Page 29 of Savannah Royals
“I’m not sure I’ll be good for it later,” I tell him, narrowing my eyes.
“Eight ball, side pocket.”
“Horsefeathers!” I examine the trick shot he’s going to attempt.
He concentrates, gnawing on his lower lip. My eyes widen, following the trajectory after he shoots. Mercifully, the ball bounces just to the side of the pocket, granting me a final reprieve.
The state of the table is downright embarrassing, and I’m desperate to rectify the situation. I pick my angle, bending down slowly.
All of a sudden, Matthew is behind me. He leans over as I line up my shot. His hand goes to my hip, more confidently than last time, with far more contact than when he thought he was teaching me how to shoot. His lips are less than an inch from my ear when he whispers to me.
“You sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Yes, thank you. I know exactly what I’m doing,” I snap. “And so do you, ya scoundrel. Shoo!”
“But I finally thought of my question.”
I ignore him to concentrate on my shot. Just as I’m preparing to flick my wrist, he plays his trump card.
“Who did you play strip pool with, Katarina?” His whispering breath is hot against my ear.
His shocking question more than does its job. I miss my target disgracefully.
“No fair,” I whine, turning to him.
“If you don’t play fair,Icertainly won’t.” He smiles wickedly. “I’m waiting on your answer, by the way.”
“I amnotanswering.”
“You most certainly are.”
“I most certainly am not. It’s none of your beeswax!”
“Was it a guy?Theguy?”
These are dangerous waters, but I was made to swim there. And he’s had me on my heels for far too long in this game.You get what you ask for, Matthew.
“Not guy. Guys,” I stipulate boldly. “Plural.” Three of them, to be exact.
He whistles and steps back.
“Again, not that it’s any of your beeswax.”
“Guess I deserve that.”
“So what do you think?” I challenge. “Am I still living up to your expectations?”
I’m determined to show him I’m not ashamed of who I am. Because I’m not. Paul, Abe, and Tony are nothing to be ashamed of.
“You, Katarina, exceed expectations. Every time.” With that, he sinks the eight ball, and the game is finished.
“You don’t get a question for that one,” I say. “It’s game over.”
“Oh, I certainly do.” He chuckles. “But I’ll save it for later.”
As our game breaks up, so does the larger gathering. I glance sidelong at Matthew’s wristwatch as people trickle outside. It’s already after ten p.m.
“Heavens to Betsy!” I grab Matthew’s arm. “Is your friend Daniel still here? I need to talk to him.”
