Page 79 of Of Grief And Gratitude

He chalked his cue as I flipped the coin, seemingly unbothered. It landed on the green felt, and I looked down to find I’d lost. It wasn’t too disappointing. I’d still wipe the floor with him. “Tails. You go first.”

“I’ve always believed in ladies first,” he countered, nodding in my direction.

I couldn’t have that. I wasn’t about to have him blame his loss to a girl on giving up the first shot. “In anything else, I’d agree. But not here. You earned it. Now break.”

“Suit yourself.” He was so nonchalant as he positioned the cue ball that a flash of worry crossed my mind. I shrugged it off. There was no way some playboy mafioso would best me at my game. “What should we wager?”

“Pardon?” I glanced up at him.

He smiled, his white teeth gleaming in the light. “You always bet. What should ours be?”

“Oh.” I bit my lip, trying to think of something that wouldn’t make him too sore of a loser. “Dishes?”

“A kiss,” he countered.

I rolled my eyes. “Fine, a kiss.”

“Perfect.” Romeo aimed, and the balls cracked through the silence. He pocketed three balls—two solids and a stripe. “Solids.”

Lucky shot. I didn’t say it out loud, reminding myself it could happen to anybody by chance. About the same chance of my dating an O'Connor… but still, it was possible. I watched as he rounded the table and lined up another shot. Corner pocket. That hadn’t been a difficult play.

Romeo squinted at the felt and moved around the table again. He sunk the seven in the side pocket. That left him with only three balls in play.

“How often do you play?” I asked, trying to sound casual. On the inside, I was scowling at his progress.

Romeo aimed for the one but sent the solid and one of my stripes straight for the same pocket. They bounced between the corner rails before his ball dropped in. Two balls left.

He raised a shoulder. “Not often.”

My ass.

Amateurs didn’t land those kinds of shots. I narrowed my eyes at him, and he smirked. That asshole. He’d known exactly what he was doing.

Romeo got cocky and missed his next shot. Finally.

I surveyed the table, mentally calculating the best odds. I went for the twelve first, sinking it with a quick tap. It didn’t take long to hit my stride, and soon I only had the nine and the eight balls left. It should have been an easy shot, but Romeo planted his palms on the table's edge and watched me with hungry eyes, slowly dragging his tongue across his bottom lip.

He broke my concentration, and I scratched.

“Shit,” I hissed out, glaring at Romeo as if I could burn him to ash.

He held his hands up with false innocence and fished the cue ball out of the side pocket, placing it where he wanted. “Doesn’t feel so great when the player gets played, does it?”

“Fuck you,” I spat, snapping my mouth shut when he easily made the corner pocket.

He made a show of grabbing the prominent bulge in his grey sweatpants. “I hope so, mia fiamma.”

“You’ll be stuck with your hand for this.” I started to sweat when he made the next shot and called the eight ball.

Romeo pointed his cue. “Eight ball. Side pocket.”

I held my breath, praying to any higher power that he’d somehow miss the shot. My prayers went unanswered; Romeo enamored even the deities. He couldn’t just beat me. No, he had to use flair, ricocheting the eight ball off the sides before it dropped into the pocket he’d chosen with an echoing thunk.

Wordlessly, he set the pool cue down and stalked toward me. I backed up on instinct, feeling like prey under the sharp gaze of a predator. My hips hit the table, and he was in front of me, his arms bracketing me.

“You owe me a kiss, Riona.”

I cleared my throat, but my words came out strangled. “Right. A kiss.”

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