Page 110 of PR Stunt

We make our way over, and I grab a cue stick off the wall, rolling it between my fingers and reacquainting myself with the weight. It’s been years, but the grip, the balance, are all familiar.

Grayson pulls a rack from under the table, gathering the balls into position before glancing up at me. “You wanna break?” He barely pauses before adding, “You know, hit the first shot, scatter the balls, start the game?”

I lift a shoulder. “Sure, I’ll break.”

Reaching for the chalk, I rub it over the tip of my cue. Grayson watches, amusement dancing in his eyes like he’s waiting for me to fumble. Stepping up to the table, I pick my spot, lining up the cue ball. The moment my fingers settle into position, everything falls into place—including the memories of when I used to sneak into the pub as a teenager, pretending to be just another clueless girl while hustling drunk college guys who underestimated me. I pull back, exhale, and break. A sharp crack echoes through the bar, and the balls scatter, one rolling cleanly into a pocket.

“I’m solids.”

I don’t look at him as I move around the table, scanning for my next shot. Lining up, I lean over, steady my aim, and in one smooth motion, I sink another solid. I straighten and finally glance up. His eyes are on fire, and his grip tightens around the cue stick, his jaw ticking slightly, but his lips twitch like he’s fighting back a smile.

“That’s not fair,” he says, voice low. “Not only are you secretly good at pool, but now I’ll never get the mental picture of you bent over out of my head.”

I force out a quiet laugh, ignoring the way my skin suddenly feels too hot. I line up my next shot, zeroing in on a solid near the corner pocket. Focus. I just need to—I hit the cue ball. It veers just slightly, not enough to completely botch the shot, but enough that the solid I was aiming for just misses, rolling to a dead stop near the pocket’s edge. Damn it.

Grayson steps up beside me and says lightly, “Distracted, sweetheart?”

I straighten, gripping my cue stick tighter. “No. Just don’t want to beat you too quickly. I need to savor this.”

He steps in just slightly, close enough that I feel the heat radiating off him. Then, in a low voice, smooth as sin, he says, “Me too.”

I don’t say anything. Mostly because my skin still feels like it’s burning from the inside out. Grayson moves around the table, lining up his shot. The dim overhead lights cast sharp angles over his face and show the slight furrow of concentration in his brow, the easy confidence in his stance.

The crack of the shot rings out, and his ball drops into the pocket.

Somewhere in the bar, a trendy song fades out, shifting into something more familiar. An old-school r&b hit that has a few people nodding along, mouthing the words. The music has been alternating, weaving between popular Spanish tracks and trendy pop culture songs.

Grayson chuckles, moving around the table as I chalk my cue. “Okay, but seriously,” he says, lining up another. “Where did you learn to play like this?”

I shrug. “That pub I used to sneak into had a table.”

He pockets another stripe. “Sneaking into bars, hustling pool,” he muses. “Should’ve known you had a delinquent streak.”

He finally misses.

“I wasn’t hustling,” I say, setting up my shot. “I was just…playing.”

I lean in, take my time, and sink another solid. When I glance up, he’s watching me, his cue resting against his shoulder, eyes sharp beneath the dim lights.

“To clarify… Not complaining,” he says.

Then he walks past me, swiping his beer from our table. I lean back against the ledge, cue still in hand, my body still warm from his gaze.

He takes a measured sip, maintaining eye contact, and sets his bottle down. He walks over to me and settles his hands on either side of my hips, caging me in as he leans down, voice low and intentional. “Actually, I take it back,” he murmurs, gaze locking on mine.

“Because now I can’t bend you over the table and teach you.”

Every ounce of heat from his body presses into me, his voice still lingering in the space between us. My stomach tightens, my skin burns, and for a second, I genuinely forget how to function.

Refusing to let him see me squirm, I exhale slowly, tilt my head up at him, and force a smirk. “Shame,” I murmur, placing a light hand on his chest and giving the smallest push. I slip past him, moving back to the table, cue in hand.

I blame the drinks for this recklessness. I lean down, line up my shot, and sink another solid, my pulse still hammering in my throat. When I glance up, Grayson hasn’t moved. He’s still standing there, hands resting against the ledge where I just was, watching me. And the look in his eyes says this game isn’t over. Not even close. A thrill goes through me.

I line up my shot, doing my best to ignore the heat still licking up my spine, the way my skin feels tight and electric. Grayson moves behind me. I focus on the cue ball, forcing my breathing to stay steady. Take the shot. Sink it. You’ve done this countless times.

His voice finds my ear with an edge that feels almost lethal. “Because if I were to show you…this is how I’d do it.”

A shiver snakes down my spine, and then his hands are on me. One skimming along my hip, barely there, like a tease. The other trailing up my arm, fingers brushing my wrist, until he covers my hand over the cue stick. He doesn’t move fast. He moves like he’s daring me to stop him. My breath catches, fingers twitching beneath his, but he tightens his hold slightly, keeping me still.