matter? Scaredyou’ll lose?” Matthew baits.
It’s stupid. I know exactly what he’s doing, but he’s awfully cute when he smiles like that. And he’s awfully clever as well.
I pick up my wineglass and drain the whole thing. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
After racking the balls, I accept the pool cue to break, and I get off a decent shot. Two-thirds of the balls scatter, only a few remaining stubbornly clustered in the middle.
“Stripes or solids, stripes or solids…” Matthew murmurs, drumming his fingers on the table as he peruses the field. He accepts the stick from me and walks around the table. “Eh, I like solids.” Quick as lightning, he bends over and fires off a shot to sink his first ball.
“Dammit,” I mutter under my breath.
“Oh, I think…” He props his chin in his right hand on the table. “Ithinkthat means I get a question. Don’t worry, we’ll start off easy. When’s your birthday? And I’m talking month, day, and year. No skimping.”
This isn’t bad, all things considered. “December 2, 1897.”
“So you’re twenty-one?”
“You’re fast,” I drawl.
Then I have the privilege of watching him line up and nail his next shot. I snort, already frustrated.
