My Guilty Pleasure

He picked up the cue her previous challenger had left behind and tested the weight in his hand. “Not exactly what I had in mind.” He circled the table to her side.

She slipped a hank of honey-blond hair behind her ear. “I don’t know you well enough for that kind of wager.”

He set the base of the cue on the floor between his feet. With his hands wrapped around the stick, he leaned slightly forward, breathing in her scent. Amid the acrid odors of spilled beer and stale smoke that permeated the air, he caught her subtle fragrance, a light floral mixture. Expensive, too. Funny, but he’d pegged her for something more spicy and exotic. “No, but I’d bet you’d like to,” he said.

The blue of her eyes darkened, giving him all the answer he needed.

“Arrogant, aren’t you?” She angled her cue against the table while she dropped the quarters into the slot and waited for the balls to tumble into the tray.

He plucked the rack from the other side of the table and set it on the felt near the stack of twenties. “See? You’re getting to know me already.”

She chuckled softly, then started loading the balls into the rack. “Time to put up or shut up.”

He slipped his wallet from his hip pocket and pulled out a crisp hundred-dollar bill to match her bet. “Satisfied?”

Her smile was positively wicked, red-lining his libido. She scooped up the cash and set it on the side of the pool table, then removed the wooden triangular rack before retrieving her pool stick. “Your break,” she said, as was customary.

He lined up the shot and sent the cue ball soaring across the table. “So you come here often?” he asked above the loud crack. He kept his attention on the scattering balls and watched the four ball roll into the corner pocket.

“Boy, if I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that line.” She stepped out of his way when he circled the table looking for his next shot.

He took aim on the two ball and missed, distracted by the subtle scent of her perfume. “Better than ‘what’s your sign?’” But if he were guessing, he’d say a Taurus, or maybe a Scorpio. The tilt of her chin and the glint in her eye indicated a stubborn streak. Not that he was seriously in to astrology, but when he was growing up, his mother had never left the house without first consulting the obituaries and the astrology section of the Boston Globe.

“I’ll give you that.” She took aim and easily sank the eleven ball. “And, no. I don’t come here all that much. You?”

She didn’t strike him as the barfly type, but he couldn’t help wondering what someone like her was doing in a place like Rosalie’s. The place was a roadhouse in the truest sense of the word.

“New in town,” he said as she set up her next shot. Another half truth. He was full of them tonight.

“From where?” She sank the nine ball with a difficult bank shot.

“Miami.” He inclined his head toward the table. “Nice one.”

“Thanks.”

She slowly walked toward him, holding his gaze with every step. Damn if he didn’t have trouble remembering how to breathe. She bent forward to line up her next shot. Her slender fingers wrapped around the cue and she slowly slid the stick back and forth. His imagination headed south.

He cleared his throat.

She took aim, then missed. “So you get a sudden hankering for a long cold winter?”

He shrugged. “All that sunshine can wear on a guy after a while.” He hadn’t planned on returning to Boston, but when the offer from Samuel, Cyrus and Kane had come his way, he never once considered declining. Come Monday morning, he’d be the youngest partner on the letterhead of one of the city’s oldest and most prestigious firms, and heading up their litigation department. Not a bad gig for a guy like himself.

She made a sound that almost seemed like laughter. “Boston won’t disappoint you then.”

He leaned forward to line up his shot, then looked up at her. “So far it hasn’t.”

That wicked smile of hers returned. He shot and scratched.

She laughed again then effortlessly cleared the table, making one difficult play after the other until only two of his solid-colored balls and the eight ball remained. “In the side pocket.” She grazed the eight ball and sank it exactly where she’d called it.

“Thanks.” She scooped up her winnings and tucked the wad of cash into her back pocket. “Hello, Manolo,” she said, her grin widening. “Worthington is having a sale.”

“Play again?” he asked.

“Thanks, but no.” Her grin wavered slightly. “I really should be getting home. Maybe next time.”

She turned and walked away, heading toward the bar. He stared at the gentle sway of her hips in tight denim until his common sense took hold. What was wrong with him? He couldn’t let her get away just yet. He didn’t even know her name.

He caught up with her by the time she reached the bar. “You think you should be driving?” She hadn’t had a drink in at least ninety minutes. Her eyes weren’t glassy and her stride had been steady when she’d walked away from him. Honestly, he didn’t think driving under the influence was an issue at this point, but it was the best excuse he could come up with under pressure.

“Excuse me?”

He gave her his best winning smile. “Why don’t you let me buy you breakfast?”

“Thanks,” she said with a shake of her head, “but no. I’m fine.”

Yes, she was. Which was exactly his point. “There’s an all-night diner across the road. Just breakfast.”

She hesitated. He took that as a good sign in his favor.

“Coffee?” he offered.

“Maybe I could use some coffee.”

He smiled. “Good idea.”

“Hey, Mitch,” she called out to the bartender. “You want anything from the diner?”

Smart girl, Sebastian thought.

“No, I’m good,” the bartender answered, then looked him over and gave him a hard stare, leaving Sebastian with the distinct impression he’d suffer a severe pounding should anything happen to the blonde under his watch.

“TWO EGGS OVER EASY. Bacon, crisp. Rye toast,” Joey told the waitress.

“Pancakes and eggs for me,” her breakfast companion ordered. “With a side of sausage links.” He handed the waitress the menus.

Joey admired his long slender fingers and took a sip of hot coffee. “So, you have a name?”

He stirred cream and sugar into his own mug. “Sebastian.”

“First or last?”

“First. You?”

“Joey,” she said. Just Joey.

He set his spoon on the saucer. “I gotta ask. What’s a nice girl like you doing hanging out at a roadhouse like Rosalie’s?”