CHAPTER 8: SUNSHINE

JAX POV

I watch as Mila follows me to the pool table. At least this is preferable to chasing after her through the cold again.

I pick up a cue, feeling its weight. I take aim, break, and sink three stripes easily. No surprise, I have an athlete's eye and total physical command.

Mila picks up a cue, feeling its weight. She takes a few clumsy practice shots, nearly knocking over a guy passing by.

"Sorry!" she yelps.

I huff out a humorless laugh. "You're terrible."

"Gee, thanks. Very encouraging."

I must take pity on her pathetic showing. "Here. Do it like this."

I demonstrate, leaning down and stretching my arm across the green felt. The muscles in my forearms flex, and I see her eyes linger on my tattoos.

"Got it?" I ask.

She nods and tries to mimic my pose. It's all wrong.

"No. For god's sake, sunshine. Not like that. Here."

Sunshine.

I know it's sarcastic, probably intended to irritate her. But it came out softer than I meant.

I close the space between us. Her breath catches. I'm almost shocked at how gentle my touch is as I correct her form. I nudge her arms into position, one hand shifting her hip before dropping back to my side.

I'm usually blunt, cold, hard enough to leave damage wherever I touch.

Instead, my touch is firm but... careful.

Her face heats. I watch her eyes widen, her pulse fluttering at her throat.

"That's it." My voice has a low, rough timbre. "You got it."

Flustered, she takes the shot, and the white ball veers off wildly to the left, missing completely.

"Guess I need some practice," she says sheepishly. "But anyway... What can I do to get you to sign off on the plan? Rock, paper, scissors?"

She's trying to be funny. It works.

I raise my eyebrows. "If you sink the 8-ball before I do, then I'll sign your document. Then I'll go along with your plan."

She gives a little nod, trying to keep her face neutral. "You've got yourself a deal." She sticks out her hand, and I shake it. "But you start. Show me how it's done, All Star."

If he can give me multiple sardonic nicknames, I can give him one too.

I sink three stripes, then hit one more that rolls to a stop just before the pocket.

I nod at her, a slight smirk. "Your turn."

Now for the fun part.

She swings the cue up to the table. Muscle memory, she lines up, aims, and confidently thrusts the cue forward. The ball rolls right into the pocket.

Then she does it again.

Four times.

Realization dawns on me. "You know how to play."

She flashes me her most innocent smile. "What do you mean?"

"You hustled me." I growl. "You pretended like you couldn't hit the ball for shit."

"You were the one who suggested the competition. I just let you make your own assumptions."

I lean forward to take my shot. I miss. She's rattled me.

She leans against the table, measuring the perfect angle before she draws the cue back and shoots. The white ball collides with the blue in a fast, clean shot with a satisfying click.

I cross my arms, irritation radiating off me. "Where the hell did you learn this?"

"I'm more of a cafe girl now," she explains lightly, circling the table. "But my mom bartended for years while I was growing up. It was just the two of us, and she couldn't afford a babysitter. I'd mostly just do homework and watch hockey on TV in the backroom, but sometimes she'd let me hang out in the actual bar."

Clack. She sinks the orange.

"And guess what every bar had? A pool table. Trust me, all the regulars were way too keen to teach a kid how to play. They thought it was hilarious. I ended up getting pretty good."

Her eyes track me as she circles the table.

"Excuse me," she says, squeezing past me. I feel the heat of her body as she moves by.

She has to lean half over the table to make a clean shot at the black. Heat simmers under my skin as I feel her presence just inches from mine. I can't help but wonder if my eyes are on her face, or her hands, or her ass. I'm suddenly hyperaware of how her back curves as she leans, how her thighs shift against each other.

She takes a breath, and clack. The black ball disappears into the pocket.

Jackpot.

She straightens, tilting her head up to meet my eyes. "All of this to say... Underestimate me at your own risk."

Energy crackles between us.

My mouth tugs up into a warm, dark smirk. She actually outsmarted me.

"You," I say slowly, drawing the word out, low and hot, "are full of surprises, Mila Santiago."

She quickly grabs the document from our table, clicks the pen, and hands it over. I drop the paper onto the green felt and sign it.

I thrust it back toward her. "Should've gone with darts."

She smiles sweetly. "I'd probably have beaten you at that, too. See you at the game tomorrow, All Star."