Her Best Shot

Chapter 1-2

So much for not knowing anxiety. Layla walked down the busy street in Atlanta looking for the nearest bar. She needed a drink.

After a leisurely drive through the mountains and taking time to enjoy the beauty of rural North Carolina, Layla had been feeling better. Then she had pulled into Atlanta and everything went to hell. Her car just stopped. She probably shouldn’t have ignored the clunking while she was in the mountains. She sat at the side of the road waiting for a tow truck for a couple of hours. Not that she didn’t have offers, from a variety of good old boys, to take her wherever she wanted to go.

Because it was Saturday afternoon, the mechanic had told her straight-out that nothing would be done on her car until Monday, but he’d promised to call her with a diagnosis before the end of the day. She had barely stopped herself from telling him to just fix it no matter what. Although she didn’t like being stranded in Georgia, she wasn’t going to pay an exorbitant amount of money out of desperation for her hand-me-down car.

Pulling her backpack higher on her shoulder, she stood still for a moment and allowed her eyes to adjust to the dim interior of the first bar she found. It was a dive, but there was a decent-sized crowd. Unfortunately, it wasn’t her kind of crowd. They were mostly men and mostly grubby-looking. Even the younger ones had a roughness about them.

Layla figured it was par for the course. All she wanted to do was drown her sorrows in some beer and then pass out until her car was fixed. Maybe she could salvage part of her break. She shot a text to Felicity to let her know about the car.

After ordering a light beer at the bar, Layla walked around to find a spot to drink alone. In the back, she found a few men playing pool at the two tables. She grabbed a chair and sat with her back to the wall so she could watch the players. No one seemed to take notice of her presence.

Within moments, one player easily stood out as the man to beat. He was tall, over six feet, with long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. He wore a T-shirt that looked intentionally too tight, showing off defined muscles, as if to say, “Don’t f**k with me.” He didn’t chat with the other player. The only sounds he made were to call his shots. He was smooth and efficient, and fun to watch as he cleared the table.

Especially when he bent over in front of her. Maybe being stuck in Atlanta for the night wouldn’t be so bad if all the guys were this nice to look at. With the eight ball sunk, the man stood and collected the money sitting on the edge of the table. The loser walked away, and another guy took his place, putting his twenty on the edge.

This second player was better than the first, but Mr. Nice a*s stayed ahead. After a while, Layla began to wonder if he was just toying with his competition, like a cat playing with its prey. He let the other man sink a few balls and then returned to clear the table. Again, he sank the eight ball and swiped the cash.

The man was a pool hustler.

After the second loser left, the man looked around, his gaze landing on her. His eyes, a gray-green, weren’t pretty, but were mesmerizing. Something about the contrast against his olive skin.

He pointed his pool cue at her. “Are you going to sit there staring all night, or are you going to play?”

“Me? I’m not stupid enough to play pool with a hustler. My day’s been crappy enough. I don’t need to lose anything else.”

He stalked closer to her. “I’m not a hustler. Hustlers pretend to be bad and then show their true ability to win big. Make no mistake. I’m always good.”

As he spoke, she listened to the cadence of his voice. He didn’t have the accent that the other men had. She couldn’t tell where he was from.

“Thanks for the vocabulary lesson. I still have better things to do with twenty bucks than lose it to you, especially since I’ve only played pool a handful of times.”

He took another step closer. Close enough that she could touch him if she wanted, but he kept enough distance so she wasn’t crowded. “How about you buy me a beer, and I’ll give you a lesson?”

She had nothing else going on, and a game of pool with a sexy stranger might be fun. “You’re on. What’ll you have?”

He tilted his head toward her bottle. “Whatever you’re having is fine.”

She grabbed her backpack and went back to the bar to buy a couple more beers. When she returned, he had the balls racked and ready to go. She placed her backpack on her chair and grabbed a cue stick. Layla handed him a bottle and said, “I’m Layla.”

He took the bottle from her, allowing his thumb to brush over her fingers. “Thanks, Layla. I’m Phin.”

The simple touch sent a jolt of pleasure up her arm and down her center. He took a swig of beer, and she watched his throat work as he swallowed. She licked her lips, and when he reached past her to put his bottle on the table, her mouth went dry. This man was like a walking o****m. He didn’t have to say anything, and she wanted to go for a test run.

“Let’s get started.” He moved back to the pool table. “Do you want to break, or should I?”

“Go ahead.” She stood to the side, gripping her cue stick.

He leaned forward, and the roped muscles of his forearms flexed as he made his shot. He sank a solid-colored ball, but because she was too busy watching him and not the table, she didn’t see which one.

“Do you know the rules?”

She nodded. “You sank a solid, so I have stripes. Call what pocket I’m aiming for and get the balls in. Don’t sink the eight until the end.”

“First rule, watch the table.” He followed this with a warm grin that told her he liked to tease.

Two could play at that. He leaned over for his next shot, and she shifted closer to him and leaned on the edge. The muscle in his jaw twitched and he straightened.

He carefully set down his stick and walked behind her. Before she could register what was happening, Phin had picked her up by her hips and a squeal popped from her throat. He set her down a couple of feet back.

When she had her balance, she crossed her arms and looked up at him. “What are you doing?”

He cleared his throat before answering. “You can’t lean on the table during another player’s shot.”

She gave him a wide-eyed look. “How else am I supposed to learn? I paid for a lesson, and if you think that watching you win is going to teach me, you’re wrong. I might not look like much, but I’m pretty competitive. You’ll beat me, but I’m a quick study.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Now stay back.” He pointed his stick in her direction. “Seven, side pocket.” He tapped the pocket he aimed for as if she couldn’t figure it out. The ball thunked in and he continued. “Three, corner pocket.”

This time, as he leaned over, Layla strolled to the other side of the table. He didn’t move his head, but she felt him staring at her. He struck the cue ball, but it angled and glanced off the three, missing his intended target. “Your shot.”

Layla stared at the table, trying to decide what would be her easiest shot, instead of taking another peek at his a*s. She walked around the corner to get a full picture of where the balls sat and where they should go. When she returned to Phin’s side, she asked, “Fifteen in the corner. That’s my best bet, right?”