When she broke, the sound echoed like a starter pistol, and I knew I was in trouble.
I raised an eyebrow, instantly suspicious. “Did you have a pool table at home?”
Eva smirked. “You really think Virginia Montgomery would allow something so lowbrow in her home?”
“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “They have fancy pool tables for rich people, don’t they? There’s a Billiard Room inClue.”
“Ah, yes. The based-on-real-life board game,” she teased.
She chalked her cue and leaned over the pool table to reach her desired shot. She carefully lined up behind the cue ball and aimed for one of the solid-colored balls on the other side of the table. She was taking the game very seriously, like I knew she would. Eva Montgomery didn’t do anything half-assed. But at that particular moment, when I should have been mentally preparing for my own first shot, I couldn’t help but be distracted by Eva’s …assets.
The professional clothes from earlier had been exchanged for a tank top and a pair of sinfully short jean shorts that hugged all the right angles and curves. Pool was a game of geometry, after all.
Each time she bent over the table, my eyes were drawn to the way the denim material seemed to disappear. More of her smooth, brown thighs came into view. The jean shorts accentuated her cinched waist and the generous curves of her lower body.
I didn’t even pretend not to look.
And she knew it.
“Eyes on the prize,” she said without turning her head.
“Oh, Iam,” I replied, completely unrepentant.
She sunk the two-ball with ease and moved to the other side of the table. “You’re stripes. I’m solids.”
“Pretty sure you’re solid as hell,” I muttered.
Eva grinned and circled the table again, cue held lightly in her hand like it was an extension of her arm. She lined up her next shot with the same laser focus as before, but this time, the ball rattled against the corner of the pocket and rolled harmlessly away.
She clicked her tongue in mild annoyance. “Ugh. Tragic.”
I stepped forward to take my turn. “Finally. I was worried you were going to run the table before I ever got a shot.”
I bent over the table with a little more flair than necessary.
Her whistle was low and appreciative. “You gonna make that shot, or just pose for me?”
I hit it. Banked it, actually. I pretended I’d meant to do exactly that.
“Here comes the comeback,” I grinned.
“Don’t get cocky,” she warned. “One lucky bank shot does not make you a pool shark.”
“Let me have this,” I said, chalking my cue like I knew what I was doing. “I need to impress my hot date.”
“You already did,” she said, low and offhand, like it wasn’t the kind of thing that should make my heart skip.
I cleared my throat, trying not to let the smile spread too wide. I lined up the next shot, and promptly overcut it. The ball kissed the edge of the pocket and spun away.
“And there goes the comeback,” Eva said lightly.
She was already moving around the table for her turn, but I caught the shift in her expression—still playful, but dialed down a notch.
I watched her line up the shot, how easily she slipped into focus, how natural it seemed for her to take up space—even in a dive bar with warped cues and scratched-up felt.
On the court, at a photoshoot, at a charity gala—Eva always looked so comfortable in her skin. My mind wandered back to our disastrous pitch meeting just hours earlier and how easily she’d sat at the formidable conference table.
“Do you really like going to all those business meetings?” I asked.
